9/11 Redux
9.12.21
How does one cope with a terrorist act? The emotions are on high alert. I am upset, teary, angry. Everybody wants to pitch in, lend a hand, give support. There are flowers and memorials on the streets around trees, throughout the subway system. Holland sends us a million tulip bulbs. On the streets, in oudoor cafés, everyone stops when a fire engine goes by and gives its firemen heartfelt hand of applause. I am now keenly aware and appreciative of the service that police and fire men and women render to us risking their lives every day because of the great tragedy they endured.
9.16.01
Let's begin at the beginning. For several weeks I have had free floating anxiety, no specific cause, nothing in my life upsetting me, and then on the infamous Tuesday, the 11th, my dream tells me the cause of my anxiety is going to be exposed and it will be costly, but that we would come out of it wiser, and more merciful. I turned on the radio and heard about the airplane crashes in the twin towers of the WTC. Shock, and then the Pentagon! I sit most of that day listening to my radio trying to understand what’s happening. We are told all air traffic is halted in the country, yet there are still planes roaring above. Military jet fighters, nevertheless, still frightening. I get on the internet hoping to find more information and have an email from a friend in Brooklyn. We communicate back and forth throughout the day describing what is happening in each other's neighborhood. She tells me of the many, many people crossing the ‘Brooklyn Bridge. In the middle of the day the street is crowded in my region with people carrying briefcases, obviously coming from the financial district. The trains have all stopped; I don't know how they’ve made it home. [They walked all the way from Wall Street past my own street on 87th.] Mayor Giuliani who is a true hero throughout this ordeal commends the people of NY for behaving purposefully and maintaining composure when getting out of the line of fire. He reassures us that everything is being done to insure our safety. I leave my computer on all day to keep open a line of communication. One-eight-hundred telephone numbers are not working, I’m continually losing my internet connection. A number of radio and TV stations have been knocked off the air and haven't been able to come back on yet.
The news all day keeps getting worse and worse, hundreds of people are seen jumping off the towers driven off by the intense heat. Police and fire workers who have gone to rescue others in the tower are killed when the building collapses on them. And the horror stories, Mayor Giuliani has lost an officer for whom he had thrown a party honoring him at Gracie Mansion just the week before; a man in the tower knowing he is going to die momentarily calls his wife to tell her he loves her and the children, his last thoughts being of them. All day I sit and listen to these sad stories, numb. By evening, I, a vegetarian, decide to go and get myself a steak at the market. I feel I need that extra protein. It’s rush hour, but there are no cars in the street, and the few people are all silent and dazed. Cadets from the police academy are directing whatever traffic there is. Inside the supermarket, silence. People stand in line with their purchases, numb, grim. This is what it is like for citizens experiencing war within their borders.
In the morning, I go out to get the NY Times and the Post. I would sit and have my coffee, I tell myself, and read the papers. Then start my day slowly. There are no papers till later because the trucks can't get through to deliver them. I turn on my computer and find that my hard drive has finally given up the fight. It’s dead. I will have to see about retrieving the data in it, if possible. Yesterday throughout the crisis the man who has been harassing me had again taken his post across the street. I paid him no heed. He is still there this morning. I decide to take his picture and see about identifying him and getting a restraining order against him. He sees what I am doing and puts his hands to his face. I walk right up to him, furious, kick him in the shins all the while screaming to this deaf mute who cannot hear me -- You're not going to terrorize me you Son of a Bitch! I get a really good shot of him, a stunned look on his face. His buddy comes and rings my doorbell several times after and rips the business card holder off the wall next to my door. I am leaving with my computer and meet an officer outside. He, on another detail, is going to the station and tells me he will report it. I don't know what I will come home to.
