Crash

Yesterday I accidentally smashed the side of my car into a wall.

It was one of those split second, STOOPID accidents that make you feel like a TOTAL idiot. I was coming down the ramp in my own parking garage, had a car full of groceries to unload, and just wanted to get up to my apartment. I had my eye on a parking spot around the corner and was headed toward it when all of a sudden I heard the sickening sound of metal on concrete that can only mean one thing. The scrape left a pretty big dent in the side of my beautiful white Mustang.

I LOVE that car. Maybe it's silly to admit, but I'm so proud of it. I am proud to (finally) be making enough money that I can AFFORD a decent car. I'm proud that I picked out a fun car, something I always wanted instead of something that's overly practical. Even though it's been almost a year since I bought it, I still get a thrill from getting behind the wheel of my sporty, sleek 'stang. So I was (and maybe still am) about as crushed as my passenger side panel from making such a stupid mistake and damaging it.

But yesterday's date also brings to mind another far more tragic crash, one that I'll remember on the night of Nov. 17 for the rest of my life. Early on the morning of Nov. 18, 1999, at 2:42 am, a bonfire crashed at the Texas A&M University campus in College Station, TX. Twelve students, some of them not even old enough to drink, were killed.  My brother was a sophomore at A&M at the time, and he was assigned to work on the Bonfire on the night it fell. Strangely, he said he felt like he should stay in and study instead. Thank goodness for that instinct of his or he might have been among those injured or killed.

I don't think I'll ever forget that next day. I was still in high school, but had already made up my mind to go to A&M and already felt a kinship for the people and spirit of that university. My whole family and our community were relieved of course that my brother was OK, but the images of students, just barely past their teenage years, having to remove logs to look for bodies, and seeing a whole campus in mourning for the loss of 12 brothers and sisters who died too soon was just heartbreaking. In fact, it still is.

Some people have asked me since then, why were they building a bonfire anyway? And why were they building it so high, and why in the middle of the night? How could something like that have happened? As more time passes from when Bonfire was a living, breathing tradition, it gets harder explain, especially to someone who's never been to A&M's campus or had the experience to see the Aggie spirit up close. The Bonfire was built over a period of several months, starting with a bunch of guys going out to a forest and cutting huge trees down then hauling the logs back to campus. It was lit the night before the big rivalry game against the University of Texas on Thanksgiving. But it was about so much more than a rivalry. It was about unity. It was about a bunch of different people from completely different backgrounds coming together and working on a massive project that could only be accomplished through sweat, grit, determination and the swagger that's unique to 18-22 year olds.

Last night I woke up in the middle of the night and had trouble falling back to sleep. I started thinking about my car, and being upset again that I smashed it. But then I thought about the magnitude of the other crash. I thought of how grateful I am that my brother is OK, but how fragile life really is. How there are 12 families who will never be the same because of that night, and one larger university family that mourns with them still. How those students, so young, showed such poise and resilience in the face of grief and tragedy.

I want to slow down. I want to not be in such a rush to get to a parking spot, or to get anywhere else for that matter. I'd like to acknowledge, if only to myself, how grateful I am for the days I've been given, no matter how many the Good Lord gives me. I'd like to not get bent out of shape even if my car does, because at the end of the day, it's just a thing, and things can be replaced.

If there has to be tragedy, I'd like to let it help me keep a proper perspective.

Still bleeding maroon,
Scarlett