July 27th, 1996: An Actual Terrorist Attack in Atlanta
I’d like to talk about an actual terrorist attack in Atlanta for a second since Spicer seems to have an alternative idea of the whole thing.
It’s July 27th, 1996. I’m clutching my father’s arm as the MARTA train roughly lurches forwards to its next stop, the new Olympic park. My hyperactivity kicks in, my knees bouncing out of rhythm, my voice humming anything I can remember that might have a melody. The train smells like too many passengers who had been in the overbearing Georgia heat and my thighs won’t stop sticking like suction cups to the molded plastic bench. I ask if we’re almost there. The new park has water fountain you can play in and I want to make sure it’ll still be on by the time we arrive.
Are we there yet?
How about now?
I am hushed and I resign myself to trying to calculate the length of the tunnel by counting the lights that go by as the train rushes past. And then my mother’s voice. Low and unsteady. My ears perk up at the faint hints of panic.
Don’t get off here.
Let’s go home.
It isn’t safe.
We need to go home.
I look up and notice the usual warm olive tones missing from her skin. She’s suddenly pale and her familiar blue eyes darken under the tears she’s managing to hold back.
Don’t get off.
Don’t go up there.
I don’t know why.
We can’t go to the park.
Please.
My father begins to reassure her.
We don’t have to go to the park.
It’s okay.
We can go home.
He reaches for her hand and we don’t get off the train. We ride back to where the car is parked and I try to hide my disappointment once we get home.
I can hear my parents’ voices starting to raise. The answering machine is full. With a heavy mechanical click, the answering machine plays its first message. It’s a family friend asking if we are okay and to call them back. The next message plays. Same message, different friend. Next message plays. It’s my grandfather. He’s concerned about us and to give him a callback. This pattern repeats until the tape starts to rewind. My mother turns on the news.
Blast downtown rocks Atlanta Olympics.
Attack at Centennial Olympic Park.
Over 100 casualties reported at explosion downtown.
We sit. My developing brain not comprehending the severity of the situation. My father speaks up.
We would have been there if you hadn’t said to stay on the train.
We would have been there…
My memory fades out and his voice trails off into the darkness.
The terrorist would later go on to bomb an abortion clinic and a lesbian nightclub in Atlanta and another abortion clinic in Alabama. His reasons for bombing the Olympics were to embarrass so-called socialist America on a global stage for failing to address the spread of abortion and the homosexual agenda.
His name is Eric Rudolf. Born in Florida, he became a member of the Christian Identity movement, a radical white Christian religion. He would later join up with Army of God, a terrorist organization that espoused the use of bombing abortion clinics in the name of God. He called for racial and religious purity and a return to American integrity and values.
A Muslim ban wouldn’t have stopped my family from being in that blast radius. A temporary stay on visas wouldn’t have prevented those 111 people from being injured. More rigorous border screening wouldn’t have stopped those two folks from being killed.
Historical accuracy is important, y’all.