The news at the repair shop is grim. All the applications on my hard drive will not work on the new computer. Not only will I have the sizable expense of the new machine, I will need a whole slew of products to get back in business. The reason I am late posting this entry is because as I write this I don't have the application yet to convert the document to html-speak, nor the application Fetch which then deposits the created documents on the internet. I can't even connect my printer to my new G4 because I need a special connecter cable. The technician told me it would take at least a week before they would be able to retrieve whatever they can from my old computer to deposit in the new one. I travel the trains to get down there, not many on board, a certain fragility in the people, still very quiet. The routes are a mess, no trains are going below 14th Street. I have to make several changes to get to my destination. Home, I find it still in one piece and the man is gone. I was exhausted when I got up that morning, exhausted all day, big headache, feeling very vulnerable and sad. And still the stories of the horror and the dying continue. The old monitor stands on my desk along with the exterior modem. A whole week without my computer!
By Thursday we are starting to run out of food in the markets, most of the milk is gone except for the gallon jugs of whole milk, meat supplies are dwindling, yes, I am still on a high protein diet. The wind has changed direction and I am breathing and smelling the horrible stench of pulverized bodies, smoke and burned rubble. I am now beginning to shut my radio off and put on music, Telemann, Vivaldi and even French songs of my childhood, Edith Piaf, Jacques Brell. Around 6 in the evening, I go out and pass the Catholic Church with its open doors and people streaming in. I pause for a moment, but continue on to my church, the park. Although part of it is cordoned off around Gracie Mansion and there are some police, the rest of it is open. Mothers with children have come out, people are walking their dogs, young men shooting baskets. A certain intensity, people look directly at you, not common in NYC, but we are coming back to life. Back home, I feel a release and the tears come. Friday morning I’m awakened by the repair shop clerk. They were able to retrieve all of my files from the old computer and install it in the new one. I may come down and pick it up. It’s a day in which I spend a lot of money, and for which I will have to economize for a long time. The trains are packed on the way down to the shop, jam packed. At bus stops and the train stations are computer printed pictures of men mostly, young, twenties and early thirties, with their names, the clothes they were wearing, identifying material they were carrying and a message from the wife, sweetheart or parent asking for any information. There is no information, they have all died, but the posters are memorial to our lost neighbors. Another sign tells of the 6 firefighters in my district that have been killed, and then the police officers. People stop and look, there is nothing we can do but look into these innocent faces and know the suffering their families are undergoing. These signs are grim, but important. Real people have died, not just numbers.
On the #6 packed in like sardines, I hang on a middle pole with others. A woman across from me unfurls her NY Times in all our faces. I tap the newspaper and say, Get real, lady. She responds by remarking, I guess this disaster has had no effect on you! You cannot imagine the anger I felt at that moment. I could easily have killed the selfish woman who is using the tragedy to score points on the subway. I want to destroy her. The anger is finally kicking in. Yet I cannot help but express concern for this anger and flag waving that we are experiencing. I cannot vent my anger at the violation we have suffered on a self involved matron who hasn't a clue in life. The same is true on a larger level. WE ARE NOT AT WAR. War is something that occurs between nations. It was a terrorist attack, very sophisticated and long planned by individuals, not countries. [Little did I know.] The broadcast and print media keep tying this attack to the troubles between the Palestinians and the Israelis. They will have to find their own solutions. We cannot resolve their problems. Our job is to find the people who were responsible for the terrorist attacks against us and bring them to justice. America is founded on laws, and they must be respected. There is a lot of talk of getting Osama bin Laden, first we need to find out if he is tied to this attack. The situation in the Middleast is a Vietnam. Palestinian children and adults, like the Vietnamese, have no hope for a better life and so are willing to sacrifice themselves for the future of their people. This ragtag bunch of barefooted refugee children we see dancing with glee in the media is not our enemy. [This, I later learn later from FAIR, the media watchdog were pictures unrelated to 9/11 and dredged up for the occasion.] Let us behave in accordance with our own and also international laws in pursuing justice.
Postscript: As I post this journal entry, the news have gotten progressively more dire concerning the fate of Afghanistan. That country is not responsible for the attacks on America, and its people should not be made to suffer as we have. The US government encourages terrorism by attacking weak, powerless countries. How else can oppressed people be heard? Terrorism will end when the US government behaves in a just and lawful manner towards other countries, be they part of the G 8, or the third world.
