Let’s talk a little bit about collective trauma this week, and how hard it is to explain to those who haven’t experienced it.

This Sunday is 9/11. Funny, 9/11 happens every year of course, it’s a spot on the annual calendar, but when a person says “9/11”, generally we all know they mean something very specific. We know they mean the 9/11 on which the world suddenly spun around the other way.

Every generation has at least one such earth-shattering event, a somber context around which they fit the rest of the puzzle pieces of their lives to set into an irrevocably changed landscape. For one generation, it was the Kennedy assassination. For another, Pearl Harbor. The death of Princess Diana comes close for me, as the first such event I remember for my own generation, but 9/11 unequivocally eclipsed that a few years later. These are the kinds of moments where everyone can tell you where they were, and what they were doing – can see it clear as day. Everyone knows what we mean when we say 9/11.

…except, no. Not quite everyone.

It’s been over 20 years, and today was the first time I’ve ever actually taught about 9/11, ever spoken about it with students. I was going to do it last year, but honestly, I’d chickened out. I wasn’t ready. It’s not easy for me to admit that, because I teach students of all ages, from elementary to high school levels, about Antisemitism and the Holocaust. I’m no stranger to talking about hard things with children, and I know how to make those topics approachable by balancing honesty with age-level appropriateness. But 9/11 hits different. Teaching about it, talking about it today, was fucking difficult. It might have been impossible if not for the fact that I have a ton of experience talking about difficult stuff at this point – both the aforementioned Jewish studies topics, and my own personal trauma and pain. I guess I just don’t talk much about 9/11, in the grand scheme of things. I don’t honestly know many people who do, actually.

Which brings me to my point. The experience of collective trauma is such that because the traumatic event is one that happened to all (or to large groups of people), there’s an unspoken understanding that we all know, we all get it, without having to dive down and touch that pain directly. There’s a deliberate cushion in shared consciousness, which is both beneficial and detrimental. It’s beneficial because it’s a form of mental protection, so that we can survive and carry on without devolving into madness from the harm the trauma has wrought. It’s detrimental because it relieves us of the responsibility of actually coping and processing that pain. And if I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that if you don’t face your demons, sooner or later they catch up to you and force your hand.

To my students’ credit, they handled it quite well today. I was treading very lightly, and shared no graphic visuals. I read them “This Very Tree” by Sean Rubin, a relatively new picture book that came out only a couple years ago. I highly recommend it. It’s a beautiful rendering of the story of the Survivor Tree – a very special tree that used to stand in the original plaza between the Twin Towers, was damaged in the attacks, rescued, rehabilitated, and replanted in the restored plaza, where it’s still blooming today. The narrative and the illustrations are both gentle and not at all graphic, and it was the perfect choice (when I bought it last year, it had reduced me to tears and I decided I couldn’t teach this yet, but I got through it alright today). I also told them where I was, what I was doing, what it felt like on that day. They were quiet and respectful and kind – but only in the way that sweet sympathizers can be. They don’t truly understand. Because they don’t share in that collective trauma.

Because they weren’t even born yet.

I also explained to them what I said above, about how every generation experiences some huge event, sometimes multiple events, that make the world spin the other way for awhile. At first, I said offhand that I wondered what their version of 9/11 would be, in much the same way as 9/11 became my generation’s version of the Kennedy assassination.

Then I changed my mind, and told them – no. I don’t wonder that. I simply hope they don’t have one. Because I don’t wish them this kind of pain.

But if they do have one, a world-stopping moment – I told them, firstly, to cherish their loved ones, and hold them close; secondly, to look for the helpers whenever tragedy might strike; and thirdly, much like the story of the Survivor Tree, to focus on regrowth and healing.

Since the long and short of this blog is all about my efforts to heal from trauma (and hopefully help other people do the same), I suppose that collective trauma would be no exception here. In the interest of processing said collective trauma. I encourage comments on this post that create supportive dialogue. If acknowledging collective trauma is like scraping the frost off the surface of a wintry windshield, actually working through collective trauma is a matter of getting into the car and turning on the defroster. Let’s hit that button, and await the warmth. It’s been over 20 years since 9/11, but I think I for one am finally ready to thaw.