Rising From the Ashes of Oklahoma City

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"The Oklahoma City bombing was simple technology, horribly used. The problem is not technology. The problem is the person or persons using it."

Rev. Billy Graham

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It's hard for me to believe it has been 20 years since the bombing of the federal building in Oklahoma City.

I wrote about this back on the 15th anniversary, and I observed much the same thing then as I do now. It's hard to believe, probably even harder now. Maybe that's because it seems as if I have lived another lifetime since it happened.

There were many things going on in my life at that time — and other things that happened in the weeks and months that followed — that make my memory of the bombing something of a blur.

I was teaching journalism at the University of Oklahoma, about 30 miles southeast of Oklahoma City, when the bombing occurred. In fact, I was scheduled to be in the classroom less than half an hour after the bombing happened. My office was just across the hall from the student newspaper newsroom, and I had been doing some work in my office for about an hour or so. There were never very many students in the newsroom in the mornings — it was a daily paper, and the staffers worked in there in the late afternoons and into the evenings — but there were a few students in there that morning, and they had the TV on. I could hear the news reports — still sketchy — as I walked down the hall just before the start of my class.

I knew something had happened, but, like most of the people watching the news reports on the local TV stations at that time, no one really knew what it was. In those days, people didn't automatically think of terrorism when something unpleasant happened. Well, maybe some people did — there was a report that day of a man of Middle Eastern descent who had the misfortune of boarding a plane in Oklahoma City that morning and flying to Chicago, where authorities stopped and detained him after he got off the plane. There was some modest hysteria about that, but it was nothing, I am sure, compared to what it might have been if the Oklahoma City bombing had occurred maybe a decade later than it did.

In those more innocent times (by comparison), terrorism was one of many potential culprits; in fact, the early speculation that day was that a gas line had exploded. As far as most Americans were concerned in 1995, terrorism was still something that happened in the other hemisphere. I could be wrong, but I don't think that man had any idea what had happened when the agents descended upon him in Chicago. Fast forward a few years. If the bombing had occurred in 2005 instead of 1995, terrorism probably would have been the first — and, perhaps, only — suspect for many.

My class lasted for an hour, then I returned to my office to do some work before going home for lunch. While I was at home, I watched the news reports. Considerably more was known by that time. The gas line explosion theory had been ruled out by noon. It was now believed to have been the outcome of a deliberate act.

That afternoon, I had a writing lab. Before it started, some of my students approached me about letting them leave early so they could donate blood for the injured. That was the kind of thing I wanted to encourage so I said I would try to wrap things up earlier than usual to allow them to do that — and that is what I did.

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By mid–afternoon that day, a suspect was in custody. His name was Timothy McVeigh. He was convicted in 1997 and executed in 2001. His accomplice, Terry Nichols, is serving several life sentences in a super maximum security prison in Colorado.

For them, the Oklahoma City bombing is a closed chapter, I suppose — but not so for those who must live with the consequences of their acts.

The most obvious victims, I imagine, are the ones who were injured that day, and many have been the subjects of followup articles in newspapers and magazines. The survivors have not all been eager to share their stories. Some chose to avoid the spotlight on what must be a very personal anniversary for them; others reluctantly went ahead with the interviews but insisted that they would not let what happened 20 years ago define them.

I have to admire that.

But, as I have often said in these last 20 years, I also admire the commendable work that was done by the student journalists with whom I worked at the University of Oklahoma at that time. Many of them grew up in Oklahoma City or one of the many nearby towns; they were touched by the bombing, too, but they persevered with their work as journalists.

The student newspaper had its staffers at the bombing site for the rest of what remained of that semester. At a time when nearly every other newspaper — professional or academic — was using articles, photos and graphics supplied by the wire services, the OU student newspaper relied on its reporters, photographers and graphics artists to produce all original material — material that was posted online at a time when many professional periodicals still did not have an online presence, let alone most college newspapers.

They put aside their personal feelings and covered the event with the professionalism it deserved. That accomplishment was even more impressive than you may realize. One of the staffers actually lost her father in the bombing.

But she, like the city, has risen from the ashes. She has gone on to pursue a career in broadcast journalism and has refused to let what happened to her family 20 years ago define her.

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At the site of the bombing, a memorial now stands.

