So, I started digging into 9/11 political cartoons a while back. Not for some grand academic paper, you understand, just a bit of a personal dive. I was curious, thinking about how artists and regular folks tried to get their heads around something so massive, so awful. It’s a raw subject, for sure.
My Own Little Mess
Anyway, going through those images, the stark lines, the anger, the sadness… it unexpectedly dragged up a memory of a completely different kind of mess I got myself into. It’s funny how the brain connects things, right? This wasn’t about global tragedy, but it was about human nature, and boy, did I get a lesson in that.
Years ago, I had this bright idea. A really simple one, I thought. I wanted to organize a small community workshop. The theme? “How We Remember.” The plan was to look at different ways our little town had marked big historical moments – not just parades and plaques, but things like local newspaper headlines, personal letters people had kept, maybe even, yeah, how editorial cartoons from our local paper (we used to have a good one) captured the mood.
I thought, this’ll be great! Get people talking, sharing. What a naive fool I was.
Here’s what my “practice” of trying to get this simple thing off the ground looked like:
- Getting a team together: First, there was Martha, super enthusiastic, knew everyone. Then we had old Mr. Henderson, who was supposedly the town historian, though mostly he just liked to talk about his prize-winning roses. And then there was a younger guy, Tom, who was all about “digital engagement” and “synergy.” I still don’t know what synergy means.
- The initial planning: We had a couple of meetings. Coffee and donuts. Everyone nodding. Martha suggested a small display at the library. Mr. Henderson offered to bring in some “genuine artifacts,” which later turned out to be a rusty horseshoe he found in his garden. Tom wanted to build an interactive website with VR capabilities. For a town of 5,000 people.
- Where it all went wrong: The first crack appeared when we talked about which historical moments to cover. Mr. Henderson wanted to focus on the town’s founding in 1880. Martha was keen on the big fire of ’52. Tom thought we should only do stuff from the last 10 years because “no one cares about old stuff.” I tried to suggest a mix, maybe focus on how we reacted to national events. Blank stares.
- The funding fiasco: We needed, like, a couple hundred bucks for printing and maybe some better donuts. The local council, who initially said “great initiative!”, suddenly got very quiet. Turns out, two council members were feuding over who should get “credit” if it was successful. So, no money.
- The artifact argument: Mr. Henderson’s horseshoe was one thing. But then Martha found an old political cartoon from the 1960s in the local paper’s archive that was, let’s say, a bit critical of a still-influential local family. All hell broke loose. Accusations flew. People took sides. Tom said the whole thing was “problematic” and “lacked inclusivity.”
The grand finale? The workshop never happened. The “team” stopped speaking to each other. Martha and Mr. Henderson had a very loud disagreement in the post office. I just wanted to crawl under a rock. My simple idea to get people to share and remember turned into a mini civil war over things I hadn’t even considered.
So, when I look at those 9/11 political cartoons, I see the artists trying to process, to make a statement, to get a reaction. And they sure do. But then I think about my little workshop, and how hard it is to get even a handful of people to agree on what something means, or even just to discuss it without everything blowing up.
It’s just people, I guess. We’re a complicated bunch. One person draws a picture to make sense of the world, and a dozen others will argue about what color the sky should have been. That was my “practice” – learning that the simplest ideas can get tangled up in the most ridiculous ways. And I’ve got the mental scars to prove it, believe me.
