Quasi
an outlet for young writers
September 10, 2002
Volume 1, Issue 13
September 11
I was standing on the roof of New York City Fire Station 1010, a three story building about 100 feet from the edge of the pit at Ground Zero. It was January 26, 2002, more than four months after the collapse after the Twin Towers. On the roof with me was a middle-aged woman who had come from New Jersey in the week after the attack to help, who spent much of her time driving an all terrain vehicle around the perimeter of the site, picking up and delivering supplies.
Also there was a Salvation Army captain, who was there from the Midwest for a two-week shift to oversee the SAs food and counseling operation.
To our left was the Bankers & Trust Building, a very tall structure with black netting across its face and a large American flag hung from its peak. To our right was St. Peter's Cathedral, which amazingly withstood the impact of the falling buildings and became a sanctuary for the recovery and cleanup workers.
And in front of us was the gaping, gigantic hole, the pit. One woman aptly said, "It was so big that I couldn't comprehend it, I couldn't take it in."
In a few brief moments I tried to take in as much as I could, trying to process not only the physical and geological meaning of the sight, but also its deep historical, cultural and spiritual significance.
The workers had reduced a three story pile of twisted steel beams, concrete and fire to a hole the size of several city blocks by that time. Even at cold, early morning hour, the scene was ablaze with light, run by steadily humming generators, and the work of cleaning up America's worst nightmare by ordinary, heroic Americans went busily on.
It was as we unwillingly turned to go, tearing our eyes away, that the Salvation Army captain said something to the ATV driver. It was something to the effect of, "We will never forget those who died here that day," and he choked up as he said it.
I stood by watching, and said and did nothing in response. I only looked back once more at the rubble, and in that moment, I did not know whether that man meant what he said or not.
From the very first few days after the September 11 attacks, I observed a strong emotional response from people across the country. Granted, most of my observations were taken in as I sat in front of my TV, but I think that America wore its heart on its sleeve for much of that week.
There was certainly, however, in my opinion, a mixture of genuine and ungenuine emotional displays taking place as events unfolded. Those that seemed most genuine were almost always connected with the loss of a loved one, by a family member or close friend trying his or her very best to restrain themselves, but absolutely crushed by their tragic grief.
I also saw many people respond to those kinds of people in genuine ways--in heartfelt empathy, pity, sorrow, and even anger, grieving with those who grieve.
But then I thought I saw, to no surprise of mine, some people precipitating emotion, pursuing it, generating it, almost fabricating it, or maybe faking the emotions they saw everyone around them experiencing.
It is in the behavior of the SA captain that this second group may have been typified. I do not know what was in their motivations. For the SA captain, if he did engineer the moment, I understand his actions. In the face of something that one knows with one's mind is truly momentous, one knows that there should be some emotional response.
In the absence of such a response, perhaps many drew upon themselves to manufacture such a display in the days following the terrorist attacks.
Certainly such a phenomenon is taking place now, as we stand one year--hundreds of days and thousands of hours and countless events--removed from that day.
It is hard to reengage with the emotions we may have truly felt on September 11 and in the following weeks. It is hard to touch them, get reacquainted with them. After all, in many ways, we have moved on. We have not forgotten, but we have grown distant.
Now, with memorials and remembrances provoking much emotional and grave showmanship, I sense some people reacting in a negative way to any thought of reminiscence or remembrance with emotion.
But we cannot forget both the awful events of that day, and what it wrought in our country. There is so much to be learned from 9/11. It teaches us that we cannot grow proud, either in our national outlook or in our spirits, and it taught us that we are vulnerable, breakable creatures in need. It opened our eyes for a few moments, and it does us good to return and stand in the place where for a brief time we stood, fixed and immobile, heavy hearted and focused, humbled, desperate.
I remember, and will always remember, how I learned that the world would never be the same.
I was unemployed and a little sick, so I was sleeping at 9:00 a.m. on Tuesday. September 11. I was woken by the TV of all things. It was turned up so loud that it woke me up a floor below. I came out of unconsciousness, heard the TV, and knew immediately that something was up.
I was totally unprepared for what I was about to see, however. Maybe someone had been assasinated, I thought as I stumbled upstairs. I lurched into the living room, my eyes still half shut and squinting from the morning sun, and wiped the sleep from my eyes as the replay showed the second plane, which had just hit.
