The Birth of a Shrew: Reflections on 9-11

2001 was the year I woke up, but not completely. During my adult life I have always been a bit groggy—a lot asleep and a bit awake. This started with the “conspiracy theory” of John F. Kennedy’s assassination. I gobbled up every book written on the subject, and was convinced of the truth surrounding that extraordinary lie. But for some reason I did not apply it across the board, failing to question other official narratives with the same rigor that I had mustered for JFK.

It all began in my early twenties, when the Zapruder film and those grainy photos from Dealey Plaza haunted my nights. I devoured Mark Lane's Rush to Judgment and Jim Garrison's investigations like they were gospel truths hidden in plain sight. The single bullet theory? Absurd. The Warren Commission's tidy conclusions? A whitewash designed to placate a grieving nation while the real perpetrators slithered back into the shadows. I saw the fingerprints of the CIA, the mob, maybe even LBJ himself—layers of deception stacked like a house of cards. Yet, even as I railed against this grand illusion in conversations with friends, I compartmentalized it. It was just one event, one aberration in an otherwise trustworthy system. Why rock the boat further? Life was busy; work, family, the daily grind kept me from connecting the dots to broader patterns of control.