I believe that we collectively decided, without quite admitting it to ourselves, that somebody, somewhere in the world, had to die for 9/11, and we didn't really care whether they'd had anything to do with it or who they were, so long as they were brown-skinned and worshiped Allah and lived in the Middle East.
All that art was too much. I hated having to make room for it. I hated feeling guilty about it. I hated that all of it, even the lone scribbles done in haste to rationalize her request for a new piece of paper, meant so much to me. I hated that I... was afraid, in fear of what could happen if I threw it away.