My eyes blinked groggily as it was replayed over and over, and after a couple moments, it sunk in. A plane had hit the World Trade Center. Not just one plane. Two. ...That's not an accident. Oh God.
I watched TV for two days straight. I watched it all day that day, pausing only to eat and to go outside to look up at the sky as fighter planes screeched overhead. I went to bed, shell shocked. I woke up the next morning around 8, got out of bed, and walked to the next room, turned the TV on, and watched it all day, grieving, mourning, processing.
I confess I did not know exactly what to feel. I felt overwhelmed more than anything else, partly with the wide range of emotions that were before me. Anger? There was some of that, but I was not seething. Sadness? Certainly, but I also felt detached in some odd way. Patriotism? I thought of joining the armed forces with a kind of determined dread. Fear? Absolutely.
Most inspiring to me was the hope and courage I saw displayed by those who had lost loved ones, by the ordinary people who rushed to help, and by our nation's leaders.
The true good which undeniably came out of such tragedy made the following days so bittersweet. It was John Adams who said, "What horrid creatures we men are, that we cannot be virtuous without murdering one another."
The unity of our country, the massive turning to God for help and hope, the wide outpourings of support from other countries, and strangers helping strangers--all those things lifted my spirits.
But after time, as 9/11 receded in our memories, this atmosphere faded.
Not so, however, in New York.
Or at least, not so fast. When I went to visit my brother there in late January, there was something about that city that absolutely captured me.
There was a freshness to the city, an air of renewal, fragility, and love that invigorated me and was so exciting.
It was not until last week that I finally realized what was at the bottom of all that. It was humility. New York, the proudest city on the face of the earth, had been humbled.
They had not, and have not, lost any of their spunk. They have, however, regained an appreciation for caring for people, especially those in need. Instead of fearing and hating one another, they began to build each other up.
The Bible says that there is "a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance" (Ecc. 3:4).
Much of the past year has been, appropriately, about learning to laugh again, and remembering how to dance. But to keep our laughter pure, and our dancing heartfelt, we observe these times of grieving and remembrance.
Now is most certainly a time to grieve and a time to mourn, a time to weep for the loss of innocent life one year ago, and it is a time to pray, that God may have mercy on our country as we enter a new phase of history.
jonwardeleven@earthlink.net
an outlet for young writers
September 10, 2002
Volume 1, Issue 13
September 11
I was standing on the roof of New York City Fire Station 1010, a three story building about 100 feet from the edge of the pit at Ground Zero. It was January 26, 2002, more than four months after the collapse after the Twin Towers. On the roof with me was a middle-aged woman who had come from New Jersey in the week after the attack to help, who spent much of her time driving an all terrain vehicle around the perimeter of the site, picking up and delivering supplies.
Also there was a Salvation Army captain, who was there from the Midwest for a two-week shift to oversee the SA
To our left was the Bankers & Trust Building, a very tall structure with black netting across its face and a large American flag hung from its peak. To our right was St. Peter's Cathedral, which amazingly withstood the impact of the falling buildings and became a sanctuary for the recovery and cleanup workers.
And in front of us was the gaping, gigantic hole, the pit. One woman aptly said, "It was so big that I couldn't comprehend it, I couldn't take it in."
In a few brief moments I tried to take in as much as I could, trying to process not only the physical and geological meaning of the sight, but also its deep historical, cultural and spiritual significance.
The workers had reduced a three story pile of twisted steel beams, concrete and fire to a hole the size of several city blocks by that time. Even at cold, early morning hour, the scene was ablaze with light, run by steadily humming generators, and the work of cleaning up America's worst nightmare by ordinary, heroic Americans went busily on.
It was as we unwillingly turned to go, tearing our eyes away, that the Salvation Army captain said something to the ATV driver. It was something to the effect of, "We will never forget those who died here that day," and he choked up as he said it.
I stood by watching, and said and did nothing in response. I only looked back once more at the rubble, and in that moment, I did not know whether that man meant what he said or not.
From the very first few days after the September 11 attacks, I observed a strong emotional response from people across the country. Granted, most of my observations were taken in as I sat in front of my TV, but I think that America wore its heart on its sleeve for much of that week.
There was certainly, however, in my opinion, a mixture of genuine and ungenuine emotional displays taking place as events unfolded. Those that seemed most genuine were almost always connected with the loss of a loved one, by a family member or close friend trying his or her very best to restrain themselves, but absolutely crushed by their tragic grief.
