Nine-eleven is the first and only time I've ever heard my father cry. Nine-eleven was THE reason that I stopped talking about moving out west to make my own way and did it (2001-2007, Seattle area of Washington State). Nine-eleven galvanized the nation. Some of the responses to 9/11 scared the living heck out of me. Some of the responses made me super-proud that we can all act like human beings and help each other in times of crisis.
In a box in our attic, I still have a copy of the first and only "EXTRA" edition of any newspaper that I have ever gotten in my life. I've memorized the picture and the caption, and most of the story. Living in Westchester in September of 2001, I was a secretary in a White Plains branch of MetLife Small Business. My father thought that I was in one of the buildings. Because phones weren't working in the tristate-area for a long time after the actual events of that morning, my dad didn't reach me or my sister until much later. I wasn't able to reach my friends until much later. We all just worried for the longest time. And waited. And prayed.
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| A Service for 9/11 Had to Be Held in St. Pat's Cathedral |
Stories are important. Even if (and sometimes, specifically because) they are uncomfortable to discuss, it is crucial that we continue to talk about them.
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| Sometimes All You Can Do is Hold a Vigil |
I totally feel you on this one. I think I might never go back to Ground Zero. I had been there just a few days before at a concert, and that is how I want to remember it. I didn't attend any vigils, possibly in part because of all the pain I was feeling. Even though everyone I knew was OK (I was so lucky in that respect!), it was such a traumatic experience just being a (White Plains) New Yorker - and an American - at that time.
ReplyDeleteGrandma Houf came out to New York a month later and insisted that I take her to see Ground Zero, which was still smoldering. We took the train in from White Plains. We walked all over midtown. I walked her up to the Met. I did everything in my power to wear her out so that she wouldn't want to go there. However, after all of this sight-seeing stuff, your indomitable grandmother cheerily said, "OK, let's go to Ground Zero now." I firmly told her that is a war zone, not a tourist attraction. She was firm. So we took the subway down. Once there, she got it. Gone was the color and light of Fifth Avenue. Everything was gray. Grief was everywhere. We stepped through enough of the rubble to see people working and hand-written signs that said "no photos." Then we turned around and spent some time in Holy Trinity. Unfortunately there were tourists in the pew in front of us happily discussing their lunch/shopping plans until I informed them they were in a house of worship, in a war zone. They looked at me blankly. Then Grandma understood.
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