9/11 Days

Well, 9/11 Days are here again. Some of you may recall that I wrote about it last year at Catholic Exchange (link). Whew, did I get hate mail for that one. One lady even suggested that I move to France. I don't know if she knows about my weak stomach for body odor, but it was cruel.

Looking back on the piece now, it comes off a little harsh. I should've toned it down a bit, but my basic sentiment hasn't changed: I like (repeat: like, like, like) 9/11 memorials. I think 9/11 memorials should be encouraged (encouraged, encouraged, encouraged). What I don't like are forced (forced, forced, forced) memorials. Don't trick me into watching (delaying a football game by 15 minutes, even though you advertised a 1:00 kickoff), don't spiritually coerce me into listening (playing a memorial before the final blessing), and don't otherwise secure my participation without my consent. That's all I'm asking. I think it's called "being forthright." Like Salinger, I don't like sneaks.

Excerpt from Salinger's short story, "A Perfect Day for Bananafish"

On the sub-main floor of the hotel, which the management directed bathers to use, a woman with zinc salve on her nose got into the elevator with the young man.

"I see you're looking at my feet," he said to her when the car was in motion.

"I beg your pardon?" said the woman.

"I said I see you're looking at my feet."

"I beg your pardon. I happened to be looking at the floor," said the woman, and faced the doors of the car.

"If you want to look at my feet, say so," said the young man. "But don't be a #@*&! sneak about it."

"Let me out here, please," the woman said quickly to the girl operating the car.

The car doors opened and the woman got out without looking back.