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One of my closest friends sent me an email yesterday apologizing for not getting in touch, specifically during the week of 9/11. I thought my response would be a good way of sharing with you how I’ve been holding up.
Dear AP,
It was actually the best anniversary so far. I think going away at the end of August helped my mental countdown, because every year prior to this one, I usually start counting in my head how many days until the 11th. This year I counted down toward St. Maarten, even if I was sick as a dog the week before the trip and then the week of our vacation.
I was actually thinking about you yesterday and then I got an email from you! I was going to send you another email and stalk your Facebook profile until you got back to me! I was thinking that I never gave my high school teachers credit for how busy they must be. And then there you were!
I’m really glad you were thinking of me, and also sort of glad that you were one of the people who let me have some space on the anniversary. It’s really nice for people to let me know that they’re thinking of me during that time, but when I get texts and emails and phone calls with everyone wanting to check up on me, I have to either put on a show about how good I feel, or delve into the complexities of the anniversary–and then I’m drained.
But, in truth, you’re probably the only person who would accept how I felt about the anniversary and allow me to feel it. What I mean is, sometimes it’s so difficult for others to see me upset that they can’t help but try and inject positivity into our conversation, and then I feel like I can’t actually experience the emotions that are natural to me because I don’t want people to feel like their efforts aren’t working. I’m sure you know what I mean, because you’re a caretaker like most of they are.
The anniversary was actually really nice. We drove up to New Jersey on Wednesday night and slept in Thursday morning. I showered and dried my hair, something I haven’t been doing, but I wanted my family to see my new hair and how it looked blow-dried. I have a long history of coming home from DC badly in need of a shower, and I adhered to my tradition on Wednesday, arriving greasy and with my hair in a bun, as expected. Thankfully, though, my mom wasn’t home (she left the house in a fury, but not before flinging her plate of Chinese food all over the kitchen–more on that later. We walked in the house and Darla starts licking the duck sauce off the french doors, and my mom’s dog is having a field day with a discarded egg roll in the corner of the kitchen). My mom lost her shit because 1) my stepdad is being an asshole and they might actually get divorced, 2) it was the week of the 9/11 anniversary, and 3) a couple days before, she had a patient in her operating room who, before he went under anesthesia, made her promise to him that she would tell his wife he loved her. He knew that since this was his 3rd bypass, he probably wasn’t going to make it to celebrate his 40th anniversary that week. So my mom went to the wake the evening of the 10th and told his wife.
September 11th itself was good. Number 2 and Bee were at Villanova because they had class, so it was just the 29 of us at home: Me, BMW, Mogwog (15), Kaggle (turned 13 on Sept 13th), Chief and Boss (17) and my mom. My stepdad put the flag at half-mast that day, which was one of the only nice gestures (toward us) I’ve seen from him in a long time.
My mom was stressed out and insisted on cleaning to relieve her tension, so I fucked around for the morning while she tried to calm herself. She asked if I wanted to go to the fabric store with her, and I said that it wasn’t what I had planned on doing for the anniversary, and I think then she was confronted with the fact that we were, in fact, all home for a reason. That it wasn’t just a weekend away. For me, though, that’s how it felt—it was so refreshing to be with family, but at the same time, I was allowing myself to experience sadness for once.
My mom and sisters and I went to get pedicures, and BMW and Chief and Boss stayed home and prepped dinner. We ate lasagna, and it was yummy. And then we hung around the house and went to bed early, and for the first time in MONTHS, I slept most of the night without taking Ambien.
The next day, BMW and I drove out to Philadelphia to visit Number 2 & Bee. Number 2 had just moved into his apartment with his best friend, so BMW and I bought him a set of dishes and glassware and some kitchen shit because all they had were 2 plates and ONE bowl that they took turns eating cereal out of. We went out to this DELICIOUS restaurant that I’d been to before with my roommate from college–she grew up in the next town over.
Saturday began family weekend at Villanova, so my mom and the rest of my siblings (with the exception of Boss, who had something for band) drove out to Number 2′s apartment for the Nova-Lehigh football game and a huge dinner of 18 people at a typical Italian restaurant (during which various debacles occurred–more later).
And then Sunday, BMW and I went back to DC and I cleaned the house to get rid of my own stress. And here I’ve been since then, getting through my GRE guide (I take the test on 10/25), and trying to get myself to work on my stories (my first application is NYU’s due on December 18th, and I need to get my stories to my old professor/editor).
You don’t need a reason why you haven’t gotten in touch–you just need a reason to stay in touch. I think that even despite the short amount of time we had to get to know each other, we always connected every time we were together, and that both of us wished we had known the other for the important times in our lives when we had no one. I just want to hear what’s going on with you.