I haven't been there, but I have heard it is a serene place with a reflecting pool, a "gate of time" and a field of chairs symbolizing each life that was lost that day. The chairs representing the adults are a little larger than the ones representing the children who died. That is a nice, subtle touch.

Another interesting touch is the "survivor tree." It was part of the building's original landscaping and, somehow, it survived the bombing and the fires that followed. It still stands. I presume it will be mentioned during today's memorial service.

Reversal of Fortune

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In its own way, at its own pace, history fills in the blanks for us.

On this day 15 years ago, the pain and the grief was intense in Oklahoma City and the rest of Oklahoma. Four days had passed since the horrific bombing that took 168 lives, and President Bill Clinton came to the Oklahoma State Fairgrounds that Sunday to speak at the memorial prayer service. He came to fulfill his presidential role as Comforter in Chief, but I am convinced the ever–pragmatic Clinton must have come with at least some political objectives in mind as well.

Clinton's party had just lost control of both houses of Congress about six months earlier, and the president's future was uncertain. In general, polls showed that there were about as many Americans who disapproved of Clinton's job performance as there were those who approved.

History tells us that Clinton went on to be re–elected the following year. He carried 31 states and D.C., receiving more than 47 million popular votes and 379 electoral votes. No one heard of Monica Lewinsky until well after the election. The Republicans in Congress did not try to have Clinton removed from office until that second term was half over. No doubt there were many who thought, in 1995, the voters would take care of that for them.

In 1995, there was still some doubt that Clinton would win a second term — and part of that doubt was based on the perception in the country that Clinton was wishy–washy, that he wasn't tough enough for a nation that had gleefully re–elected Ronald Reagan a decade earlier.

On that Sunday in April 1995 — almost exactly a year after Clinton delivered one of the eulogies for Richard Nixon — I was living in central Oklahoma, and I recall no conversations I had with anyone else who was living there nor do I recall any discussions on the Sunday morning news shows that dealt with Clinton's political prospects.

I guess it would have been astonishing if local attention had focused on Clinton, even though the presidential entourage was coming to the state that day. Everyone's attention was still on the bombing site. The waning hope that survivors might still be found was mentioned, even though conditions had been unseasonably cool and wet in the days after the bombing, and experts warned listeners that the odds were against finding any more survivors buried in the rubble. Although Timothy McVeigh was in custody, there was some talk of the search for "John Doe #2," McVeigh's alleged accomplice, but if he ever existed, he was never found. I've only heard him mentioned once in nearly 10 years.

And there were still those who clung to the rumors (which had been discredited within hours of the bombing) that Middle Eastern terrorists had been involved. It's hard to remember now, but, at the time, the first (and unsuccessful) attack on the World Trade Center was a not–so–distant memory, and the American public, then as now, was more prepared to blame a foreign terrorist than a domestic one.

For the most part, my recollection of that day is that the people of Oklahoma were still in shock, and Clinton came to help them come to terms with their loss. His visit was mentioned respectfully by the local media, but there was none of the excitement that a place like Oklahoma City would be expected to show — under normal circumstances — for a presidential visit.

Part of that may have had to do with the fact that Clinton is a Democrat and Oklahoma hasn't voted for a Democrat for president since Clinton was a teenager.

Oklahoma hasn't always been the Republican state that it is today. For the first four decades of its existence as a state, Oklahoma voted for Democratic candidates for president most of the time. But since 1952, Oklahoma has voted Democratic only once.

I really doubt that Clinton came to Oklahoma City 15 years ago today with the idea that he could win over Oklahoma with a lot of posturing and tough talk. But he used the kind of language ("evil," "terrible sin") that resonated in deeply religious Oklahoma and spoke of how healing the grief and pain was "God's work."

I think he came to Oklahoma City hoping to win over enough locals to make him the most competitive Democratic nominee Oklahoma had seen in awhile — and, in the process, revive his own political fortunes.

"You have lost too much," Clinton told his listeners, "but you have not lost everything. And you have certainly not lost America, for we will stand with you for as many tomorrows as it takes."

He quoted Scripture, telling the people of Oklahoma City that the dogwood he and his wife had planted at the White House in memory of the lost lives "embodies the lesson of the Psalms — that the life of a good person is like a tree whose leaf does not wither."

"[A] tree takes a long time to grow," Clinton said, "and wounds take a long time to heal. But we must begin."

