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Thu. Sep 05, 2002

Black Septembers and Stolen Innocence

Black Septembers and Stolen Innocence – I reckon in some ways I was an odd child.

In 1968, I turned ten years old. That was the extended summer in which MLK and RFK were killed, a political campaign of vast importance was fought (even within the parties), the Chicago police made a mockery of democracy by beating people on the streets during the Democratic convention, and many American cities burned in riots. Tremendous generational strife over social mores and a questionable war seemed the source of much of it, and that summer there was no knowing where it would lead. I was too young to understand all of it, but like any child, I could sense the concern (even occasional fear) in the adults around me, as they watched what I’m sure at times seemed like the beginnings of an unknown revolution.

But even at the age of ten, I recognized the majority of the friction was over a war on the other side of the world. I was already an infant ”Civil War buff” (it was in those days almost a part of growing up in the South), and had literally studied the map-like illustrations done of various battles. The well defined red and blue lines, with arrows of movement, seemed like some advanced form of chess, and one I seemed to grasp at some level.

So I got a map of this country on the other side of the world, Vietnam. Each night I’d watch Walter Cronkite, and he’d talk about the places fighting had occurred that day. I’d go to my map, find them, and put a mark on it. I was sure that by doing so, over time I’d see those red and blue lines, the ”chess” of war. But instead, it wasn’t long before it became clear to even my ten year old mind, this is not like the wars of the past. There’s no defined battle front. It’s all over the place. I didn’t understand it, but I did understand that war was far more complex than those simple historical diagrams I’d studied, which also had no symbolic display for the body bags that were on the news each day. It was in a way a loss of innocence, but a slight one, and a proper one.

However, there was one other event that year that caught my attention, in the proper way of wonder of children. In October, the 1968 Olympics were held in Mexico City. Though it was certainly true for me, I understand they were the first Olympics widely broadcast on TV, especially in the US, due to the proliferation and commercialization of those new things called ”satellites.” There were certainly aspects of civil disobedience to be found in the 1968 Games, but for whatever reason ten year olds do such things, as a result of the TV broadcasts of those Games I became obsessed with track and field.

However, at the age of ten, about all you can do is read and watch, not participate. The years passed, we moved around a lot, and finally I came to a place and an age where track and field was an option for me. By the summer of 1972, we’d moved to Raleigh, N.C., and I was preparing to enter 8th grade. A junior high, that had a quarter mile dirt rut oval behind it … and a track team.

Thirty years ago today, in addition to being very excited about the 1972 Olympics, I was about two weeks from turning 14 years old. The deaths continued in Vietnam, but I was far removed from it. I was leading the typical middle class suburban teen life of the early ’70’s, protected and still 99.8% innocent. Naive to the world in many ways, but soaking it up nonetheless.

That changed on September 5, 1972, at those very Olympic Games. I was introduced to Evil (with a capital ”E”), at a very impressionable age. The innocence of a traditional gathering of the world’s athletes in peaceful competition was violently shattered, as Palestinian terrorists seized … and killed … Israeli athletes and coaches. It only lasted 21 hours, but it seemed like an eternity to that 13 year old, glued to the TV trying to make some sense from the grainy shakey images.

And I recall, the innocence of youth is strong. It took two blows. Even once I’d accepted that Evil had seized the upper hand, I knew it wasn’t over. I remember thinking, in the naivety of youth, that this was actually a chance at some kind of … redemption … for the Germans, and that surely they would do whatever it took to keep from failing the Jews again.

Silly naive boy. As we know now, the authorities in charge botched it in every conceivable way, and the hostages all died an ugly death. I was devastated, certain I’d witnessed the last of the Olympics. Evil had won.

But after a respectful time, the Games continued, somber though they were. Mark Spitz and Olga Korbut made headlines. The ordained number of Gold medals were awarded. The world kept spinning. And though there was no way to know it, nevermind take solace from it at that time, over the next 7 or 8 years, the Mossad exacted retribution relentlessly. Those who were involved in the attack or its planning died in a multitude of mysterious ways, right down to having the cell phone they just answered explode and blow their head off.

The 13 year old would have liked to have known about that, but probably didn’t need to until he was much older. As it was, I went out for track that spring, and competed all the way through high school in an event called ”the 440” (back when dinosaurs trod the earth, track races were measured in yards, not meters). I was good, but not great, gaining 3rd place in my age group in the 1974 State Junior Olympics.

I didn’t compete in college, but I never lost my love for the Olympics. I was thankfully wrong in my 13 year old prediction of ”no more Games.” Every four years, I would tune in for the emotions as much as the athletic performances. But also every four years, it would nag in the back of my brain … ”will Evil return?” Other than some political boycotts, the Games remained fairly untouched.

Then my childhood dreams came true. The Olympics came to my backyard. I revelled in them, barely sleeping four hours a day. It was everything I’d ever dreamed it would be, and much much more.

But I was reintroduced to evil, in the form of a bomb placed by some cowardly scum. At the time, I thought it was Evil with a capital ”E”, and to this day, 6 years later, I would still personally be willing to execute the bastard responsible. But the Games continued. Centennial Park was reclaimed by the people. As I said then, "Atlanta has been battered by bad press about these Games, but I don’t think people generally appreciate what this city pulled off. This wasn’t ’just another Olympics.’ There were over 8.5 million tickets sold, well over the combined amount from Barcelona and Seoul (Sydney will offer 5.5 million for sale….Atlanta offered 11 million). There were 50% more nations here than in Barcelona. So, Atlanta brought together, by far, the largest gathering of nations, athletes, and spectators in Olympic history. It truly, factually, was the largest peacetime event in the history of mankind."

And pulled it off despite the efforts of evil. In retrospect, I think it was evil with a little ”e”, performed by a lone coward in a cave. It paled in comparison to the monstrous act of the Palestinian terrorists in 1972. But they, too, failed in the long run of history. And they provided me with what I now see as a very important experience at that impressionable age.

On the morning of September 11, 2001, as shocked as I was, I didn’t expend any psychic energy on the ”why” of what happened. There was no thought process, it was an immediate and innate recognition of a past predator. Almost instantly, upon seeing the second plane hit the Towers, I knew it was a modern descendant of the primitive ancestor I witnessed in 1972.

Evil. With a capital ”E”. I met it 30 years ago today. And again, a year ago next Wednesday. I’m not so innocent anymore, but I’m stronger because of it. And it all goes back to September 5, 1972, when a boy saw what men can do.

[Note: this piece was inspired by the Index of the Munich Olympic Massacre Blogburst, where you’ll find much more on this topic, including an explanation of what a ”blogburst” is]