Thoughts on 9/11, years apart
Anniversaries can be milestones for personal journeys as well as shared ones. Ten years ago I was alone, on the brink of a whole new life.
The chaos and trauma of the day prompted the first real conversation I had with the woman who is now my best friend & greatest ally. She was insisting someone named "Bin Laden" was to blame. I was still trying to understand that it wasn't all just a series of accidents.
I thought she was a know-it-all, but we cooked & ate dinner together anyway. Would we have become friends without the shock of the day? Probably. But experiencing a terrible, frightening event with a stranger creates a powerful shared bond.
When I look back at the worst day in history that I've lived through, remembering that she was there brings me comfort I cannot articulate.
Ten years ago, the truth that it could all end in an instant forced me to open my heart. For a decade, I've tried to remember that lesson.
Ten years later, I am again on the brink of a new life, but far from alone. We lost our innocence in 2001, but we've gained things too.
After it happened, we were kind to strangers. We told the people we love how much they mattered.
After a decade, we're back to avoiding eye contact in the street. But perhaps today we'll all say "I love you" a little more often.
---
9/11/2008 - Three years ago
When I was a child, I read in a thick book that it takes seven years for our skin to be completely replaced. Seven years after I broke up with my first girlfriend, I was relieved that no part of me that still existed had ever touched her.
It's been seven years since 9/11. All the living have shed their skin. The content of our hands and heads and hearts remains.
From a blog I read:
Think of something from your childhood. Something you remember clearly, something you can see, feel, maybe even smell, as if you were really there.
After all, you really were there at the time, weren’t you? How else would you remember it? But here is the bombshell: you weren’t there. Not a single atom that is in your body today was there when that event took place. Matter flows from place to place and momentarily comes together to be you. Whatever you are, therefore, you are not the stuff of which you are made. If that doesn’t make the hair on the back of your neck stand up, read it again until it does, because it is important.
- Steve Grand, computer scientist and author of Creation: Life and How to Make It
---
9/4/2006 - Five years ago
I suppose I'm doing my 9/11 remembrances early, maybe because this year I'm in New York. I think the remembering, for me, is going to continue through the 11th. Beyond.
Five years ago, I did not cry when planes hit buildings. I did not cry when another plane crashed too close for comfort. Through panic and fear, I did not cry.
Until the priest.
Father Mychal Judge, Chaplain, FDNY. The photograph of the dust-covered firefighters carrying him away from Ground Zero brought the tears.
I did not know until today that Father Mychal was One of Us.
As much as I try to work the word "gay" into everyday conversation as often as possible, being gay is still a struggle for me. I've been out (to myself) for 10 years now. I've been out to my mother for nine, my father for four, the world for more than three. Yet I still feel different and strange, even in one of the most gay friendly cities on the planet. I still walk the pronoun line when I'm at work and I still wonder, deep down, if I would have been any happier if I'd been born straight.
KT doesn't understand why I'm so obsessed with the "Is she or isn't she" Hollywood gay gossip.
I want to be able to look at someone talented/beautiful/smart/etc and say, "That person is Like Me." Sexuality is such a deeply personal concept, yet because it speaks to the very core of our identity, it becomes a powerful bond between those of us who share a preference.
I have wanted examples of people Like Me ever since I can remember. I was Jorja Fox's #1 fan throughout my teenage years (her ER years) because, deep down, I sensed that she was Like Me. I listened to Melissa Etheridge and watched Ellen and tried my hardest to like Ani because they were all unabashedly Like Me.
Being gay, for me, means belonging, even in my strangeness. I've always wanted to be Queen of the Misfit Toys. I was the kid who, when I was made captain of a kickball team during fourth grade gym, picked all the kids who were always picked last, first. (My team got its ass kicked, but I was still happy that I could choose people who really needed someone to pick them.)
I have this vague fear that someone's going to be offended by this. I feel as though I'm writing something that will draw fire, even though that's not my intent at all. Therefore, no comments on this entry. Email is good, though.
I'm probably the last one to know about Father Mychal, but I'm welcoming him into the community tonight. We could debate at length the implications of a gay priest, but that's not where my heart is at right now. He was a good man and a brave one and I'm glad he was Like Me. Maybe not a saint, but a good man.
I wonder if some day I'll have added enough good, talented, smart, brave men and women to my Like Me list that I'll stop needing to.
Saint of 9/11
Love,
Beth
---
9/11/2011 - Today
It's interesting to read that last one, because I've found so many amazing, strong, queer people that "Like Me" is now another artist, or someone else who loves tattoos, or another transplant who calls New York home. Even so, I still proud that Father Judge was Like Us.
