12gauge.com 2002 - World Trade Center Tragedy

Where I Was When... (Follow-up)

by Carol Mangis

Ms. Mangis is former managing editor of 12gauge.com, and is currently an editor at PC Magazine.

This is the follow-up to Carol's original essay.

ESSAY 2 December 26, 2001

It’s been over three months now since the September 11 terror attacks. Even now, the news is filled with the war in Afghanistan, the hunt for Osama Bin Laden, anthrax, and speculation on how millions of donated dollars will be distributed among victims’ families.

In New York, we still tell our individual stories of that day to people we haven’t seen since before the 11th, and sometimes to strangers we’ll never see again. The attacks stay with us; the fear and disbelief and outrage and sorrow come in waves. The intensity is lessening; we no longer need to talk about it constantly. But we’re reminded every time we pass a fire or police station where candles still burn, fresh bouquets appear, and handmade “Thank You” and “Our Heroes” posters hang glance--or when we glance downtown and see the hole in our skyline.

Yesterday I ran into Jack, a sculptor friend; I hadn’t seen him in a while. I had heard that he witnessed the attacks from the roof of his studio’s building, on the lower East Side.

When I had last seen him, Jack was pretty big, but too strong-looking to be fat. He has lost nearly 80 pounds; he is thin and pale, and he looks like he never sleeps.

Jack spoke about what he saw after the second plane hit but before the towers came down. Smoke billowed from windows people had broken open. A man sheltered a woman with his body, whispering courage into her ear. People bloodied from broken glass held hands and jumped together, or dived alone, as if into a swimming pool.

He works in metal and stone and has the tools; he took them to the site of the catastrophe, and told the authorities that he was in the metalworkers’ union. They let him in to cut steel beams and help rescue the few survivors. He didn’t stop for a couple of days; his friends finally found him in the hospital suffering from exhaustion and smoke inhalation. As Jack spoke, it seemed he wasn’t in the room with us but was seeing it all again, for the thousandth time. I felt like I was there too. It was almost too much to stand.

I try to take care not to discount the effect of September 11 on all Americans, not just those in New York and Washington DC. But it does seems that many people are more interested in catching Bin Laden, putting limits on immigration, and curtailing personal freedom in the name of security than they are in dealing with the physical and emotional wounds from the attacks. They wave flags, venerate George W. Bush, fear flying, and worry about the economy. The raw anguish has receded, replaced by jingoism and a return to pre-attack enthrallment with celebrities, movies, and TV shows.

About a month ago, I told an out-of-town colleague on the phone that I was feeling sick, like I had a cold, but not exactly. Maybe, I said, it’s because of the bad air from the Ground Zero fires. He told me to try echinacea, as if I hadn’t said anything about the World Trade Center, or as if it were slightly distasteful to have mentioned it. I imagined him thinking, we really don’t need to talk about that any more, do we?

And more recently I heard from an almost-forgotten friend who found my e-mail address at Classmates.com. She wrote to tell me that her life is wonderful and full, and she’s still friends with so and so, and her husband is terrific, and it’s great to be in touch with me again. But you know where I live, I thought. Why didn’t you think to ask me whether I had come through the attacks OK, or to say you hoped I hadn’t lost someone, a friend, family, or a lover?

Maybe it is just taking longer for this to happen in New York because we still have so much palpable grief and loss all around us. Even here, the pulling closer, the recognition of commonality, the simple kindness so many people felt for one another still exists, but it’s definitely muted. I had dreamed that maybe the attacks would precipitate a spiritual transformation, a miracle jump to a new level of compassion and understanding. That seems like a very na�ve fantasy now.

As the holidays approached, I knew I needed to get away. I went to Alabama to visit my sister and her family. Though I felt relief even at the thought of going away, I also felt an emotional wrench. I thought, I don't want to leave the people who understand my complicated, weird jumpiness and depression. The trip was long, made longer since I was randomly tagged "by the computer" as a searchee at LaGuardia, and then a 2-hour delay in Memphis ("mechanical problems" is all they'd tell us).

We went to a church service on Christmas Eve. Usually I don't attend with them--but it was Christmas, and the kids wanted me to go, and I'm not as allergic to church, since September 11. The ceremony wasn't what I'm used to from my Catholic childhood; a guy played guitar and sang Christmas carols and some newish hymns I didn't recognize, and we sang along. People lifted their arms, as if embracing the air. The pastor spoke, and my mind wandered; I watched my little niece draw on a collection envelope.

Then he directed us to join into circles to pray. My sister, her husband, her children, and I made a circle, and I surprised myself by saying, "I have something I want to pray for. My city." We all closed our eyes, and my youngest nephew began to speak; this 10-year-old articulately and compassionately prayed for God to heal New York. I began to cry, and I felt it all again, that great, limitless sorrow. When we broke the circle, my sister saw me and held me, and I felt I might break, then, into sobs or into pieces. I realized again that there is caring in the world, if you are lucky and know where to find it.

What We Can Do by Garrett Mok

Where I Was When... by Carol Mangis

A Child of Allah by Mark Mordue

God and Wall Street: Observations and reflections crossing America, late September, 2001 by Judd Kleinman