In this dust that was a city
I like to think that Generation X -- my generation -- was the last to grow up fearing the nations of the world would blow each other up in a nuclear inferno. With the fall of the Soviet Union in the late 1980s/early '90s, that scary prospect became greatly diminished. For the generations of kids who have followed, the world can still be a scary place, but I hope less on a global, finger-on-the-trigger, Armageddon-esque scale.
By the early 1980s, the nuclear hysteria had shifted. With Ronald Reagan as president, the specter of nuclear war seemed to become inevitable again, possibly how it was in the 1960s. But while the '60s at least thought there was a way to survive a war, '80s pop culture simply accepted an attitude of "when it happens, we're all screwed." The movie "War Games" was a classic example of this: Computers would start World War III and nothing could prevent that. Take the video game Missile Command -- no matter how many missiles you stopped, eventually, all your cities would be destroyed.
I was about 11 or 12 when I realized that all those nukes could mean no more world. I'm not sure how I quite came to that realization. I had an Atari 400 game called Nukewar that put you in command of a nuclear arsenal. Maybe that was the start. I watched "Special Bulletin" on TV and was freaked out by that (a radical American anti-nuke detonates a bomb in South Carolina). I remember going to Washington D.C. in March 1983 and thinking how quick I'd be dead if war started and I was in our capital. "War Games" was released, and though I loved the movie, its message was daunting (and this was great -- during the movie, when nuclear blasts are lighting up NORAD's computer screens, real thunder rumbled outside, making the audience nervously chuckle). Duran Duran's "Is There Something I Should Know" included the line: "You're about as easy as a nuclear war."
Later in 1983, ABC aired "The Day After," and though I did everything I could to avoid watching it (and did -- I wouldn't see it until years later) and be scared out of my mind, I was in a quiet, early teenage panic mode that we were all going to be vaporized. But nothing freaked me out more than one song I heard in the middle of a dark, cold, lonely Tuesday night in January.
I had fallen asleep with my boombox on -- I didn't have a clock radio with a timer. Past 1 a.m., I woke up to hear "99 Red Balloons," which was just becoming popular. The closing lines of the song, in which the singer is haunted by her blasted out world, haunted me as well. In fact, it thoroughly scared the hell out of me. The next song WLS played was Aerosmith's "Sweet Emotion," and I tried to focus on that instead of dwelling on the lyrics of "99 Red Balloons." That didn't work (and in subsequent years, "Sweet Emotion" also reminded me of that night). I turned the radio off and tried to fall back I asleep. I couldn't. I stayed awake and thought of the doom that awaited all of us, especially me. I thought about how we lived just a few miles from O'Hare, which would be a primary target, but we were far enough away that maybe we'd survive (little did I realize our house would probably be part of the crater ...). I fixated on the T that was now apparent on my wall -- a giant T formed by the strip of wall in between and above the bedroom door and the closet door. I stared at that T in the dark and anxiously wondered when I'd stop worrying and start sleeping. And I didn't dare turn the radio back on.
After an hour, I had to get out of the room. I don't know why I didn't just go downstairs and turn the TV on; instead, I took a Dungeons & Dragons module (D1-D2: Descent into the Depths of the Earth) into the bathroom and read there for an hour. I finally went back to bed and fell asleep. The next day at school, I was a zombie, partly from being tired, and partly because my ordeal was still in my mind. This would be the first major funk I'd ever felt in my life, and it would last a few months. That Friday night, while being driven home from basketball practice. I couldn't help but notice the leafless trees standing stark against the cold night.
The next Tuesday night, I went to bed realizing a week had passed already since my harrowing night. Eventually, I was able to turn the radio on again (though for months, I'd listen to soft rock or a tape -- I didn't want to risk trying to fall asleep to "99 Red Balloons" again). I worked up the courage to listen to the song again -- I had to face that fear. Oddly, the German version of the song helped me ease into the English version. And eventually, I wasn't as afraid of man-made Armageddon as I was when I was 13. Sure, sometimes the prospect of a comet or a Art Bell winter storm would get me a little unnerved, but it never kept me up for hours picking out imagined letters off the wall. I hope my sons never feel the fear, the hopelessness I felt that night, but I'm guessing they will -- maybe not over something apocalyptic, but something that will cause them anxiety nonetheless. I'm sure they will learn to deal with whatever scares them as part of growing up.
