Article first published as Ten Years After 9-11-01: Still A Day That Will Live in Infamy on Blogcritics.
I walk into Windows on the World; my eyes are drawn to the skyline. The sun is brilliant this day; everything inside the restaurant is glowing preternaturally. I don't detect the odor of the fine breakfast food, but I see the waiters and they are gimping along with their trays. The people are all at the tables eating, but there seems to be nothing on their plates.
I sit at my table and lift my copy of the New York Times. A bus boy pours some water in my glass, but his hand is shaking and the ice and water run all over the table. I look up at him and he is like a holograph; I can see the skyline right through him.
I look at the newspaper and see the date: September 11, 2011. The headlines are illegible, as is the text of the stories. There are pictures on the front page that are all blurry. I look at my watch and note that it is 8:45. I think I have a meeting or something that I must get to; I start trying to signal the waiters, but they turn their backs on me and stare out the windows.
I open the paper to the next page and I can make out some of the letters. "Tenth Anniversary..." and the rest is a blur. I hear a familiar voice and look up. My grandfather is standing over the table with a cigar in his mouth. "Hey, Pop," I say, as if twenty seven years haven't passed since he died. "Want some breakfast?"
Pop shakes his head and points to the exit door. "You have to get out of here."
I fold the paper and look up again and he is gone, but at the same time the building starts rumbling like an earthquake is hitting the city. The table shakes, my glass topples over, and the floor beneath my feet is turning into gelatin. I look at the exit door and run as Pop suggested. I throw open the door and step out into the sunshine and the blue sky is all around me. I start falling and look back, but there is no building at all. I am falling toward the earth, and I see a crowd of people below me. I see them all standing there dressed in black, and I notice the footprints of the towers. I want to scream but I cannot, and I continue to fall towards the earth, but then, as is always the case with this dream, I wake up.
After all this time and space between then and now, I am still haunted, still hurting, and still looking for answers. People have moved ahead and on with their lives, and their ability to do so is admirable. Many people who lost loved ones have remarried, or gotten divorced, or moved away from New York City, and some have died. Out of necessity and despite things beyond their control, these people have dealt with 9-11, but many of us still have not found peace and perhaps never will.
I still mourn the loss in my family, of old friends, and the devastation of my city that I love. I cannot look at the skyline and not think about what happened. I see an airplane overhead (a sight that once used to make me think of travel to exotic places) and I get agitated and nervous. In the street I find myself looking up, watching the buildings and wondering and waiting if they too will fall. On the subway or bus every package or backpack seems sinister; the passengers could be terrorists. There is a feeling of unease, of things falling apart, and I have no sense of equilibrium or any hope that it will get better.
I hear the naysayers all the time. "You have to get over it," is frequently said. "There hasn't been an attack in ten years; what are you worried about?" This is another good one. "Snap out of it!" is yet another, said more vehemently than when Cher spoke that line in Moonstruck. Perhaps a smack on the face should follow those words. None of this matters though. If you are a New Yorker you have been scarred, and all the time in the world won't hide the evidence, but we can take great pains to cover up and conceal this from others, which only makes the hurting get more intense.
I have much for which to be thankful, and I never forget that, but 9-11 is omnipresent for me in this city. Maybe if I could pull myself away, perhaps live in Fiji or Bali or someplace like that, I would be able to move on. I do fear that out of sight will not be out of mind, and I could go to the ends of the earth, but I would still have my dreams and nightmares, and there would be no denying that it happened and changed my city and my life forever.
We mark the tenth anniversary collectively. There are ceremonies, prayer services, and gatherings to commemorate the day. All this is well and good, but it is also hard to ignore. The media pounds the message home day after day, so to escape the onslaught is nearly impossible. I believe it is good to do all those things because we never want to forget what happened, but it is also painful to remember for many of us. We are the ones caught in a constant struggle; we wish to honor the memories of those lost, but in doing so we lose a little piece of ourselves each time.
I want my children to remember the day and to understand what happened, so I try to confront it as best as I can. When my daughter asks, "Why did we lose Uncle Steve that day?" it is an incredibly more difficult question than "Where do babies come from?" or "Why is the sky blue?" I can talk to her about it, and in doing so it helps me cope, but it still doesn't stop the pain or the tears.
So this year is the same as last year but infinitely more difficult; ten years of my life and your life and everyone's lives have been spent in the shadow of 9-11. Some pretend it never happened, but then they could find themselves like I am in my dream: up in the air and ready for a big fall. In this case I know I am like Humpty Dumpty; nothing can put me back together again and make me the same person I was on September 10, 2001. I have to live with that, accept that, and try to move on.
September 11 will always mean something to people. To those who wanted to hurt us, it is a holiday. To New Yorkers it is a day of infamy, right up there with December 7, 1941 or November 22, 1963. We who lived through that day know where we were when we heard about it; we will never forget how that day started and how it ended.
