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About WTC and 9/11
Sep. 13th, 2002 10:12 amI thought long and hard about whether to say anything beyond gratitude. And in a way, this makes sense now, because it was 2 days before I posted something real last year too. So. I thought about reposting my original post, written in the aftermath, or maybe editing it slightly then posting it, but... honestly, rereading it... I just couldn't. It was too... graphic, too pain filled, it was too reliving for me. So instead, I have these thoughts.
I'm not all about excessive, weirdly manipulative, commercialized patriotism. It bothered me and still does. In some ways I feel it takes meaning away. I didn't just have a media fast this week, I've actively avoided most (note: I say most, but not all, because I've felt it healing to look at some things) news and stories about WTC and 9/11. Because in my head it's all too interwoven. The fear, the experiences, the snapshot moments. The last time I walked out of there, at 8:30am. Calling my parents, telling them that there was an attack but people wanted to believe it was an accident and that I was okay, but didn't know how to get home. I think of the horrible blackness outside the window, after feeling the collapse. I think of the several inches of ash (and what the ashes were) and paper, walking through what even at the time I thought of as a surreal sci-fi post-apocalyptic scene. Of the many buses that were commandeered to take away the wounded, the dead, the body parts. Of the hundreds of stretchers being built and the sound of the hammers. Of turning back to look past one of the many barricades I walked through to see part of one of the Towers lying across the road. Of the phalanx of fire trucks roaring down a strangley empty road (7th ave.? 8th?) in the twilight. Of being hosed down to avoid potential contaminants (though really, that many hours after, who really thinks that was useful?). Of seeing the parking lot with so many cars at 11pm when I got to my train station. Of crying in the shower when I got home.
One of my uncles told me that these memories would fade. It's not true. They don't fade, they just became something I don't think about that often. Because really, life goes on. I still feel sorrow at the horrible luck of the people who chose that day to go to the top and the people who were staying at the hotel, and for all the people who were there. I'm glad to be alive. Glad that last year my first day back was the 18th instead of my b-day. And I'm grateful to my friends.
Last week I stood on the corner of Liberty St. and Trinity where it becomes Church St. for the first time in 360 days and I thought all these things. To each their own way of mourning the dead.
I'm not all about excessive, weirdly manipulative, commercialized patriotism. It bothered me and still does. In some ways I feel it takes meaning away. I didn't just have a media fast this week, I've actively avoided most (note: I say most, but not all, because I've felt it healing to look at some things) news and stories about WTC and 9/11. Because in my head it's all too interwoven. The fear, the experiences, the snapshot moments. The last time I walked out of there, at 8:30am. Calling my parents, telling them that there was an attack but people wanted to believe it was an accident and that I was okay, but didn't know how to get home. I think of the horrible blackness outside the window, after feeling the collapse. I think of the several inches of ash (and what the ashes were) and paper, walking through what even at the time I thought of as a surreal sci-fi post-apocalyptic scene. Of the many buses that were commandeered to take away the wounded, the dead, the body parts. Of the hundreds of stretchers being built and the sound of the hammers. Of turning back to look past one of the many barricades I walked through to see part of one of the Towers lying across the road. Of the phalanx of fire trucks roaring down a strangley empty road (7th ave.? 8th?) in the twilight. Of being hosed down to avoid potential contaminants (though really, that many hours after, who really thinks that was useful?). Of seeing the parking lot with so many cars at 11pm when I got to my train station. Of crying in the shower when I got home.
One of my uncles told me that these memories would fade. It's not true. They don't fade, they just became something I don't think about that often. Because really, life goes on. I still feel sorrow at the horrible luck of the people who chose that day to go to the top and the people who were staying at the hotel, and for all the people who were there. I'm glad to be alive. Glad that last year my first day back was the 18th instead of my b-day. And I'm grateful to my friends.
Last week I stood on the corner of Liberty St. and Trinity where it becomes Church St. for the first time in 360 days and I thought all these things. To each their own way of mourning the dead.
