Quasi
an outlet for young writers
June 9, 2002
Volume 1, Issue 8
Better Late than Never
Quasi is woefully behind schedule this issue, and almost did not come out until the middle of the month. But it was decided that it was better out late as scheduled, than to miss a delivery. It's a matter of integrity and plain stubborness.
The only reason Quasi was able to come out at all this issue is because of contributions from readers who decided to write, so thanks to Hannah, Ryan, and other folks who have sent in their stuff.
The funny thing about Quasi is that its audience is small and very diverse. So it's known to the editor who is reading it, and the known audience is quite diverse--you the audience range all the way from devout Christians to those who profess no faith at all.
So deciding what goes in Quasi can sometimes be complicated. A concern is that if most of the writing is from one perspective, those of you from another perspective will tune out. And we do not want Quasi to simply be a preacher to the choir.
So while there will be pieces that express a clear profession of faith in Jesus Christ, we want to reiterate that those who do not believe in God are still welcome to read, and are indeed invited to read and express their own perspective.
It is unfortunate that expressions of religious faith have sometimes been communicated in a oppressive way, while at many other times, our culture has conditioned us to believe it is offensive and even wrong (irony of ironies) to state belief in an absolute truth that would exclude the validity of another system of thought.
It should not be so. To say someone is wrong is not to say their existence is wrong. To disagree with another is not to insult them. Too often we are told by others that this is the case, when in fact, to disagree with someone can often be the most caring thing you can do for them.
In this issue, Hannah Baker has crafted a short story for us, which we have installed in two parts--part two will appear in the next issue (which will be out in under a week).
Ryan VanOrsdel helps those of who know him understand a little bit about him in a poem he wrote, why so often when we see him walking around he looks as if he's just been hit upside the head with a baseball bat.
Mouthin' Off describes a book about twelve firefighters who died on September 11th.
We hope you enjoy your reading, and as always, please email with questions and comments.
...
The Souls of Juvenile Delinquents ? A Short Story (Part I)
By Hannah Baker
"Girls can't run as fast as boys because they have really big butts and big
something else!"
He gots to see if Niki knows what he means, despite her flat chest.
"Hey, ya know what I'm talkin' 'bout, uh huh?"
The two friends steal a look at the god awful school bus driver until he
slaps the stop sign against the bus's side. That means
go, it does not matter who's teasing whom. This is their game, their signal
to start racing home. The stop sign kicks back like an awkward flamingo leg,
and the kids jet off. James gains about a sidewalk square on her to have
room for his little demonstration. James waves his hands in front of
himself, gathering enough air for a chest. He chuckles, thinking of Dolly
Parton.
"Uh huh, I know."
Of course, she does not know from personal experience. Niki isn't even
pretty for a tomboy. Her hair, straight as bark, is chipped off so short
that she looks like she is wearing an acorn hat glued to her forehead,
plastered over her ears, and stuck to the back of her neck.
Just to vent, she adds: "You're so dumb, like you even know about us."
Nikki doesn't know about that woman stuff, herself, nor is she willing to
admit it. Not having a mom or sisters at home, and being somewhat of an
outcast at school (she never received a purple envelope to a Barbie
sleepover, for instance), she can only imagine from Mother Nature what
sexuality is. Her older brother's Playboy is fantasy.
She thinks, I guess if a half-crescent moon were kinda pillowy soft and
turned sideways, a girl could wrap it around her body, tying the two ends in
a knot. That would be real pretty on me. All I gotta do now is drag down the
moon and wear it! Why, then I'd drip with enough milk to feed a whole sky of
stars whose lips would dazzle with magical light. Not only would the stars
be satisfied, but all the children starving in China, too, slurping up the
moonlight as it pours over their rice fields where they lay awake dreaming.
At eleven years old, wearing a bra is nothing but Niki's illusion that she
is a woman, whatever that means.
"Look at you, girl, you got nothing, get a look at Katie! Oh my!"
