Pain
Dear New York City, government employees, widows, orphans, and the 3,000 innocent dead:
I know that I wasn't there. I never felt the smoke in my nostrils. Never heard the rumblings with my own ears. I had no vantage but the views which were provided for me by sparks and wires and screens. I took no shower to wash the dust and grime of steel, cement, and victims from my skin. I know this. I know that I wasn't there, but I still feel pain. I don't feel your pain. I don't feel "the" pain. I don't feel the grief of having lost a loved one or a coworker or even so much as a damn ball-point pen, but I feel pain. I've tried -- tried for a year, now -- not to overidentify. To give you space and allow your grief to be your grief. Certainly there is little risk of attack on my city, but it wasn't always that way. I felt your fear. We crossed our fingers. We sat bolt upright in bed and whirled around at twig-snaps and sneezes. I understand that part of it.
I also understand a little bit about New Yorkers. I understand the short initiation period required to "belong." I understand that, unlike Boston (where you might be awarded honorary status after 25 years of residence) or Utah (where you wouldn't want to belong anyway), most everyone who sticks it out becomes one. A New Yorker. I understand that because I live there. I've learned the walk. I bought black clothing and bus fare. I know what it's like to mourn the New York I knew. To realize how different things are there, now. To remember the view -- a ghost of a skyline -- and to come to grips with the fact that things will never be the same.
But, you're right. I didn't lose anyone there, that day. I don't know pain like you know it. I feel like I've heard a lot about your perspective, though. Artists and journalists and filmmakers and reporters -- storytellers all -- have invited themselves in. I've read and watched and asked and listened while stories and stories and stories were told. I wonder, though, if you can understand mine.
The fact is, there are a lot of ways that my life was unaffected by the events of September 11, 2001. I watched news nonstop for 3 days. Frankly, this is not that unusual for me. I'm a news junkie by nature, and have often watched CNN late into the night. I donated blood, yes, but hey. I do that periodically through the year anyway. I gave money to strangers in need, which is also nothing new. I prayed. I hurled questions at the air and ducked for cover - unprepared for the answers. I opined about The Situation In The Middle East and answered questions from ignorant locals.
But I'll tell you what is different about me. You and I have something in common -- there is something that we've all lost. Our innocence. Our sense of security. Our blind-eye to the rumblings of oppressed people in other lands. I've lost my pride. My independence. My isolation and my guile.
Please don't look down on the way any one of us chooses to mark this day. We're all different on this blue ball. We all crave different lives -- some quiet and green, others bustlingly silver, and those who prefer bobbing in the blue, or the grey. If you live where you are, if you thrive there, and if you choose to stay, I commend you. You don't need our ribbons, our quilts or our anthems. You don't even, really, need our funds or our blood. Empty ambulances and empty hospitals and empty caskets require so little, but there are those among us who need to give. There are those of us who need to watch for hours on end and those of us who need to turn it off. Some of us cry and some of us drink and some sleep, shout, sing, ponder and pray.
I, though, need to write. To give away what little I have. To feel today's pain, the jitters of last night's anxiety, and the flutter of fear before checking the news. This is my pain, and I can't "sorry" it away.
I know that I wasn't there. I never felt the smoke in my nostrils. Never heard the rumblings with my own ears. I had no vantage but the views which were provided for me by sparks and wires and screens. I took no shower to wash the dust and grime of steel, cement, and victims from my skin. I know this. I know that I wasn't there, but I still feel pain. I don't feel your pain. I don't feel "the" pain. I don't feel the grief of having lost a loved one or a coworker or even so much as a damn ball-point pen, but I feel pain. I've tried -- tried for a year, now -- not to overidentify. To give you space and allow your grief to be your grief. Certainly there is little risk of attack on my city, but it wasn't always that way. I felt your fear. We crossed our fingers. We sat bolt upright in bed and whirled around at twig-snaps and sneezes. I understand that part of it.
I also understand a little bit about New Yorkers. I understand the short initiation period required to "belong." I understand that, unlike Boston (where you might be awarded honorary status after 25 years of residence) or Utah (where you wouldn't want to belong anyway), most everyone who sticks it out becomes one. A New Yorker. I understand that because I live there. I've learned the walk. I bought black clothing and bus fare. I know what it's like to mourn the New York I knew. To realize how different things are there, now. To remember the view -- a ghost of a skyline -- and to come to grips with the fact that things will never be the same.
But, you're right. I didn't lose anyone there, that day. I don't know pain like you know it. I feel like I've heard a lot about your perspective, though. Artists and journalists and filmmakers and reporters -- storytellers all -- have invited themselves in. I've read and watched and asked and listened while stories and stories and stories were told. I wonder, though, if you can understand mine.
The fact is, there are a lot of ways that my life was unaffected by the events of September 11, 2001. I watched news nonstop for 3 days. Frankly, this is not that unusual for me. I'm a news junkie by nature, and have often watched CNN late into the night. I donated blood, yes, but hey. I do that periodically through the year anyway. I gave money to strangers in need, which is also nothing new. I prayed. I hurled questions at the air and ducked for cover - unprepared for the answers. I opined about The Situation In The Middle East and answered questions from ignorant locals.
But I'll tell you what is different about me. You and I have something in common -- there is something that we've all lost. Our innocence. Our sense of security. Our blind-eye to the rumblings of oppressed people in other lands. I've lost my pride. My independence. My isolation and my guile.
Please don't look down on the way any one of us chooses to mark this day. We're all different on this blue ball. We all crave different lives -- some quiet and green, others bustlingly silver, and those who prefer bobbing in the blue, or the grey. If you live where you are, if you thrive there, and if you choose to stay, I commend you. You don't need our ribbons, our quilts or our anthems. You don't even, really, need our funds or our blood. Empty ambulances and empty hospitals and empty caskets require so little, but there are those among us who need to give. There are those of us who need to watch for hours on end and those of us who need to turn it off. Some of us cry and some of us drink and some sleep, shout, sing, ponder and pray.
I, though, need to write. To give away what little I have. To feel today's pain, the jitters of last night's anxiety, and the flutter of fear before checking the news. This is my pain, and I can't "sorry" it away.