Denver 5, or Out Of Time

9/11 Tell Me A Story (c) 2006 S. Bear Bergman

Hey, listen - thanks, but we don't need another moment of silence. We do that more than well enough already. We bottle it up, we try to gut it out, we whisper the C word and we speak in hushed tones about the dead. We get overwhelmed by the sheer numbers, the sheer horror, and we let it silence us. We erase every disagreement, magnify every peak or valley, and we hold it close, very close. Too close.

Listen, for my money? Skip the moment of silence. Give me a moment of storytelling instead, or five minutes, or a whole day. Turn to your neighbor, wherever you are, and tell them what you remember about whoever you lost. Tell about Jeremy's habit of refilling his coffee mug all day, all week, without washing it, and how he insisted that the heat of the coffee killed any possible bacteria. Tell about how Nicky used to stand up on her bike pedals and blow kisses to the trafic when it was gridlock or nearly and she was pedaling home from work. How Aunt Petunia smelled like camphor and couldn't cook worth a shit, how Javier wouldn't leave the house without blessing it if his daughter was inside, how you were almost ready to bury the hatchet with Gillian about what she said last spring and you wish you had been ready a little sooner.

Tell all the stories. Fill the air with them, instead of bells. Say all the names nine times. Carry them forward with you, on your sleeve instead of in your pocket. They no longer need to be protected; in fact, they'll protect you if you let them. If you tell their stories.

My story: "Today Is Not My Day"

"Good Morning. Today is Tuesday, September 11, 2001. All freshmen are reminded to double-check their schedules with their guidance counselors before the end of this week. All sophomores, juniors, and seniors are reminded that class changes cannot be made after Friday, September 14. Please rise for the pledge..."

I stand with the rest of my class automatically, hand already positioned over tye-dyed tshirt breast. I recite my abbreviated version of the Plejulleejunce, copyright April freshman year, phrasing it in a mockery of the sing-song mumble of my classmates.

"I plejuleejunce (breathe) to the flag (breathe) of the United States of America (breathe). And to the republic, (breathe) for which it stands, (breathe) one nation (breathe), under the Christian god (breathe), very divided (breathe), with liberty and justice (breathe)."

I make a mockery of much in my high school - fourteen year olds in pink sweatpants with cellphones among them. Only a sophomore and already known for a number of personae, all of them antagonistic and self-righteous. The girl who stared down Mr. Lewis for calling a kid faggy. The frosh who calls the popular senior "Bangladesh" for wearing expensive, child-labor-made shoes. I wear big sweatshirts and jeans that don't quite fit.

I do have one redeeming social value - I try to go out of my way to be nice to the new kids - mostly Korean immigrants whose parents were moved here for business reasons, and will in all likelihood return in a year or two. I introduce myself to one of the new kids, Soo-jin, and promise to skip gym class with her to show her the building, and help her find the bathroom.

The first week of gym class is bureaucracy at its finest - gym teachers in swishy nylon pants, running around with their whistles clanging against their warm-up jackets, trying to sort an entire grade's worth of students into 20-person gym classes. The students, for the most part, hang out on the bleachers and make noise. Hardly anyone hears the PA system come on.

“Attention students. Quiet down, everyone. I have some serious and important news. Just a few minutes ago, a plane crashed into the World…”

Shit, what an accident. But also the perfect moment to escape. I nudge Soo-jin, and we slip out of the gym. There are no students in the hallway, which is unusual – just a number of administrators, walking fast and looking agitated.

"Why everyone so upset?" Soo-jin asks, puzzled. "Oh," I say casually, "a plane hit an important building that’s about half an hour away from us." I speak only with the security that comes with not knowing anyone who works in the Financial District. We finish our tour and head back to the gym, which seems even noisier than we left it.

We soon find out why – someone’s gotten a hold of a boom box and is blasting any AM radio they can find. The second plane has already hit, and the rumors, curses and tears are starting to fly.

"Mom? Mom?! Mommy, can you hear me?!" I hear a voice close behind me and whirl around. Bangladesh is sobbing, clutching her pink Nokia like a lifeline. Her panic starts a tornado that whips through the room. Suddenly, everyone has someone they need to call, and cell phones appear from pockets and bags like grasshoppers. It doesn't take long before everyone realizes that the cell lines are nearly useless, a major cell tower having been located at the top of the Twin Towers. I can't listen to people screaming anymore – I slip out just before the teachers close the gym doors, abandoning Soo-jin in the mess.

