WEEKLY COLUMN:
JDM vs the WORLD

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FINE PRINT

September 11, 2002. Well, then...here we are.

It was one year ago today that 19 terrorist hijackers pulled the first surprise attack of the new millennium, one year ago today that their stunt invoked the rawest of American emotions. Indeed, it was one year ago today that we, the people, tasted the fire and fear in our own hearts. One year ago today. I’ll be damned.

The magnitude of today’s anniversary first hit me ten days ago, on the night of September 1st. I spent that evening in my old stomping grounds, a little place called Hoboken, New Jersey. It’s a real throwback of a town, in case you haven’t been there. It’s like something off the set of a movie about inner city America in the early 1900s, save for the yuppies and various machines of modern design.

But beyond its traditional lampposts, beyond its old school look and feel, Hoboken’s three most distinguishing features are: (1) Location; (2) Location; and (3) Location. That’s because it rests on the Hudson waterfront, just a short swim from lower Manhattan. In fact, from the way New York City’s skyline looms incessantly overhead, Hoboken could easily be mistaken for a historic district of the Big Apple itself.

I remember making that mistake—in spirit, at least—in 1998, the summer when I worked there.

I remember that summer as if it ended this past Labor Day; my memories are as clear as the skies were overcast my first day on the job. I remember walking off the PATH train platform that morning, chin and hopes held high, and I remember the blood rushing through my veins as I plodded through the puddles on the steps that led to the streets.

And I remember the Twin Towers being the first thing that caught my fancy once outside. There they were, I tell you. Right there, right behind my shoulder as I exited the PATH train station. It was hard to miss them. Impossible, really. I mean, they were right there—right there. I remember them.

Now, it was Hoboken’s favorite son, Frank Sinatra, who sang of New York City, “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere,” and I couldn’t help but whisper those lyrics while I walked to work that day. “Dude,” I told myself, “if you can make it here—in the Twin Towers’ shadow —you can make it pretty much anywhere.” I believed it, too. I was young back then. I was awestruck by their presence, naïve enough to think it was just a dream.

For me, the aura of the World Trade Center was inescapable, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Today, the aura of the World Trade Center isn’t physical but rather existential and surreal. Though the Twin Towers no longer cast a shadow on Hoboken, their dearth overshadows every city for miles and miles around. I found myself struggling with this fact when I visited ten days ago. Though I’ve been to Hoboken a number of times since September 11th of last year, the coming of today’s anniversary made it even more meaningful than before.

All night long, I caught myself searching—scratching—for a glimpse of the Twin Towers where they once stood. This time, I was awestruck by their absence instead of their presence, but I was still naïve enough to think it was just a dream.

It’s for that reason that Hoboken might be counted amongst the casualties of the terrorist attacks. Majestic as the skyline still is, the little city’s backdrop isn’t as beautiful as it was one year ago. It’s more haunting now than anything else, and the worst thing is that it’s hardly the lone place I catch myself looking for the Twin Towers. I still look for them at the shore, for example, and while driving the Turnpike.

“They’re not there,” I’ll tell myself. “They’re gone.”

Well, of course they’re gone. I watched them go. I watched them crumble and I know they’re not there. Yet I look for them—here, there, everywhere—and I’ll usually close my eyes in hopes that it might bring them back. Gone means gone, I know, I know, but I can’t reconcile the fact that I’ll never see them again.

But I’ve seen them in the endless reels of footage on TV this week, and it’s felt like a group hug with two long lost friends. Every clip and still-shot brings back the heartache and furor that struck me on the morning of September 11, 2001.

Like my summer in Hoboken, I can remember the terrorist attacks as if they happened yesterday. I can remember the CD that played on my way to work that morning. I can remember the clothes that I wore. I can remember the horror in everyone’s eyes.

Maybe that means I’m living in the past. Maybe that means I can’t let go. Maybe I can’t help but feel bad for having returned to normalcy long before today’s anniversary. Maybe I’m alone in feeling a return to normalcy might be wrong overall.

