Sunday, September 10, 2006
We're All Warriors Now
Do you have survivor’s guilt? Yea I have that, too. But not because I could have been on the airplanes or in one of the towers or the Pentagon. One of the terrorists actually worked in a conv. store near my house. I spoke with him several times. Inane pleasantries masking his unbelievably disgusting ideas about me. For my part, I thought him nice, pleasant and somewhat of a flirt.
Until that day. No, not 9/11. About a week or two before. I went in for some milk and a coke and the atmosphere was evil. He was there, but not. No pleasantries, no personality. And then I saw them. About four to six sinister looking middle-easterners in robes and beards. Coming out of the back of the store. I had interrupted something, I know not what. He stared. They stared. The stare said "get out." It was condescending and then I remembered. A woman had interrupted a male meeting in an Arab-owned store. But it seemed much more than that. I tried to get him to snap out of it. I chatted insanely, but he was stone. I gave up. I paid and left. I lost that round in this war, but I didn’t know I was at war. I do now.
I wonder to this day what was really going on. I replay scenarios over and over again. The store is only a few miles from a CDC center that researches who knows what. I don't really want to know. But I do know. They do bioresearch on some pretty nasty things. This used to be the open lands of exurbia. Now it is suburbia. Surrounded by schools and homes and Americans they want to kill.
I contacted the FBI. I never heard from them, but the local news reported that he was one of the hijackers and that he had taken flying lessons at the airport nearby. So, they know. Maybe that was all he was here for, maybe not. I still can't bring myself to go into that store again. We refer to it as the "terrorist Texaco."
I wonder. I wait. And my television has never been off again. 24 hours, seven days a week. Always Fox News. If I watch another show, I change channels back during commercials. Just in case. I am gripped by the fact that my life has changed. By them. By him.
I don't go out as often as I used to. I am uncomfortable. I watch people now. Not "people watch," "watch people." There is a difference.
I wait, I watch, and I know. It will happen again. These creatures have changed me alright. They say "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" and they are right. I was scorned that day in that store by creatures that saw me as "dhimmi." Hell will be wrought, by me, without remorse or guilt. Neither I, nor my family, nor my kids, nor my kids kids will submit to their nightmare. The hell that will be wrought will be my tribute to the first warriors in this war, and I will not fail them. The first warriors on Flight 93 did not fail me or mine.
Until that day. No, not 9/11. About a week or two before. I went in for some milk and a coke and the atmosphere was evil. He was there, but not. No pleasantries, no personality. And then I saw them. About four to six sinister looking middle-easterners in robes and beards. Coming out of the back of the store. I had interrupted something, I know not what. He stared. They stared. The stare said "get out." It was condescending and then I remembered. A woman had interrupted a male meeting in an Arab-owned store. But it seemed much more than that. I tried to get him to snap out of it. I chatted insanely, but he was stone. I gave up. I paid and left. I lost that round in this war, but I didn’t know I was at war. I do now.
I wonder to this day what was really going on. I replay scenarios over and over again. The store is only a few miles from a CDC center that researches who knows what. I don't really want to know. But I do know. They do bioresearch on some pretty nasty things. This used to be the open lands of exurbia. Now it is suburbia. Surrounded by schools and homes and Americans they want to kill.
I contacted the FBI. I never heard from them, but the local news reported that he was one of the hijackers and that he had taken flying lessons at the airport nearby. So, they know. Maybe that was all he was here for, maybe not. I still can't bring myself to go into that store again. We refer to it as the "terrorist Texaco."
I wonder. I wait. And my television has never been off again. 24 hours, seven days a week. Always Fox News. If I watch another show, I change channels back during commercials. Just in case. I am gripped by the fact that my life has changed. By them. By him.
I don't go out as often as I used to. I am uncomfortable. I watch people now. Not "people watch," "watch people." There is a difference.
I wait, I watch, and I know. It will happen again. These creatures have changed me alright. They say "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" and they are right. I was scorned that day in that store by creatures that saw me as "dhimmi." Hell will be wrought, by me, without remorse or guilt. Neither I, nor my family, nor my kids, nor my kids kids will submit to their nightmare. The hell that will be wrought will be my tribute to the first warriors in this war, and I will not fail them. The first warriors on Flight 93 did not fail me or mine.