Noticing her shame, he slips in a quick distraction: "But, you still can't
catch me, dumb ass girl!"
James ducks behind a cherry tree, the finishing mark, and cranes out his
neck like an idiotic dancer just to agravate Niki. Wrinkling his face with a
wide smile, he reminds Niki of a brain puppet she saw once in drama class,
since he's all head right now, hands crossed behind his back, no body but
the gnarly trunk.
"Shut up, man, I'll kill you. I don't have breasts, so I can run. Why you
so dumb? I hate you."
Wishing for breasts is probably not something I should admit to James.
"Girl, you got nothin' on me, nothin'! You just lost again, lost yesterday,
too, didn't you, Baby?"
James swings around the tree with one arm, extending the other in the air,
bopping his head, shaking out his song through his shoulders:
"I may not be number one, I'm not that bold! But, I'm second to the throne,
and my Daddy's gettin' old!"
"Aww, you're too much. See ya tomorrow, faggot."
Niki ropes her arm around his neck but he rips free and shoves her to the
ground hard, knocking the wind out of her. She's used to it--lying on an ant
hill, gasping, choking, wiping at the line of tears with a dirty hand in
embarrassment--from his strong arms. She'd get up right now and kick James's
dick if she were not so hung up on forces that sought to control her. If the
stars forget her wish, maybe it's because they don't wanna let her spirit
down. God doesn't stick his neck out for nobody who's not nice. Niki thinks
of killing James if he won't kiss her.
Then the girls at school would start paying some attention to me, even
think I was cool enough to sit with at lunch.
The really cool girls hate Niki either way. If she did get kissed before
they have their first kiss, they'd say she was a bad kisser because she
couldn't pass their kissing test. Not that she was even given the chance.
She didn't go to parties or hang out outside 7-11 after school to
participate in the test. The kissing test is to see whether you can unwrap a
Starburst in your mouth in less than ten seconds. And if Niki does not get
kissed first, well, the snobs still hate her for always hanging around
James, for being "one of the guys." Girls are mean to each other, and the
guys, well, they just could care less--which somehow makes the competition
between girls worse. They have to fight harder, gossip louder, flirt more to
grab all of the attention from boys.
Whether James is actually giving Niki attention is pretty debatable, and
the girls like to discuss such complexities at the lunch table. The
important thing, of course, is what James thinks. Nothing! He is not
thinking about Niki in any romantic way. He knows somehow, from a friend
maybe, that Niki has been telling people he is taking her to the school
dance. He never goes to parties like that because it's not like his aunt's
gonna pay for a new shirt or pair of pants, so what's the point of going?
But since he loves hip-hop with or without the Gingerale punch and parent
chaperones, he shows off his moves at the most random times, and secretly
wishes he could dance with Niki-- not that he'd admit that.
Niki is too much trouble, a different kind of trouble than the kind of
deep trouble teachers talk about in staff meetings. You can't really see it
the way you can spot boys ganging up on each other. But Niki is just as
oppressive and powerful as the bully, Chris. How she drains James with all
her bruises from her drunk dad and her sick molester brother. She always
wants all his attention when he just can't give it, as if he should tell her
she's pretty or something, basically, lie to her or pin a corsage on her
chest. The ridiculousness of it all. And, she can't return the favor, like
dance with him or race with him-- at his pace-- for real, like a guy. At
least with Chris, it was an eye for an eye, a fist for a fist. It was fair.
He could swing back. Hard.
Most of the time. Once, Chris had the advantage on him, waiting around the
corner for him. Two times James felt Chris' white, pale, bony knuckles smash
into his temple.
"What the...?"
James started to cry and backed his elbows into Chris's ribs. Chris tightened
his grasp around James's neck and drove him toward the woods, knocking his
head into an oak, causing blood to flow.
............................
I can't sleep. I wake up from another nightmare. I think I was there and I
didn't do anything, and the guilt of that thought rips my heart apart. I try
to convince myself I wouldn't stare in unbelief at Chris flinging James's
brains against the tree.
