9/11 Recollections

I come from New York and 9/11 happened fifteen-twenty minutes away from me.  Those were sad, fearful times.

 

For a long time after that day, I would drive to work and when the New York skyline appeared into view, my eyes would tear up as I saw the rusty brown smoke rising from the empty space where the twin towers once were. At times the smoke would drift across the East River and with it a burning smell, of which I did not even wish to guess. When I am stopped by a red light, I would automatically count the floors of the nearest building, and visualize how many times taller the WTC towers were compared to it.  In class, when my students were quiet and doing seatwork, I would count them and imagine how many rooms and how many floors would equal the number of those who died (6,000 reported initially). It became a habit with me.

 

I would keep a watchful eye on my students named Mohammed or Tariq or Khan or Mahbouhbeh.  My imagination went wild with conspiracy theories.  A Greek student who left just before 9/11 supposedly because he was summoned by his parents home and came back three weeks after I thought might be part of one.  I thought 'what if his family was being held hostage and he was forced to do some terrorist act?  From that time on I watched what he was carrying, whether he was leaving a bundle or whatnot in my classroom.

 

Ah, those were crazy times.  (Particularly when another passenger plane going to the Dominican Republic crashed in Queens, about three miles from us.)  Traffic was chaotic.  A fifteen minute drive would take four hours or more.  On September 25, I was decided on celebrating my daughter's birthday with her.  But she was at Boston University and all the usual routes were impossible and impassable.  My son and I drove to  Long Island with her birthday cake and took the Bridgeport Ferry to Connecticut.  On the way, on one side of the highway going to the city, traffic  was at a standstill forty miles long per my estimate.  Forty miles long! We were lucky to be on the other side.  Though we started in the morning, I was thankful we made it in time for dinner.

 

I was afraid of everyone looking Middle Eastern or Indian especially if they wore turbans, and ironic as it was that during that time they, particularly the Sikhs, tried to be very helpful.  I remember one time I was getting gas self-service, I had opened the tank cover from inside when a young middle eastern male appeared out of nowhere to help me and my thought was: Oh my God, he's gonna throw a lighted match in my gas tank!

 

But my  9/11 experience was very minor compared to some acquaintances.  Who saw what seemed like ragdolls in business suits falling from the sky.  Who heard the loud thuds on the ground and bodies breaking.  Who got lost in the rolling sea of dust and dirt.  My daughters and nieces had to walk from Manhattan, over the Queensboro Bridge, all the way to our residence in Queens.  I am thankful their ordeal wasn't worse than that.

 

We were glued to the TV, our hearts breaking at the ribbons and pictures and pleas of family looking for loved ones. And the sight of the planes going through the buildings and the buildings crashing.  Again and again.  And again.

 

I was depressed for a long time, not grave enough to merit a visit to the therapist, but depressed nonetheless.  It took me five years to visit Ground Zero.

 

I find myself now easy to find credence in the so called 'hate' mails.  But I know I am not racist.  In fact I know myself to be very tolerant and liberal.  Maybe, because of an instinct of self preservation, as one member has mentioned?  Maybe because nobody has contested the mathematical aspect of the % percentage 'hate' mail and the resulting conclusion.  Maybe, maybe. 

 

Ellen

 

 

The Streets of Yesterday

A fellow member of a yahoogroup asked me to share something I wrote so I rummaged through my high school group's newsletters to look for this poem I made:

The Streets of Yesterday

Many a night while
On my bed I lay
I dream of me walking
On the Streets of Yesterday.

I find myself on the main street
From where narrower ones diverge
I trace my steps on the sidewalks
Where my tiny feet once tread.

I peek through twisted alleys
Strewn with empty cans of hope
I pass through makeshift gardens
Where once had bloomed Youth's rose.

On the sidewalks I can see
Children naked crying
Mothers washing, waters gushing
Vendors noisily hawking dreams.

By the windows wrinkled faces
Sadly looking out
Lifetime lessons being whispered
Scattered by the winds.

In the corner of my block
Idle men booze and hoot
At tiny-waisted misses
In big petticoats
(waiting for the jeepney
to captivity).

The market is deserted
The churchdoors are all closed
I search for a face I know
I look for me and you.

I feel confused and lost
Though familiar laughter I hear
I panic I run home to my house
But it is no longer there.