“But life goes on,” folks tell me.

Not for everyone it doesn’t. Not for the thousands that perished on September 11th, and not in the same way for their mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, or daughters and sons.

Life didn’t go on for those that turned to dust in the flames at the World Trade Center and it didn’t go on for those that escaped the flames by jumping to their doom. Life didn’t go on for those that entered the buildings while others were on the way out, either.

Life also didn’t go on for the passengers aboard those four fatal flights on the morning of September 11th. It didn’t go on for the pilots, flight attendants and many of those working in the Pentagon as well.

Those folks will never hold their spouses’ hands again. They’ll never teach their sons to play catch or show their daughters how to sew. They’ll never walk another dog, never scratch the ears of another purring cat nor marvel again at the first birds of spring.

They’ll never drink another martini. They’ll never smoke another cigarette. They’ll never taste another gourmet meal, never order fries at another drive-thru window and never again ask someone to pass the pepper or salt.

And those folks will never take in another Saturday matinee or spend another rainy night on the couch with a loved one and two tapes from Blockbuster. They’ll never forget to unplug another clothes iron, never burn another bag of microwave popcorn, never forget another anniversary and never sign with a heart at the bottom of another birthday card.

They’ll never blow out another birthday candle, in fact, and they’ll never make another birthday wish. They’ll never have another birthday.

Try telling them that life goes on.

You know, we’re told that September 11th changed everything, but it sometimes seems like the world’s only changed by not changing. It’s still an awful place, still a stage upon which epic hatred is too often staged. The only difference is that now we know that’s about as good as it’s going to get.

And me? I’m every bit as bitter and bruised as I was this time last year. To that end, nothing’s changed. Nothing’s become clearer, save for the fact that the hole in my heart that’s 220-stories wide looks like it won’t go away.

I feel guilty nowadays, almost ashamed for having survived. Part of me wonders how the hijackings and anthrax letters came so close to home without hitting. The other part wants to know how I can just sit here and write this as if life’s not a privilege but a right. I mean, what gives me the audacity to move on? Don’t I owe something more to those that died?

These are questions for which I have yet to find answers. Athough asking them only serves to stir my anger, in a way, that’s a good thing.

I don’t want to forget how angry I am. I don’t want to forget how frightened I was on the morning of September 11, 2001. Roughly 3,000 countrymen died that day, and I don’t want to forget how much their deaths offended me nor how much they molded my current world perspective.

I don’t want to forget how much I abhor Islamic extremists, how much I despise their sympathizers and how much the lot of them deserves to be smashed by the might of America’s military. I don’t want to forget the handful of loudmouths that have tried to trivialize the terrorist attacks—not to mention American ideals and the authority of God Himself—and I don’t want to forget to laugh when the loudmouths finally get theirs.

I don’t want to forget which songs took on new meanings after September 11th. I don’t want to forget to keep my eye on every low-flying plane.

I don’t want to forget anything that occurred over the course of the last 12 months, and, more importantly, I don’t want the remembrance of September 11th to fade away on September 12th. Otherwise, we can suffer a thousand days like the one we suffered 365 ago, and we’ll be none the wiser for it.

That’s why we must mimic the bravery of those who died. We must eradicate evil wherever it may hide, so that the deaths were not in vain.

But as I sit here—the lasting images of last year’s attacks flanked by Hoboken’s new view on my mind—I find myself wondering: If we didn’t start this fire, should we be expected to put it out? Or should we only hope to contain it?

The battle of good and evil is age old. Pain and suffering transcend the generations on Earth today. Death and despair, mindless violence, self-righteous hate—these are things that existed long before September 11th, and long before you and me. They’ll continue to exist long after our ashes have been swept under history’s rug.

And so, we’re just supposed to laugh a little, live a little, and sit back and take solace in the fact that life goes on. Contrived as it may sound, we can only hope that those who died would’ve wanted it that way.

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