I think I would have protected James. If I was only there...
But I wasn't there. It happened during summer school, between the school
years the kids spent at Flower Hill Christian Daycare. So, why pretend I was
there saving James's life, salvaging Chris's future from jail, or being the
mother Niki never had?
Because I don't like myself, that I'm twenty. I wish I were a mom. I wish
I were an angel of light sent by God to change these kids. I wish I had a
degree in social work and a brilliant resume with years of experience with
juvenile delinquents. I wish I could prevent murder. I wish I were God.
Yet, the adequate eyes of God are there. In His eyes are more sorrow and
hatred over evil than ever filled any human eye with human tears and any
human mind with human nightmares. In his eyes are plans eternally etched,
not lesson plans or New Year's Resolutions, but things that are as if they
have already happened. Hope that is just that certain, that in charge.
God is there even as James, having totally lost the physical fight, takes a
stab at Chris on another level. He calls Chris's attention to his
ever-present, clutching, grabbing, fearful darkness. Pop! Like a coke can,
he opens up a world of sick, syrupy, fizzling frustration and anger with air
bubbles known to create intense, chemical, neurological, psychological
anger, to the point of killing, not just the desire, but the act.
James mumbles: "I know why he's mad. It's cuz his mom died."
...to be continued...
...
Slam This! Poet's Forum
Empty Head
by Ryan VanOrsdel
Take my body to the morgue,
It's lost a living brain.
Much more useful as a corpse,
Not for conversation.
There's more pollen in my head,
Than cells used for function.
If I stare long at your leg,
It's not from affection.
I'v got drunk glassy eyes now,
But I don't have a keg.
It was my grass allergies,
That blew off my fat head.
It took almost four hours,
for this poem without legs.
So blame my allergies,
If it just, straight up, stinks and doesn't make any sense.
...
Mouthin' Off
Jon Ward
Remembering the Men Who Died for Us
I want to recommend a book to you. It's called Firehouse. It is by David Halberstam, who is, quite simply, the man when it comes to writing. I haven't figured out what it is about Halberstam, but he's good.
Firehouse is a book about September 11th, which, amazingly, will be a year ago soon. I would recommend you read it before then, or even right around then, to remind yourself of that awful day that changed all of us forever.
The book is about one particular firehouse: Engine 40, Ladder 35, which is located on the upper west side of Manhattan.
The New York Fire Department lost 343 men on September 11th. Twelve of the men who died were from Engine 40, Ladder 35. Thirteen men on two trucks responded to the call to go fight the biggest fire any of could have comprehended that morning, and only one survived.
"September 11 was a special kind of hell for 40/35," writes Halberstam. "The aftershocks of the tragedy have persisted not just in the grief for the men who were lost, but also in the guilt among the survivors, who have continued to wonder not just why they lived, but whether it was wrong to have done so."
"There have been acceptable days, and there have been bad days, when the pain was almost unbearable."
Halberstam, who began the project for a magazine article in Vanity Fair, explores that pain, and the grief, thoroughly and humanly.
Frank McCourt, an author, writes on the inside jacket, "If you have tears, prepare to shed them."
The book is nicely presented, with simplicity and plainness. There is no hint of commercialistic vultureism in this publication, no sense that this book made it to the presses 48 hours earlier than another book with lots of pictures of rubble and blood, prompting a celebratory gathering of publishing executives who figure to profit handsomely.
There are two pictures on the front cover, one of of engine 40 leaving the firehouse, and another of two fire helmets. The simple title is printed neatly in red.
There are pictures of each of the twelve men from 40/35 who died that day on the back cover, with their names. And that's it. The rest of the picture is painted with words.
Firehouse introduces us to each of these men who died protecting, ultimately, each of us. It explains the culture of firemen, and of a firehouse, and gives background on the history of 40/35 and what kind of a house it was before 9/11.
