I Don’t Care About 9/11

Where were you when you found out about the terrorist attacks of 9/11/01?

I was just 15 years old, a sophomore in high school. Algebra II w/Trigonometry. 3rd period. Lakewood High School, Lakewood, New Jersey. Someone comes to speak with the teacher. They leave. She comes back and tells us that there has been a terrorist attack on the World Trade Center. Details are still sketchy. It’s hard to wrap my mind around. Family..? No, my dad doesn’t work in New York anymore, thankfully. No other family lives or works in the city. Dad’s mom used to, but she’s in California now. Friends? No, no, I can’t think of any whose parents commute to New York.

The rest of the day goes by quietly. A few scattered announcements are made, calling some kids down to the main office. No one I know. I go home, turn on the TV, and watch what’s going on. There’s a lot to talk about. A lot of confusion. I watch it all with interest, but I don’t really get what it means. Finally, I go to bed and wake up the next morning. Same ceiling, same floor, same toothbrush. Different clothes. I spend a lot of time thinking about it, and talking about it. But not feeling anything about it. What was the conclusion I came to?

I don’t care about 9/11. It means nothing to me. It’s something abstract, a something that changed nothing. Different things showed up on the tube, different editorials in the newspaper. Different, different, different. But me, I’m the same. I felt bad about it at first, but over the years I’ve managed to convince myself that there’s nothing wrong with me – at least not involving this issue! I intend to lay out my reasons why, in a likely futile attempt to vindicate myself in the eyes of those who were born with the ability to feel for strangers. Which brings me to the meat of my argument.

Intellectual vs. Emotional Sympathy. It would be a mistake to say that not caring about 9/11 means that I don’t care about the people affected, or that I wouldn’t change if it I could, or any similar such things. No; the “problem” here, as it were, is that I can tell myself it was a terrible event (a truth), but I cannot make myself feel it as a terrible event (my truth). The mind exists outside the heart insofar as the intellect does not always share the same truths as the emotion. This truth cannot penetrate my heart. My heart is selfish, or maybe it’s more accurate to say “ourselfish.” It only cares about matters that personally affect me or the people I know. And, my reason shouts in defense, why should it be any different? How could it be any other way and still function? We are all selfish – the English-speaking world isn’t known for its mendicancy. I’m just making no bones about it. I care about me and my own first, and this leaves me unable to feel deeply about abstract tragedies. I didn’t know any of those people. It’s just a number, a moving picture. That leaves it to me as just… dead people. What is a dead person? There are graveyards full of the dead in every town. I can’t weep for all of them. And if I were going to, there are a lot of other places I could start.

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I can’t enjoy anything unless everybody is. If one guy is starving someplace, that puts a crimp in my evening. – Woody Allen
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Why did I write this? Because I wanted to lay out a middle ground of sorts, between the un-American accusations the bleeding heart nationalists, who would have you exported if you’re not in sackcloth and ashes every time 9/11 is mentioned, and the banal whining of their internationalist counterparts, whose hearts bleed for everything, so long as it doesn’t happen in the United States.. I watch and I listen, and I like to think I’m a fairly perceptive guy. I know I’m not the only person who feels this way. Hell, how many of you went through your work or school day with nary a non-official, non-media mention of 9/11?

The way I feel isn’t wrong, and no longer will I offer any apologies for it. I wish it hadn’t happened, in the same way I wish all bad things didn’t happen to people who don’t deserve it, whether it’s the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire or a major terrorist attack on the US. Insincere remarks of grief are meaningless, and so I’ll refrain. Surely those who feel this in their hearts can offer much more than those of us whose perception of the tragedy is a bundle of facts and stats and news neatly tucked away in the back of the mind. But I don’t pity them; there are enough things in life to worry about.

Mandy Moore – Mandy Moore (2001)

I’ve been listening again to Mandy Moore’s self-titled 2001 album lately, and I’m still amazed at how good (most of) it is. It tanked on the charts, but I have no idea why – maybe it was just unexpected. I know I wasn’t expecting it – her first two albums were almost completely shit, me-too girl pop with an immature vocalist. But Mandy Moore was an astonishing leap forward.

The first thing everyone notices is the faintly Arabic tinge to the first four songs. It’s a mode that’s almost unheard of in earnest pop music, and that’s a shame, as it works beautifully when combined with Western melodic sensibilities. And then.. it disappears almost entirely, with just a hint on “It Only Took A Minute.” Moore and her producers would have been better served to spread them a little further apart, as on top of the aforementioned these four are the best songs on the album, with the most attention to detail. “In My Pocket” should have been the dance floor anthem of ‘01, with Moore making it immediately clear how much her vocals have improved, cutting out the annoying faux-Britney growling and utilizing the breathy quality of her voice. “Saturate Me” is, and I feel silly saying this, probably the most epic mainstream pop song to be recorded in some time. It’s simply brilliant, and reveals more each listen. Moreover, it might be the first song Moore’s done that truly couldn’t have been sung by anyone else.

The next leg of the album, as it were, settles back into a more typical, but exceptional, radio pop style. These songs aren’t as surprising as the first four, but they’re perfectly executed – in particular “17″ stands out with a bit of a whitebread R&B feel. Melodic verses and big catchy choruses all around.

The last four songs, unfortunately, are a bit of a drag, especially after coming off of nine winners. “Yo-Yo” and “Split Chick” are average peppy pop songs, though I do have to admit I love Moore’s delivery on the latter. On the other hand, “From Loving You” and “When I Talk To You,” are, like their titles, just boring. Dull late 90s radio balladry, and poor choices for closers. Omitting these two entirely, and moving “Saturate Me” to the end of the album would have resulted in a superior record.

Overall, Mandy Moore is an overlooked gem of modern pop music, and easily stands up with the best of her peers. Best of all, the filler is kept to a minimum. Track sequencing is the only major flaw. This is one rare occasion where I can say that an unabashedly commercial album deserved to do better. Here’s hoping that she goes back to recording original material soon.

Another Beginning

So once again I attempt to begin one of these things. This time I plan on writing things that might be at least a little interesting to someone besides me, but we’ll see how it goes. I tend to not keep up with things. Ah, well.

A bit of an introduction might be in order. I’m a student at James Madison University in Harrisonburg, Virginia, probably the biggest university no one has ever heard of. 15,000 students, almost all from suburbs up and down the east coast, from Virginia to Massachusetts.

I was initially a music major, but I am now majoring on philosophy, of all things. Why? The biggest reason is that it’s probably the major that will annoy me the least.

I’ll stop there for now; that’s enough to know about me. I’m sure more will be revealed in future days. For what it’s worth, I’m aiming to make my first “real” post later tonight.