Signal Drift
MATTHEW J. DONOVAN
Night after night, I sat in front of the flickering screen as the Gulf War beamed into our living room—vivid yet distant. With each spoonful of the microwave dinner, the meaning slipped further away. I was only four, trying to make sense of the brief flashes of war—too fast, too bright, gone before I could grasp them or why. I grew up in the hum of static—a low, constant drone that blurred the lines between signal and noise. That noise seeped into everything—into my days, into me. Even then, I knew this wasn’t just war—it was a performance, something to watch, not to understand. The narratives disintegrated before they even landed, leaving behind only the hardened slogans I would come to memorize.
Then came 9/11—both inevitable and unimaginable, a sign of the end times I felt coming but couldn't quite name. It wasn’t just a breach of faith; it was a wound, self-inflicted by the same thing we were trying to defend. America bled quietly from that blow, though what I saw as chaos, others felt as raw, unbearable pain. Watching the second plane hit, the image was sharp, but the truth was submerged, lost beneath layers of confusion, fear, and the strange quiet that followed. What seemed natural in that moment now feels obscured, warped by time. I thought I was witnessing something concrete, but in hindsight, the lines were unfocused: the sound of children crying and teachers shouting—none of it clear or unavoidable.
I eventually learned that America didn’t just teach me to be self-conscious; it instilled a profound existential self-consciousness. I stared into its mirror, convinced the world had no beginning or end, only a narrative that kept shifting. As America gazed back at itself, it became hypnotized, slowly becoming what it once fought against. It was something I didn’t need to say—I felt it: the raised hand, then the touch, as if comfort could erase the bruise. The hug never canceled the blow, but it made the whole thing make sense, as if it could. America drifts between signal and noise, intention flickering one moment, dimmed the next, leaving me unsure of what’s real or if any of it ever was.
At the center of it all was this: I, like many, didn’t exist this way by choice, only by necessity. I remember protesting the war as a sophomore, though the year before, I was ready to enlist, convinced it was my way out, my chance to be the first in my family to make it to college. Now, I can’t even tell you why besides that, I had few choices. My older brother, arrested for bringing a gun to school, cut a deal with the judge and ended up in the military—another kind of sentence. He stayed until retirement, just like my father, who spent most of his life in prison. History forgets people like us—those who end up behind bars or in combat fatigues, caught in machinery we never chose to be part of.
It could have been me, too. Back then, it felt normal to bring guns to school—I even daydreamed about becoming a school shooter. It wasn’t some wild fantasy. My brother had done it; kids on the news were killing their parents, and the kids I knew threatened each other with guns, knives, and fists, like the boy in my neighborhood who was shot for flashing his fake gun and left dead by the field. People said they could smell the blood for months.
And still, America’s machinery relentlessly hummed like that state-sanctioned summer vacation—endless, imposed, a promise of freedom that never arrived. One night, my father vanished in the back of a squad car; by morning, we were dropped into another house, another set of rules. Punishments came swiftly, sometimes with cold precision, other times with the indifference of exhaustion. Time in that house didn’t move—it stalled, like a juvenile detention center disguised as something softer and days stretched long, the silence between us thick as an unspoken accusation. We weren’t lost—we were forgotten.
I always saw those places as temporary exits—slinking under the flimsy cover of a Boston winter, drifting between the stale air of the library, the company’s moldy basement, and a coworker’s couch, offered only when the rain had flooded the woods. Even now, the smell of cardboard and rotting leaves clings to me the way home does in the cold. There’s a strange comfort in spotting a discarded box on the curb or those forgotten strip mall corners where trash silently piles up—neglected as if they know something you don’t. These harshly lit, forgotten spaces, where I could sleep under the buzzing fluorescents without fearing the jolt of a cop’s baton, held a kind of sanctuary. And honestly, in those razor-thin moments—when the food’s gone, the money’s gone, the roof's gone, and I’m left searching for a signal amidst the noise of deprivation—everything sharpens. Everything snaps into focus. But then the static returns. I drift back into the haze of survival, never sure if I’ll catch something real again.
On some level, I understood. The attack felt inevitable, the sacrifice expected, but the outcome remained uncertain—except for how I navigated America’s growing alienation. I might be the one holding the knife, being shot, or merely watching it unfold on TV—distant yet disturbingly real. Sacrifice wasn’t just part of the bargain; it was the bargain. My comfort, safety, and fragile life were the rent I paid. The rules made no sense—intentionally because that’s how it was meant to work. It was like living in a stable house on the surface, but with an unspoken understanding that the foundation could give way at any moment—usually when I least expected it. I remember crying in the bathroom at twelve, haunted by the image of my mom breaking down after they buried her mother in a plot more permanent than the rusted trailer we called home.
I remember it clearly: just before marching in a Fourth of July parade with my fellow Cub Scouts. I was spellbound by the red, white, and blue. My friends, dutifully stepping in line, left me behind. It wasn’t deliberate—like trauma never is. I wandered, blissfully unaware, until it hit me—I was utterly alone. In a panic, I found a payphone and called the memorized number for home. There was no real danger, not precisely, but the feeling of being untethered—that was the real threat. My social life often mirrored that sensation—the freedom that was as deceptive as it was treacherous.
The perilous moments? They’re the ones that sneak in under the surface, barely noticeable until they hit you out of nowhere—when your knees buckle on the stairs or when you realize you’ve never quite trusted the ground beneath you. I never said it out loud because words would make it real, and it’s easier to call it clumsiness than admit the weight pressing down for years. Pressing like it did when I was small, when someone bigger pinned me down, and I didn’t know why. That kind of thing rewires you, quietly and permanently, until you know nothing but how to pretend you ever had solid ground to stand on.
Even when I’m lost, buzzing with a low hum of panic, there’s a pull that feels unsettlingly like home, like a signal I chase through static, always just out of reach. That’s how I became America—woven in but standing apart, part of the rituals yet always sensing the rot no one talks about. The ones barely clinging to the edges, the off-frequency hum we all hear but pretend isn’t there. You don’t understand a system until you know what it’s built to hide. To confront it isn’t just about exposing the system—it’s about gutting yourself. The system survives because it’s fused to us, and ripping it out would make us bleed. Only naive, reckless kids fail to grasp the cost of speaking the unspeakable.
As that child, I crawled into the kitchen, the cold linoleum pressing into my skin as I shrank under the table, my limbs half-paralyzed, the rest trembling uncontrollably. The phone’s shrill ring cut through the air, almost masking the sickening thud of fists hitting the drywall—again and again, the sound traveling through the floor, through my body. My breath came in shallow gasps, my chest tight, my heart pounding so loudly it felt like it might burst. I pressed my hands over my ears, but nothing stopped the ringing, the banging, the low growl of his threats. I dragged myself further beneath the table, my body heavy and weak, certain I wouldn't make it.
When the operator answered, her voice was so calm and steady, like she wasn't hearing the terror that consumed everything around me. “Can you see someone being harmed?" Her words felt distant, almost unreal. I pressed myself lower, forcing out a whisper that barely escaped my throat. “They kicked in the door… I heard knives…” My voice cracked, too small, barely audible over the noise of the house closing in on me. “He said he'd kill us. All of us."
Later, a note appeared on my computer—a threat from the man who once lived in my house but now sat in prison. He promised he'd find us no matter where we were in America. The truth had put him there. That note—cold, empty—felt crafted by something more significant, more insidious than anything I'd faced, except maybe the weight of growing up on the edges of this country. I don't know why the pain lingers or what's even real anymore. Everything drifts. And so do I.