I head towards the music department, where I know there will be some electric contraband – a radio, maybe even open-circuit TV. I pass a group of people in the hallway, clustered around the closed-circuit television that usually broadcasts the day’s announcements. Right now, it's on NBC, and I hear someone exclaim.

"Hamas! Hamas has claimed responsibility for this!" I freeze, and choke for the first time all day. All of my associations with Hamas are with Israel, images of my cousins in their military uniforms, with pictures from the Jewish Standard newspaper of men in headscarves, with guns. I break into a dead run for the school auditorium, right outside the music department office.

The auditorium is dark, cool, empty and mercifully silent. I drop to my knees in the middle of the stage, fast tears on my cheeks. I want to shake my fist at this god, who has failed to protect my family in Israel, and who is now failing to protect me here. Thoughts dart back and forth – will my family have to leave? Is it my turn to run from men with guns?

As soon as I can stop crying, I leave the sanctuary of the auditorium. In the music department office, there are only three people: the band director, the choir director, and an Israeli kid, who is hunched into the corner, shaking. His fingers are holding something, tight, knuckles white. It’s his Star of David necklace, and he is terrified.

"They’re coming," he says, his accent thicker than his tears. "Not enough they should want the only place that’s hours, they come to get us here." I watch the band teacher put a finger to her lips – the radio volume in here is low, so people won’t mob the office.

"No, hon, it was a mistake,” she says gently. Even in five minutes, the news has changed. "It’s not Hamas, it's another group." I exhale, for the first time in minutes. Not this time. Not us. Not my turn. I sling an arm around the Israeli kid.
"Kol B’seder - it’s all okay," I tell him. Today it is other people's turn for fear.

With this knowledge safely in my back pocket, I head into the hallways. People are strewn about like luggage, draped on one another, still trying to reach their parents, uncles, aunts, cousins, friends by cell phone. I offer hugs, squeeze hands like a Civil War battlefield nurse offering bandages. It is not my day for panic; the little I have to give becomes a lot.

The PA system has started again – this time, they keep calling the names of different students. Rumors are spreading about this, too – are they the names of students who have lost their parents?

No, comes the confirmation, a minute later. They’ve locked down the school. No one’s allowed to leave unless their parents come, but since no one’s in class, they have to broadcast names to try and find people.

I don’t remember how I get home – whether my mother comes to pick me up, or another mother packs me into her car and promises to drop me off at home. But when I get there, my sister is already home, as well as my best friend and her mother. My friend is crying, hugging her mother.

“I didn’t know where you were,” she sobs. “You don’t have a phone!” Her mother, a sensible Romanian Jewish immigrant, strokes her hair.

“Come now,” she says. “I was perfectly fine. I was just fine.”

It is only in the next few days that people begin to assess the real damage. Teachers are told to resume classes as normal, but most people can’t focus. All but my history teacher give up on teaching for a few weeks – but he has found out he is to be sent to Afghanistan to fight the new War on Terror. He uses the few weeks to do a unit on political cartoons. He and I argue in class a lot; he likes Bush, and I all but tried to sneak into the polls to vote for Nader.

When I’m not arguing, I spend my time writing poetry, trying to figure out all that’s going on around me without living in it too much. I still offer small comforts in the hallways, listen to people cry. I am so tired, I hardly notice the weight of other people’s mourning.

Only three weeks later, as I’m preparing to sing at my fifth memorial service, does someone notice. A fellow singer, he approaches me for a hug before we’re due to sing. I hold out my arms, with a tissue in my hand, just in case. He puts my arms down, and instead wraps his around me, holding me. After I stop struggling, I finally put my head on his shoulder.

“This pain,” I tell him, “is not mine to have. I lost so little, others so much. I have so little cause to fear this time.”

“Still,” he says, “You were there.” A short, but intense and deep friendship follows, ended only by the girl he starts dating that December.

one year later

9/11/02
MOMENT OF SILENCE

im sick of all these preppie bitches
wearing their vacuum sealed baby Ts
proudly displaying their freedom
across their tits
do they know
they're supporting the crazed
latest media fad
"consumerist patriotism"?
which is attempting to drag us back in time
into the fierce undertow of one year past
and we console ourselves
the american way
by buying the Tshirt
and pretending to carry on
when all we really want
is an excuse to stop
the whirlwind
to get off
the scary carnival ride
as Osama stands behind
the mask of the laughing clown

five years later

I finally wrote my story down. And I feel spent. Perhaps I was there, but it was not my day.

seven years later

What's your story?