Ultimately, though, this book will survive the test of time because it is a living testament to each of the men who died, and to their families. In under 200 pages, Halberstam poignantly describes each of the men, as well as their wives, girlfriends, children, and parents.
There is plenty to laugh at--firehouses and firemen are not tame, safe, or predictable. They are intensely masculine settings where powerful men spend lots of time idle and then go off to face death on a daily basis.
The interactions between them that Halberstam relates are funny and heartwarming. The way that you begin to understand the communal nature of a firehouse is also touching. One widow remembers how a dozen or so men came to help her husband work on his house, more than once, and were planning on coming again for more home improvement. That was an ordinary occurence.
"Firemen were family, and whoever needed help always got help," Halberstam writes of the widow's reminiscence.
There is much to cry over. Halberstam writes in his author's note that he loves to discover "the nobility of ordinary people." He brings that out, time and again, as he shows what it was like to know Bruce Gary and Captain Frank Callahan, and Michael Otten.
The fact is, these men were not ordinary people. They gave their lives for their country, and for us.
And yet they were. There lingers in the unseen margins of each page the unspoken fact that each of these men had their own troubles, and their imperfections. But to a man, they spoke of their pride in their profession, in doing something that was "good" and "right" and "worthwhile."
40/35 is not destroyed, or depopulated. There were about fifty men at the house until the twelve rode off to death, and their spots are already filled with others--there is a long waiting list to become a fireman in New York, which existed long before 9/11 and is no doubt miles longer now.
You read Firehouse, however, and you realize that the deaths of these twelve men tore a large hole in the lives of many people who knew them. Then you multiply that hole a few dozen times, and you get a picture of the vacancy created in New York. Nearly 3,000 people died that day, and the city's scars are still healing.
Love those around you, this book hints. Your family, your friends, love them, for they are the people in the mug shots on the back of the book: ordinary, troubled, hopeful, and in some way, heroic. Love them, it says, for you never know how long you will have them for.
May our prayers be with the city and people of New York, and God bless America.
...
an outlet for young writers
June 9, 2002
Volume 1, Issue 8
Better Late than Never
Quasi is woefully behind schedule this issue, and almost did not come out until the middle of the month. But it was decided that it was better out late as scheduled, than to miss a delivery. It's a matter of integrity and plain stubborness.
The only reason Quasi was able to come out at all this issue is because of contributions from readers who decided to write, so thanks to Hannah, Ryan, and other folks who have sent in their stuff.
The funny thing about Quasi is that its audience is small and very diverse. So it's known to the editor who is reading it, and the known audience is quite diverse--you the audience range all the way from devout Christians to those who profess no faith at all.
So deciding what goes in Quasi can sometimes be complicated. A concern is that if most of the writing is from one perspective, those of you from another perspective will tune out. And we do not want Quasi to simply be a preacher to the choir.
So while there will be pieces that express a clear profession of faith in Jesus Christ, we want to reiterate that those who do not believe in God are still welcome to read, and are indeed invited to read and express their own perspective.
It is unfortunate that expressions of religious faith have sometimes been communicated in a oppressive way, while at many other times, our culture has conditioned us to believe it is offensive and even wrong (irony of ironies) to state belief in an absolute truth that would exclude the validity of another system of thought.
It should not be so. To say someone is wrong is not to say their existence is wrong. To disagree with another is not to insult them. Too often we are told by others that this is the case, when in fact, to disagree with someone can often be the most caring thing you can do for them.
In this issue, Hannah Baker has crafted a short story for us, which we have installed in two parts--part two will appear in the next issue (which will be out in under a week).
Ryan VanOrsdel helps those of who know him understand a little bit about him in a poem he wrote, why so often when we see him walking around he looks as if he's just been hit upside the head with a baseball bat.
Mouthin' Off describes a book about twelve firefighters who died on September 11th.
We hope you enjoy your reading, and as always, please email with questions and comments.
...
The Souls of Juvenile Delinquents ? A Short Story (Part I)
By Hannah Baker
"Girls can't run as fast as boys because they have really big butts and big
something else!"
