Another Kind of ‘Big Bang’

Friday, July 14, 2006

Page 11

AT THE SIDEBAR (Column)

Another Kind of ‘Big Bang’

By J’AMY PACHECO

It was a lovely summer night. My daughter and I had snuggled together in bed to read “Peter and the Shadow Thieves.” A pleasant breeze blew through the open windows, and before long, I dozed off.

I was jolted awake by what sounded like a gunshot. It was immediately followed by what sounded to me like the booming blast of a shotgun.

Perhaps it was because of the book we had been reading – a prequel to “Peter Pan” populated by weapons-laden pirates and a dark, scary character who reads the thoughts of others by stealing their shadows – but my instincts said it couldn’t be good.

“Roll on the floor,” I ordered my terrified 10-year-old, who immediately complied.

“Mommy, what’s happening?” she asked, before bursting into tears.

That was a good question.

We live on a relatively quiet suburban street where people keep their lawns neat and exchange good-morning waves from their driveways. The worst that happens around here is someone letting their dog run free to do its business on somebody else’s lawn, or a neighbor deciding to play drums at midnight.

I live on a cul-de-sac surrounded by other similar streets. The net effect is that instead of having a neighbor on each side and one behind, I have a whole bunch of neighbors behind me, their houses facing mine at odd angles.

I don’t know anything about any of them. When there is noise, it’s difficult to tell where it originates. But since drums are easily shut out by closed windows and quiet music, it was never a problem.

This was different, and I found myself wondering if there was a domestic dispute, a home invasion, or some kind of gun battle taking place nearby.

After a few minutes of silence, I managed to convince my daughter that everything was okay, and that we could get up. Although I had no idea what I’d heard, I insisted that the sounds we’d heard had been nothing more than a backfire from an old car. Since no screams or sirens followed, she apparently decided I was right, and agreed to go back to bed – but only if I would stay with her and leave the lights on.

She told me that when the blasts came, she had been awake and had seen flashes of light. She thought it was a bomb.

“I thought the bad people were coming,” she admitted.

That was an interesting statement to come from a little girl who doesn’t watch scary movies or the news, and whose television rarely makes it out of the Disney Channel range.

But my daughter is one of a generation of children growing up in the shadow of 9/11. She started kindergarten two days after the attacks, when discussion of the event was everywhere. One of her teachers had a son serving in Iraq, so she learned early what the yellow ribbons all over the campus meant.

She also reads the newspaper, and while I’ve tried to keep particularly frightening sections away from her, she knows there are people in the world who hate Americans, and don’t mind waging war on innocents.

I didn’t realize the extent to which she worried about such things until that night. I don’t think I’ll soon forget her enormous eyes staring up at me in terror, and the way her tiny body shook with fear.

It made me think about other mothers who have legitimate reasons for ordering their own children to the floor. Mothers who live in war zones, and who know a stray bullet could change – or end – their lives forever. Or mothers who live in gang-infested neighborhoods, who don’t even give their children the opportunity to roll out of bed and instead put them to sleep on the floor.

It made me wonder how those mothers cope with the threat and fear of violence; how they manage to live from day to day, knowing the danger is there, and that there is no escape.

About half an hour after the noise awakened us, I heard the pop-pop-pop of firecrackers. I realized the noises we had heard had very likely been made by illegal fireworks saved for a night when police and firemen weren’t out patrolling for contraband.

I found it ironic that something intended to be used in celebration of our nation’s freedom instead put my family in a war zone mentality and made me thing of those oppressed by violence.

I’m not sure what that all means, but I intend to give it some serious thought. Until I get it figured out, I just might start sleeping with my windows closed.