The windows of my fourth grade classroom offer an unobstructed view of the Twin Towers. From 610 Henry Street, we look across the East River and watch our country smoldering.
This—America’s greatest symbol in flames—is the first clear memory. There are earlier recollections, but this supersedes all that came before it, and casts a shadow over all that follows.
White shapes circling—at first we think they are birds—swirling on currents of heat and air. They fly across the East River and over the roofs of Brooklyn, and we open the windows of our classroom to catch them. We pull them in—not birds but papers, financial documents, their corners burnt black.
The day’s schedule is suspended. I don’t understand death yet, I don’t know what it means that the Twin Towers are on fire, but if we’re not going to Math at nine o’clock, something must be wrong. Not the brightest kid.
Our teacher turns on the radio—newscasters, adult voices in total confusion. Questions: who? Why? How? Too early for answers.
I never have words for this day—volumes have been written, will be written about how it shapes our nation—the values we welcome, the values we reject, the values which after fifteen years have polarized us to the point of paralysis.
The Towers fall and the sky itself turns to smoke. We shut the windows from which we’d caught these burning papers. We cannot see the buildings across the street. The classroom becomes a cage, the only clean air left in the city.
We walk home through dust and smog—my mother with my sister and I over the Gowanus Canal; my father over the Brooklyn Bridge.
Every year for fifteen years we remind ourselves to remember.
It’s 9/11, and our two sides take their opportunities to claim a monopoly on suffering, to monetize the moment, to mobilize their forces. We aim our stupid little darts. Our political discourse is a bad joke, our wars (don’t kid yourself) are unwinnable, our leaders and would-be leaders guide us steadily toward ruin.
Remember? As if anyone awake that day could forget.
Leave a Reply