When I sat in my Norman, Okla., apartment that day and watched Clinton deliver that speech, I felt that what he was beginning was his campaign for re–election. To me, he had seemed rather silent in that spring of 1995, metaphorically licking his wounds and biding his time while the Republican majorities in Congress reveled in their newly acquired power.

Oklahoma City was Clinton's triumphant return to the national stage — and that, to me, is the great irony of the Oklahoma City bombing.

McVeigh said he was retaliating for — even said he chose the date because of — the siege on the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, Texas, two years earlier. That siege began very early in Clinton's presidency. He hadn't had time to accomplish anything, really, but it could be said that the Oklahoma City bombing was aimed at Clinton.

We've all heard McVeigh's comments about "collateral damage." Clinton may have been part of that, even though he was in another time zone. It just may have been intended to hurt Clinton more than it hurt anyone else, even those who were killed.

Yet Clinton turned the tables on McVeigh and may well have won his second term because of what he said 15 years ago today.

Ironic, huh?

Remembering Oklahoma City

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It's really hard for me to believe — for several reasons — that it has been 15 years since the Oklahoma City bombing.

On the day it happened, I was living about 25 miles from Oklahoma City. At the time, I was on the journalism faculty at the University of Oklahoma. I was in my office shortly after 9 a.m. that day, conversing with a colleague. I've heard some people say that they could hear the explosion from 50 miles away. Maybe they did, but I cannot truthfully say that I heard the explosion. Of course, I was inside when it happened. Maybe those who say they heard it from 50 miles away were outside.

If, from that distance, being outside would make that much difference.

Anyway, I learned about the explosion the same way most people did — from a TV report. I was about to go upstairs to teach an editing class, and I walked past the student newspaper's newsroom. There was a TV in there, and a few students were already in the newsroom, even though their workdays didn't typically begin until the afternoon, and they were watching the initial reports.

I stopped to watch the report — and wound up being a few minutes late for my class. That was OK, though. Most of the students had been detained by news reports as well.

We were all a bit dazed by the news. One of my students observed that there was likely to be a great need for blood and asked if class could be dismissed so they could donate blood for the injured. I agreed.

(In case you're wondering, I never asked my students to confirm that they donated blood that day. Many no doubt did give blood. That is something I will always remember about the students with whom I worked at OU, especially the ones in my classes that semester — their generosity and unselfishness. Some may well have treated it as an unexpected day off from class but not many, and it really doesn't matter. I never made them account for their activities. I guess it would have come across as unseemly under the circumstances.)

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Everyone was touched that day but especially people like my students, most of whom had grown up in Oklahoma City or in nearby towns. The bombing literally took place in their backyard.

Not all of the students actually knew someone who was killed or injured that day — but one of my students did lose her father. And ripples of loss continue to be felt. Yesterday, The Oklahoman ran an article of a young woman who was 4 when her mother was killed in the bombing. She says she has very few memories of her mother that are truly her own, that most of what she knows of her mother is what family and friends have told her. But, in one of the ironies of life, she is sort of following in her mother's footsteps. It may not be her permanent career choice, but she is working for the DEA — her mother's employer 15 years ago.

That young woman is the same age now as many of my students were that day. And many of my former students have children who are the same age today that young woman was 15 years ago. The cycle of life goes on.

As I remember, KOCO's Sky 5 was one of the first on the scene with aerial footage of the devastation. Within minutes, central Oklahoma (and, I assume, the rest of the nation) saw the destruction that had unexpectedly been visited upon it on what had seemed to be an ordinary spring morning.

I must admit, I thought of that six years later when the terrorists hijacked four commercial airplanes and crashed three of them into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. It was the same kind of morning — my memory is that it was a clear–blue sky like the one on 9–11, and unseasonably mild with not the slightest hint that hell was about to make an appearance on earth.

The Oklahoma City bombing resembled 9–11 in more than just the weather. In the days after the event, there was an uncommon sense of courtesy among all the people in the area, much like what I observed in the days following 9–11.

And, unfortunately, there was an "atmosphere of hostility" in the land, as President Clinton wrote in his presidential memoir. Clinton rightly observed the role that right–wing radio played in fanning the flames, and there were reports of troublesome websites, but I always felt he gave too much credit to the influence of sites that encouraged civil disobedience and offered instructions in bomb making.

