I heard the news On September 9, 2016, just before six in
the morning. I was parking my car in the basement of the
hospital. North Korea had successfully tested
a powerful bomb that could fit on a missile and the missile could be deployed
on a submarine from anywhere in the world.
Anywhere.
I had a sudden flashback to my childhood recollections of
the Cuban missile crisis. My parents
were out of town when that happened and I was convinced I would never see them
again. There were grainy black and white
images on TV of the deadly weapons crossing the ocean in ships, school
assemblies about what to do in case of attack, 4-H meetings that taught us
about bomb shelters… 4-H club was the worst because we were told that one
essential item in any bomb shelter was a gun so that you could kill anyone who
tried to come in and share your food, your water, your filtered air…
Anyone.
I had terrible nightmares during those times, one dream so
vivid that I still recall it in great detail.
We were standing in front of our home, my mother, my sister, and I. We had just returned from a shopping trip in
Houston, and my mother was talking to a friend who had stopped her car at the
end of our driveway. My sister and I
waited, staring at the moonless midnight blue velvet sky studded with
stars. In the south, I saw what looked like
an exceptionally bright falling star, to the left of Orion. It poofed into a little flash before hitting
the horizon. Then there was a blinding
light everywhere and a huge mushroom cloud rose where the star had fallen. We rushed to get into the house. “Why?” I thought. ‘”It won’t be any safer in there.” My sister stumbled, and I saw her face melting. I was overcome
with despair. We were all going to
die. I looked at my mother, whose face was
still intact. She smiled. That’s when it hit me. At least, we were all going together.
When I awoke, my bed was still shaking. The sun streamed in through the white wooden
shutters onto the pale yellow walls. I
could hear my mother across the hall, talking on the telephone, placing an
order for a delivery from our local grocer.
Life was still good.
The threat of nuclear holocaust was an overriding and
terrifying theme in the world during my childhood and adolescence—not always
verbalized, but always present. In my
first year of college, I was petrified by a chilling movie on the topic that
was screened at a campus film fest. My
then boyfriend consoled me with his rational explanation of nuclear
deterrence. Since he was a PoliSci major
I trusted his assessment.
I don’t know when the fear finally abated. I think it was gradual, drowned out by fury
over the injustice of the Viet Nam War and the cruel bombing of Cambodia. And later deterrence was replaced by detente.
The primal gut wrenching feeling is still way inside
there. It never went away, I just
gradually encased it in a sturdy capsule, much as an oyster forms a pearl
around a grain of sand. This morning’s
news bored a hole in that defense system and the fear is leaking out
again. My perspective is different now. I no longer have my whole life in front of
me. I’m actually nearing the end. So it is my children and grandchildren for
whom I ache. It’s a different kind of
fear now. And far more deeply chilling.
I am aware of the irony in this piece. I sit secure in my comfortable dwelling while
elsewhere in the world, people face the threat of suicide bombers when they go
shopping or even drone strikes in their homes.
And in parts of our own country a child can be shot dead while playing
in her own front yard. We don’t choose
when and where we are born and we don’t choose what we fear.