As the years go by there will be less people who can say they lived through 9-11. It is our sacred duty to carry the torch, to tell young people about it, and make sure that no one ever forgets. There is a beautiful memorial that will open to the public in New York City, and that will always be a reminder, even after we are gone. Those of us who knew and loved those who died will one day die too, and the voices who tell the stories will change, but the stories will remain for all the generations to come.
Ten years have gone and many people will gather for the ceremony, and many more people will watch the proceedings on television, but the most important audience will be those lost. They are watching and listening, so we had better never falter and never stop marking the day, because if nothing else they have a right to know they are remembered now and until the end of time.
Showing posts with label 9-11. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 9-11. Show all posts
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Revisiting 9/11 Forevermore
Every year on this day, we are all New Yorkers.
-President Barack Obama
Suddenly, without warning I am here again, spiraling through the clouds and heavy rain, hovering over what they now call “The Pit” where once stood the buildings known as The Twin Towers. I see that since last year some progress has been made, but it seems incredulous that after all this time that things aren’t farther along than they are. How can this be?
I gain some control and can focus better through the raindrops; the people who have come to honor me and those like me are nowhere near where it all happened. They are removed and on the edge of things in a small park. I come every year because I desire it, and somehow when I want things they happen. I still don’t understand how it works, and I sometimes cannot believe I am even dead. I know I am but I still can’t accept it I guess.
The people who have come here are so valiant, standing in the rain with umbrellas and all sorts of raingear covering them. There are children holding flowers, mothers holding photographs, fathers holding signs with names on them and messages. There are wives who cry in the rain and with the rain and in spite of the rain, because their tears are endless as the seas and there is no eight years ago or today, but only a tomorrow without their beloved ones.
I see politicians whom I wish I could not see because these same people did nothing to protect and save me and my brethren. Why are they here now except to capitalize on some political points they can gain. Why can’t they let this day be pure grief and leave those people who are truly suffering alone with others like them?
Of course, the cameras are there and the news people who pretend this didn’t happen during the rest of the year, but they too are using the moment to their advantage, for ratings and whatever reason people without hearts do things. How dare they insult the intelligence and dignity of these good people with their cameras and phony expressions of sorrow?
I still have trouble dealing with that day, accepting that day, and going on with my, well, my existence after death. I am told by others like me that everyone is different after death. Some accept it freely, and those are the lucky ones. Others do not accept it or even do not believe they are dead. I am in this category. I still see myself at my desk, checking e-mail when the first plane hit, and I haven’t been able to reconcile things.
Once the initial impact was over and I had shaken the plaster and part of the cubicle wall off my body, I picked myself up off the floor and did what I always had done when something big happened. I called my wife. People were screaming all around me, smoke was pouring up from the point of impact, and debris hung in the air like confetti on New Year’s Eve. I dialed her number and spoke to her. She already knew because she was ironing clothes and watching TV. I said everything was going to be okay. I told her I was getting out of there and would be home as soon as possible, and that was the last time I spoke to her.
I had no idea about terrorists as I hung up the phone. I knew something terrible had happened from the way the building shook. Maybe an earthquake. Maybe a bomb like back in ‘93. I didn’t know what the hell happened but I was getting out of there, or so I thought. I remember grabbing my jacket and running to the exit door, but the black sulfurous smoke came pouring out as I opened it.
I was spinning and turning and then I remember nothing but the flash of neon light, and then I felt like I was falling forever, way beyond the edge of the building and through time and space and I kept thinking about those e-mails I hadn’t answered, about calling my wife back, and finding a way to get out and on the E train home to Queens.
So all this time has passed for people but nothing has really passed at all, for the dead or their living friends, lovers, and family. What happens seems like it just happened to me, in fact it keeps happening and then I am someplace else, with other victims and then I am free of all that and roaming the earth. Searching. I want to find my body, cram myself back inside it no matter how damaged it is, and find a way to hobble home. I think that my wife will accept me no matter how I look; my children will shower my battered face with tears, and my parents will love me as they always have no matter what.
I have been searching and am amazed at how time means nothing and everything. I can think I want to be someplace and I am there instantly. I have marveled at things I never saw in life, but I am humbled by people all over the world who have mourned me and others like me who died on 9/11. I am also revolted by those who celebrated the fall of the Twin Towers like it was a victory on a playing field. How shameful are these people? Well, wait until it’s their turn to die. They’ll see how it is.