9.29.01
How am I doing since the attack? Ok, not bad. Sometimes it gets hard. For instance, last Saturday in the apartment all day working on one thing, then another. At nine in the evening I decide to get out for a walk. Down the street in the park, I encounter a truck with an officer blocking one of the lanes leading to Gracie Mansion. There is just he and I in the dark night. Normally, I would just pass him by with a slightly uncomfortable feeling. Not this time, I call out, Good evening, Officer, as he watches me approach. How you doing? he responds. You have a good night, I tell him as I walk off thinking, He's going to spend most of this Saturday night sitting alone in the truck.
Walking by the East River, I feel vulnerable and teary again after I thought I was moving beyond this. Is this a bad thing? I don't know if you remember Spiro Agnew? He was Richard Nixon's vice president from 1969 to 1973. He never finished his term because he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, something most present politicians do with impunity. Yet there was something about Ole Spiro. The press took a liking to him for his outrageous and even delightful sound bytes. He's the man who coined the phrase, Nattering Nabobs of Negativity when speaking about the Vietnam war protesters. He once participated in a debate on TV, a famous show with a big name moderator. His opponent was Abbie Hoffman.
It was like seating Jerry Falwell next to Hugh Hefner at the dinner table, their viewpoints and philosophies couldn't be further apart. Well, they had an excellent discussion. And it was quite interesting and informative. Asked to explain his attitude, Mr. Agnew replied, You have to start by respecting the other fellow if any discussion is to ensue. It doesn't mean you agree with him. You don't, that's why you're having the debate! Out of the mouths of babes.
It is good to understand that the policeman who I've often thought of in absolute terms as someone with a gun who stands above the law, is also the person who is willing to risk his life on my behalf. This sadness, this vulnerability is the product of re-awakening feelings and sensitivity to others, and as Spiro understood, respect, so that conversation is possible.
There are positive things to be gained from this horrible violation we have suffered. And this is what I take from the disaster. I will keep the vulnerable heart. People in and out of government are behaving and speaking outrageously during these dark, scary times. We are in a period of the reading of the will after the death of a family member when everybody's greed and hidden agendas are brought to light, and profit is to be made from this loss. Yes, I am diametrically opposed to everything George W. Bush believes, proposes or initiates, but I also understand that he is a man trying to do the very best he can at a time of great adversity, and although I may oppose him I must not hate him.
10.6.0
Oh dear! I just heard about the attack. My heart goes out to the Afghan people and my prayers are with them. Having now been on the other side of such an attack, albeit on a much smaller scale, I can appreciate the fear and terror gripping the poor maligned Afghanistan civilians. Yet there is fairly good evidence that Bin Laden's Al Qaeda planned and executed the attacks against America and the Taliban won't cooperate with us. Were the situation reversed, and such an attack occurred on Afghanistan from a private citizen on our shores, he would be quickly rounded up. [No proof was ever uncovered that Bin Laden was responsible for 9/11.]
I would not let anyone get away with an attack on my person, regardless of whether I had done something to provoke it. One draws a line in the sand; You cross this boundary at your peril. One's counterattack must be strong and forceful for the message to be heard; Do not mess with me.
There is a part of us that so yearns for peace. We look at history's carnage and are sickened. Not us, we say. We're enlightened. President Bush, Tony Blair and the Taliban all invoke God. The Christians, the Muslims, The Jews, the Fundamentalists, etc., all seem to have Him on their side. I am reminded of the anti-war song by the Neville Brothers, "With God on Our Side." Was God on Judas' side when he betrayed Jesus? they ask. This great patriarchal deity in the heavens has created a lot of pain and suffering for his disciples.
Just this weekend an event occurred to me. Someone crossed the line and was hurtful. Did I think before I acted to correct the situation how the other person or even the surrounding people would be harmed by it? Not for a moment. The only thing that occurred to me was that I had been mistreated, disrespected. I wanted vengeance, and once I got it, Take that, you bitch! I gloated. I did have some misgivings before I acted, but they had nothing to do with the other person. Rather, I questioned whether I was justified in my protest, and if I would be supported in my action. Like Che Guevara, I believe that in a revolution one either wins or dies. I was willing to take the consequences if there was to be a lack of support and I acted to insure that the incident would not be repeated.