The internet did exist in 1995, and so, apparently, did such sites, but there were far fewer computers in private homes in those days, and web addresses tended to be much more complicated. A child can maneuver through the internet today with little or no trouble, but, in 1995, even adults with advanced college degrees had problems.

The internet has spread to more homes in 15 years, and it is unquestionably easier than ever for people to communicate online so I wouldn't casually dismiss the potential link between computers and evil acts when Clinton warns of parallels between those days and these. I'd listen to what he says.

As I say, I didn't hear the explosion, but I knew that area of Oklahoma City reasonably well. I can't say that I regularly spent much time there, but there had been times when I walked along the sidewalk in front of the Murrah Building. It is possible that I walked across the very spot where the Ryder truck was parked before it was detonated. I'm sure I must have looked across the area that is now a permanent memorial to those who were killed — but, whenever I was in that area, the building stood in that spot. I'm sure I wouldn't recognize it today.

I remained in central Oklahoma for another year after the bombing, but I don't think I ever returned to Oklahoma City. I never really had a reason to, I guess, but the truth is that I never felt the desire to return.

Perhaps if I had, I would have learned what The Oklahoman refers to in today's editorial — that April 19, 1995, was a minute in time. It was a painful moment, to be sure, a moment in which "lives were brutally stolen" and "[t]he lives of hundreds of others were forever changed." But it also was — and is — a defining moment.

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"We are all 15 years older now, each of us moving, minute by minute, imperceptibly, toward the sunset of our own lives. Moments in time, both the marvelous and the horrible, will one day not matter.

"Until then, it is apt that we remember how a moment in time became the moment of eternity for 168 of our fellow citizens."

The Oklahoman

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Someone — at The Oklahoman, perhaps — has calculated that nearly 8 million minutes have passed since that fateful moment in 1995. Oklahoma City is a better place today than it was 15 years ago, The Oklahoman says, but how much better would it be if those 168 people who died in that explosion had been allowed to live?

Certainly, if one asks that question, it is impossible not to wonder if any of the 19 children who died might have been the one to find a cure for cancer — or if one of them might have produced some other benefit for mankind. We mourned the loss of life many years ago. We grieve today for the potential that was lost.

Well, those are questions that can't be answered — and are probably best left not pondered. No amount of musing can produce satisfactory answers.

We may be unable to keep ourselves from wondering how different our nation and our world might have been if the Murrah building had not been blown up 15 years ago today — or if those four airplanes had not been hijacked in 2001 or if other acts of terrorism had not been committed — but, when the questions have been asked and the wondering is done, nothing is changed. Oklahoma City remains one of history's what–ifs.

It is fitting, as The Oklahoman writes, that we honor those who died.

But the responsibility for the future rests with the living.

For good or ill, the dead have made their contributions.

The Hour of Lead

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"This is the Hour of Lead
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons recollect the Snow
First - Chill - then Stupor
Then the letting go."

Emily Dickinson

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I know very little about my mother's taste in poetry. She was a first–grade teacher, and she had a poem by W.H. Auden on her desk at home.

Actually, I know a lot about my mother's preferences in things like music and movies — but other than the Dr. Seuss books she used to read to me when I was small, I have little knowledge of the poems — or most of the books — that moved her, that had special meaning for her.

(And, if I'm going to be honest, I can't be sure that Dr. Seuss meant much to her. I was probably about 4 or 5 the last time she read it to me.)

There are some things I do know. For recreation, I know she liked to read the murder mysteries of Agatha Christie. When I was a teenager, she introduced me to the political novels of Allen Drury. She also played a significant role in my fondness for the works of Mark Twain, Theodore White and James Michener.

She loved classical music and folk music. As far back as I can remember, she was a fan of Simon and Garfunkel and John Denver. Later in her life, she was fond of Neil Diamond. But she had some country in her as well. I remember once she wanted to see the Willie Nelson movie "Honeysuckle Rose," but no one else in the family could be persuaded to see it with her — and Mom always seemed to hate going to movies by herself (I guess that's where I get that inclination).

Anyway, Mom asked me if I would go to the theater with her, and I agreed. Several months later, on Christmas morning, after all the other family gifts had been opened, she took me aside and handed me a gift. When I opened it, it turned out to be the soundtrack from the movie — which included Nelson singing the Oscar–nominated tune "On the Road Again."

That was a double album. In those days before CDs, a double album was considered quite an extravagance, so it is fair to say I was somewhat stunned to be receiving one. And then I saw a handwritten note from Mom that had been taped to the record. It said, "I loved seeing this with you."

