September 11th
Someone asked me this morning about my experience in New York on September 11, 2001, and I referred him to my blog post, written on the 10th anniversary, because that was the first time I had written about it, or even talked about it much for reasons that I included in the post. But I just went back and read it and its full of lingering pain of which I have been able to let go, so I would like to write another one- just a short addition to what I wrote and couldn't even title at the time.
I'll first just say that I have so much gratitude for that period of my life. Living in New York City as a kid is exactly like it sounds; exciting, incredible, magical, and sometimes scary, but incomparably empowering. And, let's not forget, I was a kid.
I was 18 and Rachel was 23. We had a helluva lot of fun. I worked- there's no other way to survive, obviously- but came up short on my half of the rent a few times, and Rachel was always there for me. We had an awesome group of friends, an incredible ward full of incredible people, who were all in New York because they were great at what they were doing.
Rachel and I didn't learn of the... (what do I call them?) events... of the morning until after the towers melted and crumbled under their own weight. I felt a lot of guilt about that for a while because it felt like I just hadn't shown up for class on a day that was going to affect the whole world. But the things that hurt for a long time were the things that I could touch and feel.
Mom came to visit us in October and stayed with us in our noisy rowdy neighborhood in Brooklyn. We rode the train into the city to enjoy what New York has to offer its visitors, and at one point on our ride into Manhattan, were were coming out of the darkness to a stop and the train grew quiet, like it always did, then. My mom looked surprised and asked, afraid, "What's that smell?" I couldn't even look up at her. All I could say was, "This is Foulton Street." Its the subway stop for the World Trade Center and it smelled like... smoke and sick, and rot, and wet. It was awful. Even now my chin twists a little thinking about it. It wasn't a respectful moment of silence that made everyone on the car quiet when we went past Foulton Street- because we didn't even stop there, we just went through the station and could see the workers cutting pipes and water draining here and there and broken tile and dust, dust, dust... Everyone was quiet because we were sad. We had tried to move on and keep going only days after the planes hit, but we still had to smell it every day. Smell death, and hate, and sorrow, and suffering. Every day. It was terrible.
Its things like that that made the memory of that time so painful. But Thankfully people have been respectful of my feelings, no matter what they are, and have been really kind to ask what my experience was, when we all experienced it. I was afraid to talk about it because I couldn't separate my feelings into thoughts; they just came out as feelings and nonsense and rambling sometimes. Like the fact that I remember insignificant details from the day mattered to me, but I didn't know why. Now I understand that in whatever kind of heightened awareness I was in- shock or something like it- caused me to record the tiniest little things. Our checker at the crowded grocery store having her name tattooed on her arm, and that name being "Cinnamon", are not significant unless you know that it was a symptom of the fear, or survival mode that we were in.
I am grateful that I was there. I am grateful that I was safe. I grateful to live a life in which I can take my time to work through things, and know people who are supportive of that process. I am so grateful for my beautiful sister who is an ever present fixture in every memory of those short 6 months. I am grateful to live in the United States of America, where we are so blessed that when several thousand people are killed at the hands of evil people, its world news. There are a great many places where that is not the case.
I'm a lucky girl.
I'll first just say that I have so much gratitude for that period of my life. Living in New York City as a kid is exactly like it sounds; exciting, incredible, magical, and sometimes scary, but incomparably empowering. And, let's not forget, I was a kid.
I was 18 and Rachel was 23. We had a helluva lot of fun. I worked- there's no other way to survive, obviously- but came up short on my half of the rent a few times, and Rachel was always there for me. We had an awesome group of friends, an incredible ward full of incredible people, who were all in New York because they were great at what they were doing.
Rachel and I didn't learn of the... (what do I call them?) events... of the morning until after the towers melted and crumbled under their own weight. I felt a lot of guilt about that for a while because it felt like I just hadn't shown up for class on a day that was going to affect the whole world. But the things that hurt for a long time were the things that I could touch and feel.
Mom came to visit us in October and stayed with us in our noisy rowdy neighborhood in Brooklyn. We rode the train into the city to enjoy what New York has to offer its visitors, and at one point on our ride into Manhattan, were were coming out of the darkness to a stop and the train grew quiet, like it always did, then. My mom looked surprised and asked, afraid, "What's that smell?" I couldn't even look up at her. All I could say was, "This is Foulton Street." Its the subway stop for the World Trade Center and it smelled like... smoke and sick, and rot, and wet. It was awful. Even now my chin twists a little thinking about it. It wasn't a respectful moment of silence that made everyone on the car quiet when we went past Foulton Street- because we didn't even stop there, we just went through the station and could see the workers cutting pipes and water draining here and there and broken tile and dust, dust, dust... Everyone was quiet because we were sad. We had tried to move on and keep going only days after the planes hit, but we still had to smell it every day. Smell death, and hate, and sorrow, and suffering. Every day. It was terrible.
Its things like that that made the memory of that time so painful. But Thankfully people have been respectful of my feelings, no matter what they are, and have been really kind to ask what my experience was, when we all experienced it. I was afraid to talk about it because I couldn't separate my feelings into thoughts; they just came out as feelings and nonsense and rambling sometimes. Like the fact that I remember insignificant details from the day mattered to me, but I didn't know why. Now I understand that in whatever kind of heightened awareness I was in- shock or something like it- caused me to record the tiniest little things. Our checker at the crowded grocery store having her name tattooed on her arm, and that name being "Cinnamon", are not significant unless you know that it was a symptom of the fear, or survival mode that we were in.
I am grateful that I was there. I am grateful that I was safe. I grateful to live a life in which I can take my time to work through things, and know people who are supportive of that process. I am so grateful for my beautiful sister who is an ever present fixture in every memory of those short 6 months. I am grateful to live in the United States of America, where we are so blessed that when several thousand people are killed at the hands of evil people, its world news. There are a great many places where that is not the case.
I'm a lucky girl.
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