I suffered anxiety that whole day before I acted. Aggression is not an easy thing to summon in oneself. My thoughts are with the military men and women who are on their way to the Middleast, and what a difficult time this must be for them and their families. In many ways my situation had similar components to the WTC attack and our response to it. The person I dealt with was my subordinate (not my choice, hers) and there was an element in her action of offsetting that power dynamics. I have a self confidence, a self assurance that grates on some people. How dare I be contented when they are not. There is nothing I can do about that.
This summer when the homeless couple was living on the sidewalk across the street I had to resolve for myself the disparity of our circumstances. They were in my face everyday. I offered them food and cooling drinks when I could, but it resolved nothing. As I enjoyed life in my air conditioned, charming apartment, an extensive library of music at my command, good and plentiful food, they were sprawled out on the sundrenched sidewalk with the heat index at 100 degrees and above. Life is unfair.
I am not excusing the US government, they have behaved arrogantly and have trampled third world countries in their quest for power, and we are paying the price for that. Yet I feel a certain part of our troubles are unavoidable because of the power dynamics of our situation. There will always be someone trying to knock us off our perch.
Saturday 10/13,
What a weekend! Friday afternoon after I wrap up work for the week, lovely short sleeved, sunny day, I take a long leisurely shower then choose a nice outfit to wear, make myself up, the jewelry, the earrings and I'm off. My plan for this weekend is to go check out the Signac paintings at the Met on Saturday and brunch with my group on Sunday.
I head first to the library where I pick up a biography of Crazy Horse that's being held for me. I'm looking forward to reading it, then over to the bank to make my deposit. Afterward, I stroll over to Eli's to pick up a baguette and that's when I see it; on the cover of the Daily News, FBI Warns of Eminent Attack. And on the Post, Red Alert and a big bull's-eye. Instantly, my mood crashes. What the hell is this? Why are they telling me this? If it's known that an attack is about to happen, how is it suppose to occur? Are we going to be bombed? Biological attack? What am I supposed to do about this warning, go home, tape the windows and doors to keep out the poisonous fumes and hide under the bed?
I choose a couple of art books and head for the café at Barnes & Nobles, still upset about the headlines. A woman sits at a table, working on her computer her feet up on another chair. What is this? Not enough chairs for people to sit in and this bitch uses one as a foot stool? I walk up to her and point, the chair. She removes her feet wordlessly. I drag the chair to another table where a man sits by himself. This your stuff? I motion to the books and magazines sprawled all over the table. He nods and picks everything up and deposits it on the floor. Jesus, what am I doing, I think, snapping at people and creating bad energy?
An uncomfortable minute and then, Thank you. He nods. After he's gone, I notice that he's left his newspaper behind. It's the Red Alert bull's-eye Post. I bring it over to the trash can.
At the Met the following day, it occurs to me when looking at Signac's pointillist paintings that we are up close to all the little dots of our present situation. We haven't stepped back far enough to make out what the picture is all about. He started his career as an impressionist until he met Seurat and then his style gradually evolved. It's quite interesting to see his first paintings which pulse with emotional coloring, hanging next to the progressively more formal pointillist works. The characters and scenes lose their substantiality and become symbolic objects poised on a piece of canvass. A lot of my stories start with a kernel of an actual event, a real person, but as the story unfolds I've traveled so far from the initial facts that it becomes like a Signac pointillist painting. The initial event whether it is the WTC attack or the kernel of a story is not the half of it. One has to look at the whole picture and the whole picture is too complex to be rendered by what really happened. Asking a writer if his work is autobiographical is a silly question. That's not what it's all about. The only people who are telling the truth are story tellers, the rest is lies. We are incapable of telling the truth because we are physiologically incapable of even perceiving it with the linearity of our thought patterns and our method of digesting information. Artists play with "facts" and in that way often stumble on a truth.
My friends and I have long, soulful conversations that range all over the "facts" and have no clear purpose or direction other than to vent, to try and understand, to finally see the truth of the 9/11. Stepping back and letting the soul do its work of processing the recent events is about all that can be done at this time. It's not always easy.
The favorite post this month has been Simulation Theory