And that’s true for everyone I know. Sometimes I need to be listened to; other times I don’t want to talk about how I feel. Sometimes I just want to enjoy the absence my feelings, sad or otherwise, in order to focus on the feelings of my friends.
I came across a blog post by a friend about the seventh anniversary of 9/11. Since losing my father on that day, I was interested in what my friend had to say, and subsequently proud of the fact that the anniversary, seven years later, still elicited an emotional response—even from someone who hadn’t directly lost a friend or relative.
“A lot of people have waxed eloquent today about a tragedy that still gives most of us pause when we think about it. There has been a lot of ink spilled about the transcendent nature of the tragedy and our need to step beyond politics for one day and mourn. I mourned. And when I was done, I was angry.
People say that this is not a political issue and the deaths of thousands of American civilians, many of them trying to help their fellow countrymen is not inherently political. But my anger is political.
People say that we should direct our anger at the terrorists who plot today from caves and camps thousands of miles away – not against our leaders. I was angry at them for years. But now I am angry at us and our administration.
We have spent the past seven years fighting a war that had little to do with the terrorists. We have spent billions on it and diminished the ability of one of the greatest fighting forces in the world to protect us if and when a real need arises. And along all of that, we have toppled from our place at the helm of global politics. The terrorists didn’t do that to us and they didn’t force us to do it to ourselves. No, after seven long years, I am not angry at them anymore. I am angry at, and – worse – disappointed in, us.”
You say we’re “… fighting a war that had little to do with the terrorists” ?? If you honestly truly believe that (rather than simply using it as rhetorical shorthand for a more complex issue), I don’t know what to say. Sure Saddam didn’t do 9/11, but his type of regime and the UN’s flaccid non-performance of its function is exactly what created the opportunities and mindset (on all sides) for 9/11 to happen. At the very least the Bush administration chose a boldly different course. Not very efficient, certainly not 100% effective, but nothing in politics (especially international politics) ever is.
You say “…we have toppled from our place at the helm of global politics”??? Not last that I checked. That may be a trend that’s playing itself out over this decade and the coming ones, but “toppled” is an inaccurate word, and solely blaming the Bush administration’s post-9/11 actions is, again, Obama campaign boilerplate. You *know* that the reality is more complex than that.
You say, “No, after seven long years, I am not angry at them anymore.” Really? What changed your mind? Do you have the slightest cause to think they wouldn’t pull off another 9/11 if they could? Or, in a slightly broader context, do you imagine for a second that their cultures, religion, and societies can give you a tenth of the forbearance and tolerance that we give them? Or is it that time heals all wounds? Not here — I’m still *plenty* pissed.
You say ” I am angry at, and – worse – disappointed in, us.” In that case, I’d like to introduce to you the concept of “Masochistic Omnipotence Syndrome” — you’ll find some notes on it here.
For you to redirect the anger you felt at the perpetrators of 9/11′s horrors onto our own culture and leaders is a self-defeating bit of psychological transference. On the one hand, it’s understandable — you actually have a greater degree of control, however small, over what our culture is like and what our politicians/leaders do. On the other hand, like a hostage suffering from Stockholm syndrome, when you misinterpret and mis-identify the various sources of good and evil in the world, and their relative magnitudes, it leads you to make poor choices about how to behave, and where to direct your energies, emotional and physical.
Let’s remember the larger picture, please, shall we?”
That’s beside the point, though, because where you excel in word recognition, you fail in understanding the art of rhetoric. Are you familiar with that word? Are you aware that in lambasting this post’s use of rhetoric, you’re arguing against the very definition of the word? Rhetoric, for your own, lacking edification, is the use of speech to persuade. In this case, the writer encourages the readers to consider the nature of 9/11, its causes and effects.
For you to term this as political propaganda is entirely irrelevant. So what if it is? If you don’t want to read an individual’s opinion, why are you reading a BLOG?
Do you urge the writers of all blogs you read to avoid the temptation to wax politically? No, because that would be pompous to imply that your readership is above all.
As for 9/11, coming from someone whose father died in the attacks on the World Trade Center, your amateur understanding of psychological afflictions is laughable at best, and insulting at worst. Stockholm Syndrome? Masochistic Omnipotencebullshit? Step away from your DSM-IV!
To insinuate that anger is an unacceptable emotional response regarding the murder of more than three thousand innocent people response is lacking in any emotion IN ITSELF. Would you rather I laughed? Or perhaps I should be afraid? Maybe then I’d search for an outlet, one in which I could take out my own fears of something like 9/11 happening to me. Boy, it would really make me feel better if I just spend my time criticizing the way other people respond. Instead of addressing the emotional content of others’ responses, I could just deliver a litany of criticism in order to try and legitimize the attacks. Sounds like a good alternative to addressing my own feelings of inadequacy against an undefinable threat like planes flying into buildings.
