Opinion | Watching 9/11 taught me, a refugee, the visceral lessons of Americanness

When I was a teenager, every national tragedy had turned into a perennial national sorrow. If a notable figure died, black flags were draped over major buildings, music was banned, schools and government offices shut down, often for days. Weeping men donned black and carried coffins through the streets, while droves of other darkly clad people followed howling, at times beating themselves.

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