He gots to see if Niki knows what he means, despite her flat chest.
"Hey, ya know what I'm talkin' 'bout, uh huh?"
The two friends steal a look at the god awful school bus driver until he
slaps the stop sign against the bus's side. That means
go, it does not matter who's teasing whom. This is their game, their signal
to start racing home. The stop sign kicks back like an awkward flamingo leg,
and the kids jet off. James gains about a sidewalk square on her to have
room for his little demonstration. James waves his hands in front of
himself, gathering enough air for a chest. He chuckles, thinking of Dolly
Parton.
"Uh huh, I know."
Of course, she does not know from personal experience. Niki isn't even
pretty for a tomboy. Her hair, straight as bark, is chipped off so short
that she looks like she is wearing an acorn hat glued to her forehead,
plastered over her ears, and stuck to the back of her neck.
Just to vent, she adds: "You're so dumb, like you even know about us."
Nikki doesn't know about that woman stuff, herself, nor is she willing to
admit it. Not having a mom or sisters at home, and being somewhat of an
outcast at school (she never received a purple envelope to a Barbie
sleepover, for instance), she can only imagine from Mother Nature what
sexuality is. Her older brother's Playboy is fantasy.
She thinks, I guess if a half-crescent moon were kinda pillowy soft and
turned sideways, a girl could wrap it around her body, tying the two ends in
a knot. That would be real pretty on me. All I gotta do now is drag down the
moon and wear it! Why, then I'd drip with enough milk to feed a whole sky of
stars whose lips would dazzle with magical light. Not only would the stars
be satisfied, but all the children starving in China, too, slurping up the
moonlight as it pours over their rice fields where they lay awake dreaming.
At eleven years old, wearing a bra is nothing but Niki's illusion that she
is a woman, whatever that means.
"Look at you, girl, you got nothing, get a look at Katie! Oh my!"
Noticing her shame, he slips in a quick distraction: "But, you still can't
catch me, dumb ass girl!"
James ducks behind a cherry tree, the finishing mark, and cranes out his
neck like an idiotic dancer just to agravate Niki. Wrinkling his face with a
wide smile, he reminds Niki of a brain puppet she saw once in drama class,
since he's all head right now, hands crossed behind his back, no body but
the gnarly trunk.
"Shut up, man, I'll kill you. I don't have breasts, so I can run. Why you
so dumb? I hate you."
Wishing for breasts is probably not something I should admit to James.
"Girl, you got nothin' on me, nothin'! You just lost again, lost yesterday,
too, didn't you, Baby?"
James swings around the tree with one arm, extending the other in the air,
bopping his head, shaking out his song through his shoulders:
"I may not be number one, I'm not that bold! But, I'm second to the throne,
and my Daddy's gettin' old!"
"Aww, you're too much. See ya tomorrow, faggot."
Niki ropes her arm around his neck but he rips free and shoves her to the
ground hard, knocking the wind out of her. She's used to it--lying on an ant
hill, gasping, choking, wiping at the line of tears with a dirty hand in
embarrassment--from his strong arms. She'd get up right now and kick James's
dick if she were not so hung up on forces that sought to control her. If the
stars forget her wish, maybe it's because they don't wanna let her spirit
down. God doesn't stick his neck out for nobody who's not nice. Niki thinks
of killing James if he won't kiss her.
Then the girls at school would start paying some attention to me, even
think I was cool enough to sit with at lunch.
The really cool girls hate Niki either way. If she did get kissed before
they have their first kiss, they'd say she was a bad kisser because she
couldn't pass their kissing test. Not that she was even given the chance.
She didn't go to parties or hang out outside 7-11 after school to
participate in the test. The kissing test is to see whether you can unwrap a
Starburst in your mouth in less than ten seconds. And if Niki does not get
kissed first, well, the snobs still hate her for always hanging around
James, for being "one of the guys." Girls are mean to each other, and the
guys, well, they just could care less--which somehow makes the competition
between girls worse. They have to fight harder, gossip louder, flirt more to
grab all of the attention from boys.