I know the people responsible for what happened are not all caught yet. I’ve been there in Afghanistan and have seen our brave men and women fighting the good fight, but it’s not over. I know many people just want it to be over, but it is never over. All of you ridiculous people who bemoan water-boarding and all this other stuff, I have news for you: there are hundreds and thousands more of people just like those guys who caused the fall of the towers. They’re waiting to strike again anywhere and anytime, and you’re worried about their rights and care nothing about all those souls lost that day.
Let me tell you something. All you have to do is flood Afghanistan with soldiers, all the ones from that other war that is over anyway in Iraq. I’ve been there too and have seen the courageous soldiers fighting, but we need them over in Afghanistan now. All of them and more. We need to flood that country and occupy every area of it, push across the border into Pakistan whether or not anyone likes it, and crush these people now. If we do not, more buildings will fall and people will die and it will never end. Trust me, it never ends.
So I am here again. I thought about the day and I was here. This is how it works for me now. I flutter down through the rain, looking for my wife amongst the many. I hear the people crying, I see their tears mingling with the raindrops, but this does nothing to dilute their pain and suffering. They are reading the names on a platform. So many names and faces to go with them. I am one of those faces and I do not fade away with the years; none of us do.
I finally see my wife and children standing there under two big umbrellas. My son and daughter are so big now. She brought them this time after not bringing them before. It’s not like I haven’t seen them; I visit the house now and then to watch over them. It hurts me so that I cannot hold them, cannot brush the tears from their eyes, but I am there with them and kiss their foreheads as they sleep in bed, and I try to spoon my wife as she sleeps, still clinging to her side with the rest of the empty bed seemingly waiting for me. Well, Honey, I am there. Always.
The ceremony is over now and the people are walking down toward The Pit to a small pool, throwing in flowers of love and memory. The grieving is extraordinary, the comfort is in the process and I can see my children each drop a flower in the pool, followed by my wife. She sobs as she drops the flower, says a few words I can’t understand from where I am, but I do know what she has said. There was so much unsaid between us when I died, but I know it all by heart now anyway, for it has been revealed to me through her prayers.
Things end rather quickly and I am moving upward again, toward the rain and grey clouds, and I look down at The Pit one last time, knowing I’ll be back. This time of year next year, and the year after that, until the end of time. We on this side will never forget and we need you on that side to always remember. We are all energy now, floating together above the mourners and we intermingle, allowing each other’s thoughts to be heard.
There are thousands of us joined for a moment in time, and then just like that we shoot out in all directions, heading to all corners of the earth, parting ways but not company. We are all part of a club we never wanted to join, but we are members for eternity. I don’t even know where I am going, but I am still searching and hoping to find a way to accept.
Whatever happens I’ll be back. We’ll all be back because we have no choice. So, remember us not just this one day a year, but all 365 days of it. Please build these towers to show the world, and get them built faster and higher and do it for us. Get Bin Laden and any other person who would ever harm innocents, and show the world justice and remind them of our legacy. Do it for us all and never forget us. Never forget us because all we can do is remember and wait.
-President Barack Obama
Suddenly, without warning I am here again, spiraling through the clouds and heavy rain, hovering over what they now call “The Pit” where once stood the buildings known as The Twin Towers. I see that since last year some progress has been made, but it seems incredulous that after all this time that things aren’t farther along than they are. How can this be?
I gain some control and can focus better through the raindrops; the people who have come to honor me and those like me are nowhere near where it all happened. They are removed and on the edge of things in a small park. I come every year because I desire it, and somehow when I want things they happen. I still don’t understand how it works, and I sometimes cannot believe I am even dead. I know I am but I still can’t accept it I guess.
The people who have come here are so valiant, standing in the rain with umbrellas and all sorts of raingear covering them. There are children holding flowers, mothers holding photographs, fathers holding signs with names on them and messages. There are wives who cry in the rain and with the rain and in spite of the rain, because their tears are endless as the seas and there is no eight years ago or today, but only a tomorrow without their beloved ones.
I see politicians whom I wish I could not see because these same people did nothing to protect and save me and my brethren. Why are they here now except to capitalize on some political points they can gain. Why can’t they let this day be pure grief and leave those people who are truly suffering alone with others like them?
Of course, the cameras are there and the news people who pretend this didn’t happen during the rest of the year, but they too are using the moment to their advantage, for ratings and whatever reason people without hearts do things. How dare they insult the intelligence and dignity of these good people with their cameras and phony expressions of sorrow?
I still have trouble dealing with that day, accepting that day, and going on with my, well, my existence after death. I am told by others like me that everyone is different after death. Some accept it freely, and those are the lucky ones. Others do not accept it or even do not believe they are dead. I am in this category. I still see myself at my desk, checking e-mail when the first plane hit, and I haven’t been able to reconcile things.