Right?
I’m sure you have an opinion on that.
Ironically, you close by suggesting that the other directs his energy toward something more constructive. Like posting an opinion in response to an opinion? That hardly seems to espouse the notion of keeping things in perspective, now, doesn’t it?”
How do partners in a relationship remain one–connected, soul, mind, body, genitals, skin, scent–when they both have individual histories? And what if those histories are painful?
I open the house that we share to family that is connected to me via my lover, family who is also my own, in the same way as one can look at animals and recognize human similarities; or in nature, peaceful and integrated—a life force—or violent and destructive.
Aside from having the similarities of these things, we share everything else: a desk, house, dog, my secrets, his intimacy, physical pain, the tendency to indulge, the desire to improve things like life, emotion, connection, food, efficiency, community, relationships.
The things we share connect us, but we remain individual, the way two roots intertwine for a while but are still part of the same tree. His mother is mine, father similar, sister my own.
When our family comes to our house for Passover, our family friends come too. We cook together, eat together, sing at seder, smile, laugh, make a mess, clean the dishes. I wash the dishes, my lover hands them to me. I stand there, waiting for the dishes, my hands wrinkled and soapy from scrubbing a cast-iron pot, listening to our family friends ask about our photographs.
Our friend says, “Did you take this one?”
I say, “Which?”
“Of the Twin Towers,” he asks. My lover says, “No, E bought it a while ago.” The friend says, making a joke, “Oh, that’s interesting. Maybe, maybe E was the terrorist! Maybe that’s why she has this picture!” Our friend’s son says, “No, maybe the terrorists–”
“No,” my lover interrupts.
“What?” they ask.
“No,” my lover repeats. “Just stop. Stop.”
Our mother asks me mid-tear if it’s okay to put a bowl in the dishwasher. I nod. My lover comes to me, I take out our garbage, put it in our garbage can, hear our upstairs neighbors and I cry outside, dirt and cool tile beneath my feet. Someone explains to our friend my situation, I assume. However, therein lies the problem: this situation is not one that we all share.
I am severed, something in my brain is pulsing and my heart is not behaving and something in my throat will not allow itself to be swallowed. And the result: I am disconnected, set apart from our friends, family, the our in general.
I am exhibited, watched. so I do what i have learned to do: I force the rock to swallow, I scold my beating heart, distract the pain in my head. I wipe my face and breathe in and out and go back inside.
Where were you? they wonder. I took out the garbage.
Our friend thanks me profusely for dinner. He mentions how my lover should come shooting with him. I ask to come too.
Have you shot a gun before? No, but I’ve always wanted to. I’d love to teach you! And your lover can be our target practice!
We laugh. He hugs me goodbye. Thank you so much for coming, I say, and I mean it. Thank you for having us. I’m sorry about your dad, he says softly. You’re so welcome for dinner, I say, We’ll see you guys soon!
I wave goodbye. I kiss my lover’s mother and father, hug our friends goodbye, dry the dishes, put the leftovers in Tupperware. They hug me tight, everyone does. I hug them just as tight, feeling grateful for the extra tenderness and solidified acceptance. But in feeling grateful I feel guilty, for that thankfulness was precipitated by an uninformed friend, whose comment was precipitated by a catastrophic event that shook my legs and feet and house and soul. It joined me with people who could not hold me up, supplied many broken connections, emotionally intense conversations, tears (obviously), strong family ties, a fear of what will happen to my loved ones.
So how am I integrated when I am inherently, emotionally separate at times? When I want to both be a part of and apart from? It’s a duality that is insidious, infiltrating my personality and corrupting my friendliness. and sometimes, when I forget what has happened, when I remember my dad and taking walks in Double Trouble Park and the cranberry bogs and how he made lemon ice during the summer so we didn’t have to spend our money at Mrs. Walker’s.
When I think of him apart from “Terrorism” and “Ground Zero” and “Nine Eleven” and “September 11th” and “Hijackers” and “Airplanes,” my self shows through. I am happy, soft, I smile, I embrace friends, I kiss my dog, my family, hold hands, sing off key. I write, I am happy complaining about simple things like traffic and rain because I know these things will not keep me in bed.
In the morning, when I remember things uncomplicated and the dog licks my face, I smile, roll over to touch my lover, I say good morning. I get out of bed and am eager to live. and I am. I am here. I breathe-in experience. I breathe-out poetry.
