Part I: Innocence Lost & Found

My daughter is 3½. She goes to preschool at a local Catholic college, an oasis of enlightenment in a serene corner of our capital city.

The school is designated as a "peace site." Fighting is not allowed at her preschool. Angry words and children's spats are quickly, and calmly, resolved by the wonderful teaching staff. Parents are encouraged to refrain from dressing kids in superhero costumes at Halloween, or sending them to school with G.I. Joe lunch boxes -- because even superheroes and soldiers have to use fists and guns to solve their problems.

I always found it somewhat quaint, even a bit unrealistic -- a "peace site" in a world where peace has become an abstract concept, a buzzword. Now I realize that we need peace sites more than ever.

Since Tuesday, my wife and I have discussed peace with our daughter. We've tried to explain, in the most general of terms, why we were praying for people in New York and Washington, why we were praying for peace, and why bad guys sometimes hurt good people.

Thursday night, while I was back at work for another long night of reporting on the horror that was gripping the world, my wife tucked in our daughter, said those prayers again, and kissed her good-night.

But a few minutes later, she padded across her bedroom, quietly stole into our home office, and saw something surprising on the computer over her mother's shoulder.

"Mommy, what happened to that building?"

Horrified, my wife realized that she had to put the situation into more concrete terms for her curious little mind, so she explained a bit more about what those bad guys had done, that we were safe, but many people had been hurt.

Later that night, exhausted but too tired to sleep, we lay in bed talking about the tragedy and wondering how a little girl would deal with this disaster that we couldn't even get our own worldly minds around. I fully expected to be on Nightmare Patrol at some point before morning.

Instead, I was greeted at sunrise with evidence of the resiliency of children. My beautiful daughter padded back across her bedroom floor and hopped into our bed. She gently tugged on my nose, which is our little wakeup game each morning. And she said the most important words I've heard in a week.

"Daddy, I saw the building that got hit by the plane last night. And you know what? The bad guy who did that forgot to be peaceful."

*****

I still can't decide whether I'm more horrified by what has happened, or afraid of what's yet to come.

*****

I went to the grocery store Saturday. A disabled vet was stationed outside the front door, handing out flowers as a reminder of those who served to keep our nation free.

As I was digging out my buck for his tin can, I heard the vet talking with another 50-something guy. One of them said, "I wonder if these kids have it in them to fight."

And I thought to myself, "You're damn right they do."

I'm 33 years old. My generation hasn't had to live in wartime. We were babies during Vietnam, and as far as we knew the Gulf War was a four-day CNN miniseries.

We were the first generation raised in a society that not only permitted, but actually encouraged us to question our government. Our parents are as likely to be draft dodgers or protesters as combat veterans. How do you think that affected our collective psyche?
We like our movies, our sports, our computers, our conveniences. Call us soft if you will -- it's the byproduct of world peace. Now that peace has been threatened, and it's our turn to answer the call.

I can understand their skepticism -- I really can. But The Greatest Generation had WWII as their proving ground. Here's ours.

*****

All day Tuesday, as the TV kept showing replays of those planes bearing down on the Twin Towers, the carnage at the Pentagon, the smoldering pit in the Pennsylvania countryside, I couldn't get one thought out of my mind.

This is like a bad Tom Clancy novel. But there's no Jack Ryan to step in and save the day.

*****

I have family in Northern Ireland. They have to live with this every day of their lives. Not the deaths of 5,000 countrymen and a direct attack on their government, but the unsettling notion that at any moment, their lives could be forever changed just by walking out the door, starting the car, or walking down the wrong street at the wrong time.

I've visited my relatives twice, and each time I've marveled at how they speak of violence and terrorism as a matter of fact, like the weather. It's part of their everyday lives, and yet they carry on.

I don't want to live like that. But I'm afraid I might not have a choice.