As the French say, "plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose;" the more things change, the more they stay the same. Many of the startling revelations that we've seen with the San Bernardino terror shootings were experienced before in this country beginning more than a quarter century ago.
They were everywhere, because the people were nowhere. The city, as any creature would, eventually healed. The pulse thrummed again. The streets rushed again. But the fluttering, The Missing, they stay with me.
Eleven years ago this morning, my husband overslept and missed a train that would have gotten him into the city in time to attend a conference in the Marriott beneath the World Trade Center. Unpredictably, and for so many people with unfathomable cruelty, the minutes made a difference.
Almost everyone has a story about 9/11. Where they were when they found out about the terrorist attacks; if they knew anyone who fled or was killed that day and how it impacted their lives. It's important to discuss.
And who could have imagined a world of "Yes, we can," in which a young-ish African American president gets elected, only to be challenged by those claiming to want to restore some notion of the American dream, complete with a blurring of church and state?