Whether James is actually giving Niki attention is pretty debatable, and
the girls like to discuss such complexities at the lunch table. The
important thing, of course, is what James thinks. Nothing! He is not
thinking about Niki in any romantic way. He knows somehow, from a friend
maybe, that Niki has been telling people he is taking her to the school
dance. He never goes to parties like that because it's not like his aunt's
gonna pay for a new shirt or pair of pants, so what's the point of going?
But since he loves hip-hop with or without the Gingerale punch and parent
chaperones, he shows off his moves at the most random times, and secretly
wishes he could dance with Niki-- not that he'd admit that.
Niki is too much trouble, a different kind of trouble than the kind of
deep trouble teachers talk about in staff meetings. You can't really see it
the way you can spot boys ganging up on each other. But Niki is just as
oppressive and powerful as the bully, Chris. How she drains James with all
her bruises from her drunk dad and her sick molester brother. She always
wants all his attention when he just can't give it, as if he should tell her
she's pretty or something, basically, lie to her or pin a corsage on her
chest. The ridiculousness of it all. And, she can't return the favor, like
dance with him or race with him-- at his pace-- for real, like a guy. At
least with Chris, it was an eye for an eye, a fist for a fist. It was fair.
He could swing back. Hard.
Most of the time. Once, Chris had the advantage on him, waiting around the
corner for him. Two times James felt Chris' white, pale, bony knuckles smash
into his temple.
"What the...?"
James started to cry and backed his elbows into Chris's ribs. Chris tightened
his grasp around James's neck and drove him toward the woods, knocking his
head into an oak, causing blood to flow.
............................
I can't sleep. I wake up from another nightmare. I think I was there and I
didn't do anything, and the guilt of that thought rips my heart apart. I try
to convince myself I wouldn't stare in unbelief at Chris flinging James's
brains against the tree.
I think I would have protected James. If I was only there...
But I wasn't there. It happened during summer school, between the school
years the kids spent at Flower Hill Christian Daycare. So, why pretend I was
there saving James's life, salvaging Chris's future from jail, or being the
mother Niki never had?
Because I don't like myself, that I'm twenty. I wish I were a mom. I wish
I were an angel of light sent by God to change these kids. I wish I had a
degree in social work and a brilliant resume with years of experience with
juvenile delinquents. I wish I could prevent murder. I wish I were God.
Yet, the adequate eyes of God are there. In His eyes are more sorrow and
hatred over evil than ever filled any human eye with human tears and any
human mind with human nightmares. In his eyes are plans eternally etched,
not lesson plans or New Year's Resolutions, but things that are as if they
have already happened. Hope that is just that certain, that in charge.
God is there even as James, having totally lost the physical fight, takes a
stab at Chris on another level. He calls Chris's attention to his
ever-present, clutching, grabbing, fearful darkness. Pop! Like a coke can,
he opens up a world of sick, syrupy, fizzling frustration and anger with air
bubbles known to create intense, chemical, neurological, psychological
anger, to the point of killing, not just the desire, but the act.
James mumbles: "I know why he's mad. It's cuz his mom died."
...to be continued...
...
Slam This! Poet's Forum
Empty Head
by Ryan VanOrsdel
Take my body to the morgue,
It's lost a living brain.
Much more useful as a corpse,
Not for conversation.
There's more pollen in my head,
Than cells used for function.
If I stare long at your leg,
It's not from affection.
I'v got drunk glassy eyes now,
But I don't have a keg.
It was my grass allergies,
That blew off my fat head.
It took almost four hours,
for this poem without legs.
So blame my allergies,
If it just, straight up, stinks and doesn't make any sense.
...
Mouthin' Off
Jon Ward
Remembering the Men Who Died for Us
I want to recommend a book to you. It's called Firehouse. It is by David Halberstam, who is, quite simply, the man when it comes to writing. I haven't figured out what it is about Halberstam, but he's good.
