nmah5414.xml

nmah5414.xml

born-digital

story

yes

no

2003-01-21

On occasion, my job affords me the privilege of working at home. September 11, 2001 was just such an occasion. The phone rang shortly after 9:00 a.m. Annoyed at, already the third, interruption, I answered and rolled my eyes; it was my son, Bill. I told him I was busy and to stop this foolishness, but at the same time, I snapped on the TV. Every channel had a camera focused on the World Trade Center. I admonished him that the World Trade Center was not crumbled to the ground. He persisted and added that the Pentagon had also been hit. I punched more buttons on the TV remote. We shared a moment of stunned silence, as he listened at work while I watched at home, the video replaying the collapse of the towers.
When we disconnected, I called my husband and learned that, he, a civilian employee at the Watervliet Arsenal, was being evacuated; and he, as a soldier, was being activated. The ending of his conversation always seemed compulsive on the best of days, it was poignant that day. Before hanging up the phone, he stated, I love you.
I had talked to my boss less than an hour before and now marveled at how our conversation had seemed so important at the time. But now our daily grind had just been trivialized. I called her again; no one answered. A message on my voice mail informed me that, some three hundred miles from the WTC attack, our Federal building had been evacuated.
Within the hour, my husband was home. Within the half-hour, he was gone again. He splits his time evenly between husband and soldier; and, he plays both roles with passion. Today, September 11, 2001, and every day he is needed, he will be the best Command Sergeant Major that the New York Army National Guard has ever owned. He called from a local armory late that night. He would be in Manhattan early the next morning.
When I returned to work on Thursday, September 13, parking meters around the building were flagged as tow-away zones. Their cold metal poles were topped with bright orange bags that screamed out a warning against intruding on the buildings airspace. Guards were everywhere walking the perimeter of the building. Their suspicious eyes honed in on people passing by. Funny, it always takes a tragedy. My co-workers and I had fought for the benefit of posted guards outside the building for over a year.
Every morning at 5:30 a.m., the building is still pretty dark. But, that morning it seemed eerily abandoned. The daily hotel shuttle bus wasnt dropping off children headed to boot camp. I didnt have to wade through a mass of under garbed, smoking, hacking youth shivering in the dark, grumbling about how unfair it was that I could swipe my badge to gain access and they couldnt get in. It always gives me such a warm fuzzy thinking about them defending me. I was glad they werent there that day.
But, they werent there any day after that either. And, the students in the line to give blood, who rallied around talking the talk, sobered when reminded that they were draft age. And, older people, who also want some "butt kicked…" A co-worker asked, "whos going to do it, your sons and daughters, your grandchildren? Silence.
Maybe it was just that time of month, maybe the numbness was starting to wear off. But, I finally cried on the 20th. Not weeping, not sight blinding, but unstoppable. Stray beads that trickled down and tickled each cheek, and hung on the chin before joining sides and journeying down the throat. Not for the people who died, but, for me. For the price I will have to pay. For the stock market eating up my retirement. For my draft aged children that I could lose. For my husband who has always been spared by mere days from combat since his 1973 enlistment.
And, I cried for the rescuers. For those who have died; and, for those who may wish they had once life begins for them again. I cried for our soft youth; those who have been taught to take, and have never been asked to give. I cried for the innocent persecuted; even as I, too, looked for signs in their brown eyes and faces. I cried for all future innocent victims, both at home and abroad.
Then, I cried in anger. Raging against this country that, like an overwhelmed parent, had
dismissed their childs distress. The warning signs ignored and not attended until the parents authority was challenged. And, Im not just talking about the government, Im talking about us too. As a nation, we raged against sending aid to those countries that have lost more than our number over years, and even lifetimes, to terrorism. Now that it touched our lives, it has become important to discipline these out of control monsters. We who have let them get away with murder in small numbers, in small places, even in our own country, have finally set a limit. We, who gave one terrorist a time out, for his atrocious deeds about ten years ago, have finally taken off our belt. Now we want them to bend over our knees. And, we have demanded that others join us in a gauntlet line.
Will this teach us to listen? Will this teach us that wrong is wrong and reason, or degree, doesnt matter? That terrorism, and all brutalities, must be stopped no matter the victim, no matter the crime? That each victim is our brother and sister, known or unknown? I hope so.
On September 21, 2001, I waited, holding my breath. It was rumored that another attack was planned for this day. Somewhere, sometime. I wouldnt turn on the television, and I didn't answer the phone! On this day, I needed to clean my house and do the laundry. It had been almost two weeks! I needed to get on with life and live each moment productively. I needed to live in hope or wither and die.
On the twelfth day, September 23rd. My husband came home from Ground Zero. He was stricken with horror and pneumonia. He didnt talk much. He needed time and space. More than 50% of his troops have suffered from lung related diseases and infections from ingesting the cremated and mutilated debris. All of them have been assaulted by the horror.
Monday, September 24, 2001, 5:30 a.m. Three young men, wearing only jeans and T-shirts, huddled by the doors of the Federal building. More youth were headed toward
the doors to wait and shiver in the morning chill. I smiled. What a beautiful sight!
I determined that I will not be conquered. This nation will not be conquered. Tomorrow…the sacrifices may be great, but Im beginning to bolster my resolve, and so is this nation. Myopia is slowly being corrected. I am beginning to see our connections, and so too is my neighbor, both at home and abroad. We may worship, celebrate, and live differently, but our pain feels the same. I dearly pray that all of us have the courage and fortitude to pay the cost, for I fear the bill will arrive shortly. Originally written 10/16/01