This September 11th will be 24 years since that day in 2001, when the world, and America, changed forever. I moved out of New York City in 2005. In the city, our anniversaries were spent in moments of silence, the reading of names and church bells ringing throughout the city. Subways would stop to commemorate when the two planes hit, and when the two towers fell, to the chagrin of those is us riding through a tunnel. It was odd being away from the city on that day, and as the years went by, there was always something that bothered me more and more.
It was listening to people tell their stories of where they were that day. That woman who was getting ready for work in Arizona, that man who was in the break room at his office in Ohio, someone else stuck in traffic in North Carolina. Hearing people talk about their experiences that morning has always offended me. You see, I worked in downtown Manhattan. I never share this with people who talk about how they felt scared for their own safety, when they lived 4000 miles away from what was happening , because I never knew how to say...Do you know what it's like having to duck when a plane hits a building and creates a huge fireball? Have you ever run from a wall of dust caused by a building collapsing? And no one wants to hear about the man in the blue tie, who I watched choose falling, over what was a much worse fate, on that day of no good choices. I just sit quietly and think to myself ...do you all really think your stories matter?
Yes, I am aware how horrible and pompous that sounds. I have also, finally come to the conclusion, how wrong I have been. I wasn't on that sidewalk as I watched an officer of the law put his knee on George Floyd's neck. I wasn't in those hospital rooms during lockdown, as loved ones said their goodbyes over Zoom...but I can tell you, with all honesty, the pain, horror, fear and disgust I felt when I was made aware of these things was not in any way diminished by my location.
My girlfriend's grandmother was possibly the kindest person I have ever met. I only knew her about a year, but in that time, I loved her as much as I loved either of my grandmas. When she was growing weaker, and we were sitting on either side of her, holding her hands, the pain I felt was no less than what my girlfriend was going through, as she held a hand that she had held for over 40 years. Pain is pain. Grief is grief and loss is loss. When my dog of 15 years had to be put down, the tears my girlfriend shed, as she held him, were no less than mine, though she had barely known him half as long.
So this September 11th, I hope you all share your stories. What you saw on the TV, heard on the radio or learned from a friend. Those of us who were there don't get to say we hurt more than you do. Because of technology, you saw everything I saw. It took me almost 24 years to realize diminishing your story doesn't make mine any more or less.
A black man killed by those we trust to protect us. Refrigerator trucks, full of Americans, parked outside our hospitals. A little Polish woman, the Busia to the woman I love, finally letting go from a life filled with pain, hope and extraordinary love...and that day in September when a city fell down around me...they all hurt in different ways, and my pain is as legitimate as yours...and your pain is as legitimate as mine. I just hope we can all find a way to mend ourselves. Perhaps healing is attainable. Maybe we get there by sharing our stories, after all.
Music: "Walk on" by U2