Once the initial impact was over and I had shaken the plaster and part of the cubicle wall off my body, I picked myself up off the floor and did what I always had done when something big happened. I called my wife. People were screaming all around me, smoke was pouring up from the point of impact, and debris hung in the air like confetti on New Year’s Eve. I dialed her number and spoke to her. She already knew because she was ironing clothes and watching TV. I said everything was going to be okay. I told her I was getting out of there and would be home as soon as possible, and that was the last time I spoke to her.
I had no idea about terrorists as I hung up the phone. I knew something terrible had happened from the way the building shook. Maybe an earthquake. Maybe a bomb like back in ‘93. I didn’t know what the hell happened but I was getting out of there, or so I thought. I remember grabbing my jacket and running to the exit door, but the black sulfurous smoke came pouring out as I opened it.
I was spinning and turning and then I remember nothing but the flash of neon light, and then I felt like I was falling forever, way beyond the edge of the building and through time and space and I kept thinking about those e-mails I hadn’t answered, about calling my wife back, and finding a way to get out and on the E train home to Queens.
So all this time has passed for people but nothing has really passed at all, for the dead or their living friends, lovers, and family. What happens seems like it just happened to me, in fact it keeps happening and then I am someplace else, with other victims and then I am free of all that and roaming the earth. Searching. I want to find my body, cram myself back inside it no matter how damaged it is, and find a way to hobble home. I think that my wife will accept me no matter how I look; my children will shower my battered face with tears, and my parents will love me as they always have no matter what.
I have been searching and am amazed at how time means nothing and everything. I can think I want to be someplace and I am there instantly. I have marveled at things I never saw in life, but I am humbled by people all over the world who have mourned me and others like me who died on 9/11. I am also revolted by those who celebrated the fall of the Twin Towers like it was a victory on a playing field. How shameful are these people? Well, wait until it’s their turn to die. They’ll see how it is.
I know the people responsible for what happened are not all caught yet. I’ve been there in Afghanistan and have seen our brave men and women fighting the good fight, but it’s not over. I know many people just want it to be over, but it is never over. All of you ridiculous people who bemoan water-boarding and all this other stuff, I have news for you: there are hundreds and thousands more of people just like those guys who caused the fall of the towers. They’re waiting to strike again anywhere and anytime, and you’re worried about their rights and care nothing about all those souls lost that day.
Let me tell you something. All you have to do is flood Afghanistan with soldiers, all the ones from that other war that is over anyway in Iraq. I’ve been there too and have seen the courageous soldiers fighting, but we need them over in Afghanistan now. All of them and more. We need to flood that country and occupy every area of it, push across the border into Pakistan whether or not anyone likes it, and crush these people now. If we do not, more buildings will fall and people will die and it will never end. Trust me, it never ends.
So I am here again. I thought about the day and I was here. This is how it works for me now. I flutter down through the rain, looking for my wife amongst the many. I hear the people crying, I see their tears mingling with the raindrops, but this does nothing to dilute their pain and suffering. They are reading the names on a platform. So many names and faces to go with them. I am one of those faces and I do not fade away with the years; none of us do.
I finally see my wife and children standing there under two big umbrellas. My son and daughter are so big now. She brought them this time after not bringing them before. It’s not like I haven’t seen them; I visit the house now and then to watch over them. It hurts me so that I cannot hold them, cannot brush the tears from their eyes, but I am there with them and kiss their foreheads as they sleep in bed, and I try to spoon my wife as she sleeps, still clinging to her side with the rest of the empty bed seemingly waiting for me. Well, Honey, I am there. Always.
The ceremony is over now and the people are walking down toward The Pit to a small pool, throwing in flowers of love and memory. The grieving is extraordinary, the comfort is in the process and I can see my children each drop a flower in the pool, followed by my wife. She sobs as she drops the flower, says a few words I can’t understand from where I am, but I do know what she has said. There was so much unsaid between us when I died, but I know it all by heart now anyway, for it has been revealed to me through her prayers.
Things end rather quickly and I am moving upward again, toward the rain and grey clouds, and I look down at The Pit one last time, knowing I’ll be back. This time of year next year, and the year after that, until the end of time. We on this side will never forget and we need you on that side to always remember. We are all energy now, floating together above the mourners and we intermingle, allowing each other’s thoughts to be heard.
There are thousands of us joined for a moment in time, and then just like that we shoot out in all directions, heading to all corners of the earth, parting ways but not company. We are all part of a club we never wanted to join, but we are members for eternity. I don’t even know where I am going, but I am still searching and hoping to find a way to accept.
Whatever happens I’ll be back. We’ll all be back because we have no choice. So, remember us not just this one day a year, but all 365 days of it. Please build these towers to show the world, and get them built faster and higher and do it for us. Get Bin Laden and any other person who would ever harm innocents, and show the world justice and remind them of our legacy. Do it for us all and never forget us. Never forget us because all we can do is remember and wait.
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