Love,
Beth
The chaos and trauma of the day prompted the first real conversation I had with the woman who is now my best friend & greatest ally. She was insisting someone named "Bin Laden" was to blame. I was still trying to understand that it wasn't all just a series of accidents.
I thought she was a know-it-all, but we cooked & ate dinner together anyway. Would we have become friends without the shock of the day? Probably. But experiencing a terrible, frightening event with a stranger creates a powerful shared bond.
When I look back at the worst day in history that I've lived through, remembering that she was there brings me comfort I cannot articulate.
Ten years ago, the truth that it could all end in an instant forced me to open my heart. For a decade, I've tried to remember that lesson.
Ten years later, I am again on the brink of a new life, but far from alone. We lost our innocence in 2001, but we've gained things too.
After it happened, we were kind to strangers. We told the people we love how much they mattered.
After a decade, we're back to avoiding eye contact in the street. But perhaps today we'll all say "I love you" a little more often.
---
9/11/2008 - Three years ago
When I was a child, I read in a thick book that it takes seven years for our skin to be completely replaced. Seven years after I broke up with my first girlfriend, I was relieved that no part of me that still existed had ever touched her.
It's been seven years since 9/11. All the living have shed their skin. The content of our hands and heads and hearts remains.
From a blog I read:
Think of something from your childhood. Something you remember clearly, something you can see, feel, maybe even smell, as if you were really there.
After all, you really were there at the time, weren’t you? How else would you remember it? But here is the bombshell: you weren’t there. Not a single atom that is in your body today was there when that event took place. Matter flows from place to place and momentarily comes together to be you. Whatever you are, therefore, you are not the stuff of which you are made. If that doesn’t make the hair on the back of your neck stand up, read it again until it does, because it is important.
- Steve Grand, computer scientist and author of Creation: Life and How to Make It
---
9/4/2006 - Five years ago
I suppose I'm doing my 9/11 remembrances early, maybe because this year I'm in New York. I think the remembering, for me, is going to continue through the 11th. Beyond.
Five years ago, I did not cry when planes hit buildings. I did not cry when another plane crashed too close for comfort. Through panic and fear, I did not cry.
Until the priest.
Father Mychal Judge, Chaplain, FDNY. The photograph of the dust-covered firefighters carrying him away from Ground Zero brought the tears.
I did not know until today that Father Mychal was One of Us.
As much as I try to work the word "gay" into everyday conversation as often as possible, being gay is still a struggle for me. I've been out (to myself) for 10 years now. I've been out to my mother for nine, my father for four, the world for more than three. Yet I still feel different and strange, even in one of the most gay friendly cities on the planet. I still walk the pronoun line when I'm at work and I still wonder, deep down, if I would have been any happier if I'd been born straight.
KT doesn't understand why I'm so obsessed with the "Is she or isn't she" Hollywood gay gossip.
I want to be able to look at someone talented/beautiful/smart/etc and say, "That person is Like Me." Sexuality is such a deeply personal concept, yet because it speaks to the very core of our identity, it becomes a powerful bond between those of us who share a preference.
I have wanted examples of people Like Me ever since I can remember. I was Jorja Fox's #1 fan throughout my teenage years (her ER years) because, deep down, I sensed that she was Like Me. I listened to Melissa Etheridge and watched Ellen and tried my hardest to like Ani because they were all unabashedly Like Me.
Being gay, for me, means belonging, even in my strangeness. I've always wanted to be Queen of the Misfit Toys. I was the kid who, when I was made captain of a kickball team during fourth grade gym, picked all the kids who were always picked last, first. (My team got its ass kicked, but I was still happy that I could choose people who really needed someone to pick them.)
I have this vague fear that someone's going to be offended by this. I feel as though I'm writing something that will draw fire, even though that's not my intent at all. Therefore, no comments on this entry. Email is good, though.
I'm probably the last one to know about Father Mychal, but I'm welcoming him into the community tonight. We could debate at length the implications of a gay priest, but that's not where my heart is at right now. He was a good man and a brave one and I'm glad he was Like Me. Maybe not a saint, but a good man.
I wonder if some day I'll have added enough good, talented, smart, brave men and women to my Like Me list that I'll stop needing to.
Saint of 9/11
Love,
Beth
---
9/11/2011 - Today
It's interesting to read that last one, because I've found so many amazing, strong, queer people that "Like Me" is now another artist, or someone else who loves tattoos, or another transplant who calls New York home. Even so, I still proud that Father Judge was Like Us.
Love,
Beth