For weeks, I kept thinking "It's Tuesday night; it's been X weeks since that night." The weeks piled up until eventually I stopped keeping track. This month, while thinking about that night, I found a 1984 calendar on the Internet and found what I think was the exact night: Jan. 17. In 2012, Jan. 17 was again a Tuesday night.
By the early 1980s, the nuclear hysteria had shifted. With Ronald Reagan as president, the specter of nuclear war seemed to become inevitable again, possibly how it was in the 1960s. But while the '60s at least thought there was a way to survive a war, '80s pop culture simply accepted an attitude of "when it happens, we're all screwed." The movie "War Games" was a classic example of this: Computers would start World War III and nothing could prevent that. Take the video game Missile Command -- no matter how many missiles you stopped, eventually, all your cities would be destroyed.
I was about 11 or 12 when I realized that all those nukes could mean no more world. I'm not sure how I quite came to that realization. I had an Atari 400 game called Nukewar that put you in command of a nuclear arsenal. Maybe that was the start. I watched "Special Bulletin" on TV and was freaked out by that (a radical American anti-nuke detonates a bomb in South Carolina). I remember going to Washington D.C. in March 1983 and thinking how quick I'd be dead if war started and I was in our capital. "War Games" was released, and though I loved the movie, its message was daunting (and this was great -- during the movie, when nuclear blasts are lighting up NORAD's computer screens, real thunder rumbled outside, making the audience nervously chuckle). Duran Duran's "Is There Something I Should Know" included the line: "You're about as easy as a nuclear war."
Later in 1983, ABC aired "The Day After," and though I did everything I could to avoid watching it (and did -- I wouldn't see it until years later) and be scared out of my mind, I was in a quiet, early teenage panic mode that we were all going to be vaporized. But nothing freaked me out more than one song I heard in the middle of a dark, cold, lonely Tuesday night in January.
I had fallen asleep with my boombox on -- I didn't have a clock radio with a timer. Past 1 a.m., I woke up to hear "99 Red Balloons," which was just becoming popular. The closing lines of the song, in which the singer is haunted by her blasted out world, haunted me as well. In fact, it thoroughly scared the hell out of me. The next song WLS played was Aerosmith's "Sweet Emotion," and I tried to focus on that instead of dwelling on the lyrics of "99 Red Balloons." That didn't work (and in subsequent years, "Sweet Emotion" also reminded me of that night). I turned the radio off and tried to fall back I asleep. I couldn't. I stayed awake and thought of the doom that awaited all of us, especially me. I thought about how we lived just a few miles from O'Hare, which would be a primary target, but we were far enough away that maybe we'd survive (little did I realize our house would probably be part of the crater ...). I fixated on the T that was now apparent on my wall -- a giant T formed by the strip of wall in between and above the bedroom door and the closet door. I stared at that T in the dark and anxiously wondered when I'd stop worrying and start sleeping. And I didn't dare turn the radio back on.
After an hour, I had to get out of the room. I don't know why I didn't just go downstairs and turn the TV on; instead, I took a Dungeons & Dragons module (D1-D2: Descent into the Depths of the Earth) into the bathroom and read there for an hour. I finally went back to bed and fell asleep. The next day at school, I was a zombie, partly from being tired, and partly because my ordeal was still in my mind. This would be the first major funk I'd ever felt in my life, and it would last a few months. That Friday night, while being driven home from basketball practice. I couldn't help but notice the leafless trees standing stark against the cold night.
The next Tuesday night, I went to bed realizing a week had passed already since my harrowing night. Eventually, I was able to turn the radio on again (though for months, I'd listen to soft rock or a tape -- I didn't want to risk trying to fall asleep to "99 Red Balloons" again). I worked up the courage to listen to the song again -- I had to face that fear. Oddly, the German version of the song helped me ease into the English version. And eventually, I wasn't as afraid of man-made Armageddon as I was when I was 13. Sure, sometimes the prospect of a comet or a Art Bell winter storm would get me a little unnerved, but it never kept me up for hours picking out imagined letters off the wall. I hope my sons never feel the fear, the hopelessness I felt that night, but I'm guessing they will -- maybe not over something apocalyptic, but something that will cause them anxiety nonetheless. I'm sure they will learn to deal with whatever scares them as part of growing up.
For weeks, I kept thinking "It's Tuesday night; it's been X weeks since that night." The weeks piled up until eventually I stopped keeping track. This month, while thinking about that night, I found a 1984 calendar on the Internet and found what I think was the exact night: Jan. 17. In 2012, Jan. 17 was again a Tuesday night.
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