The Standard
Many editorials this morning. Most of them, in French and English, settling onto similar orbits—themes of loss, of love... and of love lost. Twenty-five years ago, as we all sat stunned, eyes riveted to our tv screens, minds flailing and struggling to comprehend events too surreal to accept, we realized that anything we'd understood had suddenly, shockingly, been erased. Our collective board wiped clean, our markers stolen.
The morning of 9/11 shot a final spear through the heart of the 20th century. The somber herald of a fledgling millennium. It was like Altamont killing the 60s but broadcasted and catastrophically tangible in ways no mere symbol could ever approach. The moment didn't need hindsight, didn't require social, or historical, analysis. We gathered. We mourned. We knew.
And yet we didn't.
We never foresaw the corruptible forces that would arise. The rampant ignorance, the demagoguery and the stupid memes. How could we? How could we ever imagine the renaming of geographical landmarks through edicts, and musings about states and oceans on an ever growing list of personal grievances. The smallness of it. The terror of an improbable, normalized and growing roots.
...
I was making dinner the other day. We use an app called Paprika to store our recipes and I needed to check quantities in metric so, I hit the convert button. I'd never noticed before, but the app not only uses imperial units as its default, it also labels this Standard (US). I felt a jolt of anger. Three countries use the imperial system in 2026: the United States, Liberia, and Myanmar. It's about as far from any concept of a "standard" as you can get.
That word, like so many others now, is a remnant—in all of its possible definitions.
Is there a through-line, from that awful day stamped on the memories of all who witnessed it, to the carnival barker promising $5000 dollar checks to 270 million people? I'm not equipped to answer that question. But part of me believes we can be broken into desperation, enough to follow anyone and trust anything. Enough to lower those standards until nothing remains.
Today, my country's editorials remember. They do this while forced to stare down the glare of a reality full of squandered good will, and disappointment, and bitterness.
Words of profound sadness.
And words of resolve.
