My Explosion

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One of my responses to the explosion was to lose the ability to express, and perhaps even to feel, anger. I never fought with my parents or siblings, and still don't, and don't fight with strangers, friends or my wife. Since I was 9 years old, I have not raised my voice to anyone. But thinking about the instructor, now, brings something ugly to my skin. I hope that one of his friends, with whom he's never shared the story, is reading this and will bring it to his attention. But there's another part of me, which he also had a hand in creating, that wants to protect even him.

DAD

I was at a meeting downtown when I received a call that my son was in an explosion at Murch and that Mom was on her way to the hospital. I recall starting to shake so much that, although someone offered to loan me his car, I thought it would be better to take a cab. I had no idea what had happened, how serious it was or, in fact, who was injured. Somehow, I assumed it was your brother.

ME

The chemistry class was supposed to be an astronomy class but was switched at the last minute when an instructor took ill. Our first project was to make sparklers, which we would use at the festival at the end of camp.

We were divided into groups of four, each of which had a table with a bowl in the middle of it. At my table were my best friend, Stewart, one of my classmates, Puja, and a boy I'd never met. At the front of the room, by the chalkboard, were glass vials containing various chemicals. The sparkler "recipe" was written on the board, and I remember (and have had my memory corroborated by various legal documents) that we were to use half of the amounts instructed. I remember thinking that was strange. Why not just write out the proper amounts? The instructor said it was "basically a recipe for gunpowder, with a little extra."

The first time Stewart was allowed to see me outside of his hospital room, we spent the afternoon in the cafeteria of Children's Hospital with a pen and paper, trying to remember the names of as many of the chemicals as we could. No adult asked us to do this.

In the center of each table was a large bowl. We stirred the chemicals that less than an hour later would be removed from the school by a bomb disposal unit of the D.C. police. I remember the chalkboard, the chalk that had collected on the ledge that held the erasers. I remember looking out the window across the room and envisioning the celebration at the end of camp. It was a sunny day. I was by the door. The tables were covered in newspaper. I remember how we took turns mixing the chemicals. What did we mix with? Why was I by the door? What were the headlines of the newspaper on our table? The explosion burned them, and us. The following day, we were in the paper.

MY BROTHER

I was sitting in computer class, playing a video game on one of the old Apples that they had lined up against all four walls. The computer room had a special thick door to shut out thieves. Because of that door, even though I was just down the hall, the sound of the explosion failed to penetrate our room. We didn't know that anything had happened until out-of-breath firemen appeared at the door. They told us to evacuate the building. We went down to the playground and milled about, joking around without a sense of what had transpired. My counselor came and grabbed me. "Your brother's been hurt," he said. We went inside to the principal's office. I saw you walking with an authority figure of some sort. Your face looked red, and you looked shellshocked, but you didn't look that bad. I'm not sure that we even exchanged words you were whisked by so fast. (For some reason, I think that the teacher who presided over the explosion was the one who escorted you. He had long shaggy hair, big glasses and wore shorts.)

ME

At some point, maybe 10 minutes into class, I went to the bathroom. I didn't have to go to the bathroom, but I didn't want to be in the classroom anymore. I have a very distinct memory of hearing a boy whistle at the urinal as he peed. (I later learned, from a news story, that the boy was in the hallway when the explosion happened.) I dawdled a bit on my way back and drank some water I didn't really want. I remember counting the holes that made the fountain's drain.