I woke up on Tuesday morning with a feline halo around my head, Mikan on the left and Truman on the right. I didn't feel tired. After feeding the cats, I shuffled into the living room and flipped on the television to check the weather. The top of the World Trade Center was charred, smoking, surreal. It didn't seem possible. I called Jaime and told him to turn on the news. Another plane crashed. Then I showered, clothed myself, and waited at Briar and Orchard for him to pick me up. Evan was in the car, too. The three of us drove down Lake Shore Drive while listening to NPR. Aside from a few words, we said nothing. I watched the sun lick the waves of the lake, looked at Chicago's still-intact skyline, hoped my friends were safe.
After we dropped Evan off, the radio told us that one of the towers had collapsed. I imagined that it had caved in slightly, sticking up like an upside-down tooth in lower Manhattan. By the time we arrived at work only minutes later, I realized that I was sadly, horribly wrong. We all have televisions at our desks, and everybody was watching different networks. The room was a cacophony of talking heads and horrifying scenes on screens. I got in touch with Trevor, Ophi, Maysan, Tali, Danielle, Jake, Brian, Ben... by the end of the day I would know that my friends were safe, but even today I have a rock in my stomach.
I can't watch television very much now, because it's the same news and footage over and over again. People are dead. Trevor says that the avenues are desolate. And it's almost as though the sunshine and beautiful weather is rubbing it in. Yesterday in one of the suburbs, there was an anti-Arab American rally. Disgusting. I hope we don't go to war, because then more people will die, and we'll just watch it happen on our television screens (eventually detached, as we are when mass death happens elsewhere). Interesting that W—who, only a year ago, thought the Taliban was a ROCK BAND—is likely chomping at the bit to bomb the hell out of Afghanistan (or whomever we find guilty).
And despite the empathy and sympathy I hold for the people in DC and New York, I feel odd because I lack this surge of patriotism that so many others seem to have brought up from their hearts. This talk of "proud to be an American," I can't identify with that. Even as a child I thought it was robotic to pledge allegiance to the flag. Call me a commie pinko if you want, but I think you can feel a connection with people even if it's not simply because they're American. Maybe part of it is that we as a citizenry aren't unified politically or morally. Being American means different things for different people right now, and frankly, I'm scared of some people's definition. I don't want us to go to war; I don't want Muslims being scapegoated; I don't want revenge to be the only thing on our mind.
Enough with the political; now it's personal. I used to work a few blocks from the World Trade Center. On lunch hours I'd go to Krispy Kreme for hot doughnuts. Or I'd go shoe shopping at Century 21 after work. One July weekend, Evan and his family visited New York; they stayed in the WTC Marriott, and we took cheesy touristy photos on the pavilion. During balmy Brooklyn nights, I'd sit on the promenade and look at the towers blocking part of the sunset in what was never an obtrusive manner. During my first days in New York, I'd be disoriented, and I would spin around until I found the twin towers. They always told me where I was and where I needed to go.
Days like those have always been in the past, but now they seem buried. It's like the first crush you ever have: you can't go back, you can't regain the feeling and experience you once had. I'm hundreds of miles away, yet I feel like something is missing now. I have never felt like Chicago was mine, even though now I've lived here longer than I lived in New York. But New York, I feel like she belongs to me, shared with millions of other people. Everybody has his or her New York, and it will never be the same for any of us. And oddly enough, I want to go back there right now.
After we dropped Evan off, the radio told us that one of the towers had collapsed. I imagined that it had caved in slightly, sticking up like an upside-down tooth in lower Manhattan. By the time we arrived at work only minutes later, I realized that I was sadly, horribly wrong. We all have televisions at our desks, and everybody was watching different networks. The room was a cacophony of talking heads and horrifying scenes on screens. I got in touch with Trevor, Ophi, Maysan, Tali, Danielle, Jake, Brian, Ben... by the end of the day I would know that my friends were safe, but even today I have a rock in my stomach.
I can't watch television very much now, because it's the same news and footage over and over again. People are dead. Trevor says that the avenues are desolate. And it's almost as though the sunshine and beautiful weather is rubbing it in. Yesterday in one of the suburbs, there was an anti-Arab American rally. Disgusting. I hope we don't go to war, because then more people will die, and we'll just watch it happen on our television screens (eventually detached, as we are when mass death happens elsewhere). Interesting that W—who, only a year ago, thought the Taliban was a ROCK BAND—is likely chomping at the bit to bomb the hell out of Afghanistan (or whomever we find guilty).
And despite the empathy and sympathy I hold for the people in DC and New York, I feel odd because I lack this surge of patriotism that so many others seem to have brought up from their hearts. This talk of "proud to be an American," I can't identify with that. Even as a child I thought it was robotic to pledge allegiance to the flag. Call me a commie pinko if you want, but I think you can feel a connection with people even if it's not simply because they're American. Maybe part of it is that we as a citizenry aren't unified politically or morally. Being American means different things for different people right now, and frankly, I'm scared of some people's definition. I don't want us to go to war; I don't want Muslims being scapegoated; I don't want revenge to be the only thing on our mind.
Enough with the political; now it's personal. I used to work a few blocks from the World Trade Center. On lunch hours I'd go to Krispy Kreme for hot doughnuts. Or I'd go shoe shopping at Century 21 after work. One July weekend, Evan and his family visited New York; they stayed in the WTC Marriott, and we took cheesy touristy photos on the pavilion. During balmy Brooklyn nights, I'd sit on the promenade and look at the towers blocking part of the sunset in what was never an obtrusive manner. During my first days in New York, I'd be disoriented, and I would spin around until I found the twin towers. They always told me where I was and where I needed to go.
Days like those have always been in the past, but now they seem buried. It's like the first crush you ever have: you can't go back, you can't regain the feeling and experience you once had. I'm hundreds of miles away, yet I feel like something is missing now. I have never felt like Chicago was mine, even though now I've lived here longer than I lived in New York. But New York, I feel like she belongs to me, shared with millions of other people. Everybody has his or her New York, and it will never be the same for any of us. And oddly enough, I want to go back there right now.
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