The memories of these things are precious to me now — particularly on this day because it was 15 years ago today that I last saw my mother.

April 16 was Easter Sunday in 1995. I was living in Oklahoma at the time, and my parents were living here in Dallas. They had been living here for many years. It was the place where they grew up, and they came back here to live after my brother and I were grown.

For much of that time, I lived in Arkansas. Then I moved to Texas to go to graduate school, after which I moved to Oklahoma. Although I always arranged to spend Christmas with my parents, I didn't always spend Easter with them, and, to this day, I don't know why I came to Dallas that weekend. I didn't even attend church with Mom that day. I stayed at the house with my father while she went to church with some family friends.

But after church, she and the family friends came back to the house, and we all had lunch in the backyard.

I remember it vividly, but I only have one picture of Mom from that afternoon. If you look closely, you can see her to the left, mostly hidden in some shadows and blocked from the camera by my father, who was slicing some ham.

When we had all served ourselves, my mother read a column from the morning paper that discussed why Easter was a "moveable feast" — which apparently inspired her to serve lunch outdoors. The weather was nice that day, ideal for dining al fresco.

At the time, I guess we all treated it like one of countless such gatherings we had had over the years. The two families did many things together when I was growing up. It was nothing special, as far as we could see. But we were wrong. We were so wrong. We couldn't have foreseen it, but we were still wrong.

April 16, 1995 — as it turned out — was the last time we were all together at the same time in the same place. Nearly three weeks later, my parents were caught in a flash flood on their way home from having dinner with some friends. My father was injured but survived. My mother was swept away. Her body was found a few hours later.

Not long after she died and I came back to Dallas for her memorial service and her burial, I stumbled across the poem by Emily Dickinson that appears at the start of this post. It seemed to express what I was feeling — although it was more appropriate to say (as I observed at the time) that my grief seemed to come in waves. I would feel normal and then, out of the blue, I would be overwhelmed with emotion.

From time to time in the last 15 years, I have heard the phrase "the hour of lead" or it has popped into my mind, and I think of Mom — although, while I know she was familiar with some of Dickinson's poems, I don't know if she ever read that particular poem.

Really, I suppose, it speaks more to those she left behind, the ones who had to deal with the pain and shock of her death. I heard a lot of talk about closure at the time, and I made a sincere effort to find it wherever I could, but, eventually, I had to conclude that closure was a nice concept but far from a reality.

That truth came rushing back to me a couple of years ago when one of the family friends I mentioned died suddenly. His son is a little older than I am, his daughter is a little younger. And I remember calling the family home here in Dallas and speaking to the son a few days after his father's death.

Initially, our conversation consisted of ordinary exchanges of pleasantries. His mother and sister were out, he told me. Then, he asked me, "When does it stop hurting?"

I guess different people would answer that question differently. Some people have abusive parents. Some have neglectful parents. For them, I suppose, the grieving period is quite brief, if it exists at all.

But I was very close to my mother. I can't know how close anyone else is to his/her parents — my father once described the experience of my mother's death as "devastating" — while I know my brother was in a lot of pain at the time of Mom's death, I don't know how frequently he thinks of those days now or whether he still mourns for her in any way at any time.

My friend's grief a couple of years ago seemed genuine. It didn't appear to be the kind of thing that would be easily discarded once the funeral was over.

I did not feel that his question warranted a platitude–ridden response. I felt compelled to tell him what my experience had been in the previous 13 years.

So I told him there was a lot of truth in the cliches you hear about the healing power of time. When someone close to you dies, the grief can seem all–consuming. It hovers over you in every waking hour — and sometimes it invades your dreams. As time passes, it hurts less.

But it still hurts. It hurts at obvious times — on birthdays, on the anniversary of the death, on Christmas, etc. — and it hurts at less obvious times, too.

Even today, 15 years since I last saw Mom, it still has the power to sneak up on me. It may only have me in its grip for a few seconds, but when it does, the memories of those days are as intense as if the events were happening for the first time.

I guess it is an individual thing, this Hour of Lead. Each stage requires a different length of time with each person. I've been through the chill and the stupor — but I'm still struggling, at times, with the letting go part.

Maybe, on second thought, that closure thing is possible with some people.

But if you've found it, can you tell me how you accomplished it?