I also saw many people respond to those kinds of people in genuine ways--in heartfelt empathy, pity, sorrow, and even anger, grieving with those who grieve.
But then I thought I saw, to no surprise of mine, some people precipitating emotion, pursuing it, generating it, almost fabricating it, or maybe faking the emotions they saw everyone around them experiencing.
It is in the behavior of the SA captain that this second group may have been typified. I do not know what was in their motivations. For the SA captain, if he did engineer the moment, I understand his actions. In the face of something that one knows with one's mind is truly momentous, one knows that there should be some emotional response.
In the absence of such a response, perhaps many drew upon themselves to manufacture such a display in the days following the terrorist attacks.
Certainly such a phenomenon is taking place now, as we stand one year--hundreds of days and thousands of hours and countless events--removed from that day.
It is hard to reengage with the emotions we may have truly felt on September 11 and in the following weeks. It is hard to touch them, get reacquainted with them. After all, in many ways, we have moved on. We have not forgotten, but we have grown distant.
Now, with memorials and remembrances provoking much emotional and grave showmanship, I sense some people reacting in a negative way to any thought of reminiscence or remembrance with emotion.
But we cannot forget both the awful events of that day, and what it wrought in our country. There is so much to be learned from 9/11. It teaches us that we cannot grow proud, either in our national outlook or in our spirits, and it taught us that we are vulnerable, breakable creatures in need. It opened our eyes for a few moments, and it does us good to return and stand in the place where for a brief time we stood, fixed and immobile, heavy hearted and focused, humbled, desperate.
I remember, and will always remember, how I learned that the world would never be the same.
I was unemployed and a little sick, so I was sleeping at 9:00 a.m. on Tuesday. September 11. I was woken by the TV of all things. It was turned up so loud that it woke me up a floor below. I came out of unconsciousness, heard the TV, and knew immediately that something was up.
I was totally unprepared for what I was about to see, however. Maybe someone had been assasinated, I thought as I stumbled upstairs. I lurched into the living room, my eyes still half shut and squinting from the morning sun, and wiped the sleep from my eyes as the replay showed the second plane, which had just hit.
My eyes blinked groggily as it was replayed over and over, and after a couple moments, it sunk in. A plane had hit the World Trade Center. Not just one plane. Two. ...That's not an accident. Oh God.
I watched TV for two days straight. I watched it all day that day, pausing only to eat and to go outside to look up at the sky as fighter planes screeched overhead. I went to bed, shell shocked. I woke up the next morning around 8, got out of bed, and walked to the next room, turned the TV on, and watched it all day, grieving, mourning, processing.
I confess I did not know exactly what to feel. I felt overwhelmed more than anything else, partly with the wide range of emotions that were before me. Anger? There was some of that, but I was not seething. Sadness? Certainly, but I also felt detached in some odd way. Patriotism? I thought of joining the armed forces with a kind of determined dread. Fear? Absolutely.
Most inspiring to me was the hope and courage I saw displayed by those who had lost loved ones, by the ordinary people who rushed to help, and by our nation's leaders.
The true good which undeniably came out of such tragedy made the following days so bittersweet. It was John Adams who said, "What horrid creatures we men are, that we cannot be virtuous without murdering one another."
The unity of our country, the massive turning to God for help and hope, the wide outpourings of support from other countries, and strangers helping strangers--all those things lifted my spirits.
But after time, as 9/11 receded in our memories, this atmosphere faded.
Not so, however, in New York.
Or at least, not so fast. When I went to visit my brother there in late January, there was something about that city that absolutely captured me.
There was a freshness to the city, an air of renewal, fragility, and love that invigorated me and was so exciting.
It was not until last week that I finally realized what was at the bottom of all that. It was humility. New York, the proudest city on the face of the earth, had been humbled.
They had not, and have not, lost any of their spunk. They have, however, regained an appreciation for caring for people, especially those in need. Instead of fearing and hating one another, they began to build each other up.
The Bible says that there is "a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance" (Ecc. 3:4).
Much of the past year has been, appropriately, about learning to laugh again, and remembering how to dance. But to keep our laughter pure, and our dancing heartfelt, we observe these times of grieving and remembrance.
Now is most certainly a time to grieve and a time to mourn, a time to weep for the loss of innocent life one year ago, and it is a time to pray, that God may have mercy on our country as we enter a new phase of history.
jonwardeleven@earthlink.net
posted by Jon at
4:55 PM
