Where were you at 9:02 a.m., the morning of April 19, 1995? Given that in California, that would have been 7:02 a.m., I was probably getting ready for school completely oblivious to what was going on the middle of our nation. However, that fateful morning, a bomb was detonated in front of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in downtown Oklahoma City and would forever be known as the Oklahoma City Bombing.
The grounds where the federal building once stood have long been cleared, and in its place resides a peaceful reflecting pond, beautiful flowers, well maintained lawns and a chair for each person that died as a result of the blast. The tone is quiet. The mood is somber.
Also present is a survivor tree. This tree is a pillar of strength, once set ablaze, a result from the bombing, now stands tall and strong.
Another feature outside is a wall of tiled art, sent to Oklahoma City from school children across the country. There’s a large chalk area for visitors to contribute a saying or drawing, paying tribute to those that perished.
Next door to where the federal building once stood is a museum. Although, well put together, I was thoroughly creeped out. There was a recording of the sound of the bomb detonating, picked up from a meeting in a nearby building; there were artifacts – computers, glasses, car keys, a child’s teddy bear; there were news broadcasts from all of the world replayed on multiple televisions; and stories from survivors – such as that of a woman who was conducting a meeting only to have all the people sitting around the table in front of her, including the table vanish as the floor disappeared and she was left sitting on the edge of a precipice with only a small tear on her dress. There were also pieces of concrete and an I-beam from the rubble; and photographs of the victims, photographs of all of the children. That really got to me – the thought of losing Logan – especially from an act of terrorism. Towards the end of the museum tour, I had had enough mentally and emotionally. I needed out and I needed out fast. I could barely handle walking past the room featuring a photograph, memento and bio on each of the victims. It was too much.
Back outside the museum, there’s a chain link fence that was used to block off the disaster zone. Now, it’s an active memorial.
Across the street, is a statue of a weeping Jesus. Moving.
