this is the dawning of the age of disappointment

I grew up in the age of aquarius, yes, but really, it was an era of disappointment. To date myself, my world went horribly wrong when I was five and John Kennedy was shot. It was the first time I experienced public grieving -- I'm sure it helped that I lived in Massachusetts at the time. But still, the unanimous shock, both initial and continuing, woke me up. The image of the riderless horse that I saw on our grainy little TV, those little children at their father's funeral, the incomprehension of a nation, will stay with me probably forever. Welcome to the world.

When I was ten, Martin Luther King, Jr was killed. Again, we went into grieving mode. And because I lived in Washington, I got to see my city burn, at least on TV. I walked to school protected by armed guards (except it wasn't until I was an adult that I understood those guards had been hired to protect little white girls like me -- I was terrified of them at the time). I didn't see tanks on our streets, but I did see them on TV.

And then a few months later, Robert Kennedy was killed. There were protests against the war that my mother and I attended. The betrayal of Watergate seemed minor in comparison.

Things were fairly calm after that. A few years ago, a slightly older coworker and I asked a young dude what the galvinizing moments of his generation were. He said "You mean like when North Carolina won the penant?" Uh, no. Not quite like that.

And then, five years ago, I was driving to work one beautiful fall morning and switched on the radio station I call "news lite" in time to hear confused anchormen saying that something, a small plane, maybe, had run into the towers in New York. Somehow, they managed to find an eye witness. As they were interviewing him, the guy, in shock, was describing what he'd seen. Except that he was narrating in the past tense and the present tense at the same time. When he got to the part about how a plane was headed for the towers, we all thought he meant the first, the only plane. Except now there was a second plane too. It took a while to work through our denial and understand exactly what had happened.

I called Robert's office mate from the road and told her to tune into something, anything, then continued on to work, still feeling like I was energized to get a pile of work done that day. Except when I got there, people kept running around the halls, and there was confusion and news updates, and suddenly it seemed that we were all under attack. Our boss pretty much suggested that we leave, but I felt paralyzed, confused, like I wanted to stick around for a while.

I finally sought refuge in the office of an old Air Force guy, someone I perceived as being calm and rational and somewhat kind. I asked him if he thought we were in any danger, given that we worked next door to an active Air Force base. He said no. Just then, another Air Force guy came hopping in, all excited. He said something unrepeatable about Japanese and Arabs and locking them all up. Then he excitedly ran out again. I looked at my buddy and said "I don't think that's the solution." And my buddy agreed.

A while later, the vice president came wandering by. He could have gone home to be with his family, but instead, he was walking around, showing true leadership by making sure that everyone was ok. At that time, our company was bicoastal and there was a lot of travel between Massachusetts and California. We asked if everyone was accounted for, and he said yes, except for one person. It later turned out that that one person was fine, too.

We as a company were lucky. A colleague had non-stop tickets to California that day for a slightly later flight than the ones that crashed. Another colleague thought she had tickets for one of the planes that eventually went down, but our incompetent travel agent had struck again and had actually booked her for the following day. After finding out how expensive it was to rebook, she decided she'd go out the next day and returned home.

And yet, although our immediate loved ones and colleagues were safe, I still felt personally under attack. I kept thinking "My beautiful country, what are they doing to my country?" I felt like I was fogged in for about six weeks.

And then of course the rhetoric started, especially with American flags. People with pickup trucks, especially, would plant a flag on the back, and that would give them extra permission to be even more obnoxious in traffic. And that attitude was symbolic of how our country's leaders managed to alienate the rest of the world.

But before that, the weekend after that awful Tuesday, Robert and I were scheduled to attend dance camp out in the mountans of western Massachusetts. A message went out that anyone who felt they couldn't attend would get a full refund. Very few people took the offer. I think the rest of us who went were, frankly, reticent. Dance camp is usually so joyous, so lovely, and we were all feeling so awful. It was hard to imagine having fun or connecting at such an awful time.

But of course, dance camp was just what we needed. It was a little somber, but oh so loving. Our group came together and made our own little statement about the power of dancing in community. And yes, there was some joy in the dance and much healing. I drew a lot of strength from that weekend.

So five years later, amongst the somber rememberance, the memorials, the "where was I when" stories, our community came together again. This summer, the founder of our group, the man we call the "Queen Mum", injured himself and required several surgeries. He does not have adequate health insurance. A fellow dancer decided to do something about it and put together a benefit. He said that part of being in a community means that we take care of each other. So he arranged for a hall, he got people to bake goodies, he signed up a few callers (and a few more volunteered), got a band (and a couple more bands signed up), sent out publicity, and ... where we usually get 25 or so dancers, 60 or so people showed up. And he reports that people sent in checks from all over the country. And now the organizer feels better about the community we've created, and so do I.

Just tonight, we went out to eat and started talking to the couple next to us. She teaches tolerance and social justice by teaching about the holocaust. She and her husband are appalled at the current state of affairs in our state and our country, and she's working to effect change in the next generation.

So yes, I grew up in an era of disappointment and betrayal. But as always, there are rays of hope shining through it all, little stepping stones that keep me going, even in the face of tragedy and bleakness.