Here’s a link to activities that will take place on July 23, as The Bastard of Bring it on! says, maybe one day it will be a national holiday.
I’m not going to into my anti war rap; that’s not what this post is about. Here’s a great link; warning certain people might find the person in this video obscene.
I was working on another post for today, but this makes me sick. For the three of you who don’t know why I feel so sick every time 9/11 is invoked, and it’s been mentioned often recently here it is: MAJOR HEART TUGGING SLIGHTLY DEPRESSING POST FOLLOWS ALERT
I live in Manhattan. I will never forget every second of that horrible week. While the rest of America was allowed to have “healing rallies,” and other mass demonstrations we weren’t. That sounds insipid and totally superficial. Did your healing rally help you get through that time? Thought so.
There was one mass something. However it took place in Yankee Stadium, and you needed a ticket that were not easy to come by; the rally (event or whatever it was called) was really for the families. We understood.
WE WANTED WAR. WE WANTED REVENGE. WE WOULD HAVE DONE ANYTHING THEN. BUSH MISSED HIS GREATEST OPPORTUNITY.
Or did he? Did he, for whatever sick reasons, want to alienate the people of New York? Shouldn’t have watched Bush’s speech last night. When he invoked 9/11 six times, he made it six times more personal. Now I’m hearing that he only directly said “9/11 five times,” and invoked it several more times. Whatever.
We were a city of people who were in shock, scared, sad, and beyond words. Most of us found our way to Union Square where there were many memorials. Dreamed about it last night. Each memorial had been done over by a Hollywood director; they could do anything that they wanted to do as long as they used Bob Mackie (Cher’s costume designer) to decorate. It was garish, surreal, and I have no idea what that dream means. But
Quentin Tarantino corner was exceptionally well done.
The whole frigging Island was a memorial. There were missing posters everywhere. We incorporated them into our daily lives as we incorporated security checks, closed buildings, screwed up subway service, screwed up TV channels, screwed up everything. We were a city of the walking wounded.
That first Friday night my friends, their children and I went from firehouse to firehouse. One lost eleven; the next seventeen. When was the last time you saw a fireman crying? It wasn’t a healing experience. It did bring it even closer to home.
Read an article then about people in San Francisco who were taking courses in CPR and other rescue methods. “So we won’t sit idly by like the people of Manhattan did.” I will never forget reading that. What were we supposed to do? Most people who survived didn’t require much medical help; many of the people who died were incinerated. How were we supposed to help them?
Everybody who lives and/or works in Manhattan has their own 9/11 story. My neighbor couldn’t go back to her apartment for six months. When she did she took the important things and left everything else. Until she bought her apartment here she was moving every several months looking for something, anything that resembled stability. Know many stories like hers. We didn’t leave; we stayed and tried to pretend that everything was great and that we had nothing to complain about. Maybe we played the role too well.
Two weeks after 9/11, my mother asked me if I thought that 9/11 was retribution for every horrible thing that the USA did to other countries. I was so shocked, because I was in full patriotic go to war mode, that I thought my mother had suddenly become demented. I hope and pray every day that I treated her with dignity because two weeks after that she fell and died fifteen minutes later. Her last words were recorded on her companion button; she was crying because she didn’t want to die.
Am not supposed to tell that story. It’s too personal; too filled with pathos. I have been blogging long enough to know that I can tell it. Have told it before. Always say that my mom had perfect timing. In everything but her death. She died 33 days after the implosion; the week that New York ran out of empathy. I’m not looking for empathy or sympathy. It’s been almost four years and I have moved passed the grieving steps.
But, and this is the hard part, I wrote on my blog template that sometimes the first cut is the deepest (thanks Rod Stewart) as is the first draft. Well I can’t help it. I feel like this whole 9/11/my mom died is a first draft that I can’t get out of my head, and work deep into my psyche. It’s different than grieving.
My mom was the most honest person I have ever known, and was the first person, I knew, to dare raise that question.
She had become blind from macular degeneration, and was underweight, but was in good physical health; and even better mental health. We had always been close, but for a few years before her death, our relationship had been filled with much anxiety, and as much as we loved each other and had been best friends almost, something had been missing. We no longer really enjoyed each other anymore.
She knew how much I loved her, and I take great comfort in that.
My dad had been in a coma the last time I saw him. He had a sudden massive stroke and remained on earth for five more days. It was comforting to be able to see him. He had no brain wave activity and we were going to have begin making the permanent feeding tube decision the next day. But my father’s death was more dignified; and I was able to say goodbye, even if he was just his shell. I felt much more at peace with it than I did my mother’s death.
You have no idea how hard that was to get out. Think it’s obvious why I have been taking things personally.
9/11 still hasn’t ended for a great many people in New York, and businesses downtown. 9/11 took a chunk of my heart that will never come back.
How dare the shrub invoke the name of one of the saddest days in American history in a war that 80% (probably much higher now) of the people in the most affected city don’t support?