Firehouse is a book about September 11th, which, amazingly, will be a year ago soon. I would recommend you read it before then, or even right around then, to remind yourself of that awful day that changed all of us forever.
The book is about one particular firehouse: Engine 40, Ladder 35, which is located on the upper west side of Manhattan.
The New York Fire Department lost 343 men on September 11th. Twelve of the men who died were from Engine 40, Ladder 35. Thirteen men on two trucks responded to the call to go fight the biggest fire any of could have comprehended that morning, and only one survived.
"September 11 was a special kind of hell for 40/35," writes Halberstam. "The aftershocks of the tragedy have persisted not just in the grief for the men who were lost, but also in the guilt among the survivors, who have continued to wonder not just why they lived, but whether it was wrong to have done so."
"There have been acceptable days, and there have been bad days, when the pain was almost unbearable."
Halberstam, who began the project for a magazine article in Vanity Fair, explores that pain, and the grief, thoroughly and humanly.
Frank McCourt, an author, writes on the inside jacket, "If you have tears, prepare to shed them."
The book is nicely presented, with simplicity and plainness. There is no hint of commercialistic vultureism in this publication, no sense that this book made it to the presses 48 hours earlier than another book with lots of pictures of rubble and blood, prompting a celebratory gathering of publishing executives who figure to profit handsomely.
There are two pictures on the front cover, one of of engine 40 leaving the firehouse, and another of two fire helmets. The simple title is printed neatly in red.
There are pictures of each of the twelve men from 40/35 who died that day on the back cover, with their names. And that's it. The rest of the picture is painted with words.
Firehouse introduces us to each of these men who died protecting, ultimately, each of us. It explains the culture of firemen, and of a firehouse, and gives background on the history of 40/35 and what kind of a house it was before 9/11.
Ultimately, though, this book will survive the test of time because it is a living testament to each of the men who died, and to their families. In under 200 pages, Halberstam poignantly describes each of the men, as well as their wives, girlfriends, children, and parents.
There is plenty to laugh at--firehouses and firemen are not tame, safe, or predictable. They are intensely masculine settings where powerful men spend lots of time idle and then go off to face death on a daily basis.
The interactions between them that Halberstam relates are funny and heartwarming. The way that you begin to understand the communal nature of a firehouse is also touching. One widow remembers how a dozen or so men came to help her husband work on his house, more than once, and were planning on coming again for more home improvement. That was an ordinary occurence.
"Firemen were family, and whoever needed help always got help," Halberstam writes of the widow's reminiscence.
There is much to cry over. Halberstam writes in his author's note that he loves to discover "the nobility of ordinary people." He brings that out, time and again, as he shows what it was like to know Bruce Gary and Captain Frank Callahan, and Michael Otten.
The fact is, these men were not ordinary people. They gave their lives for their country, and for us.
And yet they were. There lingers in the unseen margins of each page the unspoken fact that each of these men had their own troubles, and their imperfections. But to a man, they spoke of their pride in their profession, in doing something that was "good" and "right" and "worthwhile."
40/35 is not destroyed, or depopulated. There were about fifty men at the house until the twelve rode off to death, and their spots are already filled with others--there is a long waiting list to become a fireman in New York, which existed long before 9/11 and is no doubt miles longer now.
You read Firehouse, however, and you realize that the deaths of these twelve men tore a large hole in the lives of many people who knew them. Then you multiply that hole a few dozen times, and you get a picture of the vacancy created in New York. Nearly 3,000 people died that day, and the city's scars are still healing.
Love those around you, this book hints. Your family, your friends, love them, for they are the people in the mug shots on the back of the book: ordinary, troubled, hopeful, and in some way, heroic. Love them, it says, for you never know how long you will have them for.
May our prayers be with the city and people of New York, and God bless America.
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posted by Jon at
12:32 PM
