CARRYING THE FUTURE
Within my family folklore there is a story about the time my dad and mom (something like seven months pregnant with my brother) climbed Bowman’s Tower. Bowman’s Tower is 125 feet tall and in 1972 there was no elevator. I never understood why she did it, and it doesn’t really matter, Bowman’s Tower has always been central to my understanding of my family.
Bowman’s Tower is located in Bucks County, PA, a place that figures heavily in my personal narrative and family history. My parents first went to Bucks on their “mini-moon” – a concept that didn’t even have a catchy name back then – and fell in love with it. They returned frequently throughout their marriage and it is the scene of many of my favorite memories. Aside from the countless weekends I spent with my family shopping, eating, canoeing and seeing musicals at the Bucks County Playhouse, there were certain watershed moments in my life in which the area figured prominently. We stayed in Bucks County the night before I caught the bus to Long Lake for the first time. I had lunch with my parents in Bucks County before I drove to Mason for the start of my crucial second year of college. SMS first told me he loved me in Bucks County (actually it was across the river in Lambertville, NJ, but it was close enough). SMS and I got married in Bucks County, which allowed us to share one of our favorite places with the all the people we love. In 2006, Mr. Happy and I scattered my father ashes in Bucks County.
And even though I never climbed Bowman’s Tower myself, in utero or out, it is a resounding symbol of what was important to the people who raised me: history, travel, first-hand experiences, beauty … The story of my mother’s climb was never far from my mind as I journeyed this past week, carrying my own first-child in utero, through the American south with 90 Jewish 16-year-olds on a Civil Rights odyssey. We explored the connections between whites, blacks, religion and rock ‘n’ roll in the 1950s and 60s. I hope this journey will be as indicative of the family I am about to create as Bowman’s Tower and Bucks County was of the family that created me.
TO SEE A DAY BY DAY PHOTO OVERVIEW CLICK HERE.
TO SEE ALL OF MY JOURNEY PHOTOS CLICK HERE.
TO READ PART 1 :: BEING AN ADULT CLICK HERE.
TO READ PART 2 :: THE POWER OF HERE AND NOW CLICK HERE.
TO READ PART 3 :: PROTESTING THE PROTESTER CLICK HERE.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
2008 Civil Rights Journey :: Day By Day In Pics
Monday – Atlanta, GA
Lunch: Kosher Deli Sandwiches
Dinner: Kosher BBQ
Leo Frank Lynching
Dr. Martin Luther King Center in Atlanta/Ebenezer Baptist
Name Project/AIDS Quilt
Emory University
Reverend GH Williams
Tuesday – Montgomery and Birmingham, AL
Lunch: Kosher Deli Sandwhiches
Dinner: Kosher Pasta and Salad
Reverend Graetz/Rosa Parks Museum
Southern Poverty Law Center
Freedom Park with Reverend Woods
Wednesday – Tupelo, MS and Memphis, TN
Lunch: Kids were on their own, Adults had ribs at the Rendez-Vous
Dinner: Kids had Pizza, I had a cheeseburger and fries
Birthplace of Elvis
The "Adults" on Beale Street
Mississippi River
Smithsonian Rock and Soul
Alfred’s on Beale Street
Thursday – Memphis, TN
Lunch: French Dip
Dinner: Kosher Fried Chicken
Sun Studios
Graceland
National Civil Rights Museum at the Lorraine Motel
Lunch: Kosher Deli Sandwiches
Dinner: Kosher BBQ
Leo Frank Lynching
Dr. Martin Luther King Center in Atlanta/Ebenezer Baptist
Name Project/AIDS Quilt
Emory University
Reverend GH WilliamsTuesday – Montgomery and Birmingham, AL
Lunch: Kosher Deli Sandwhiches
Dinner: Kosher Pasta and Salad
Reverend Graetz/Rosa Parks Museum
Southern Poverty Law Center
Freedom Park with Reverend WoodsWednesday – Tupelo, MS and Memphis, TN
Lunch: Kids were on their own, Adults had ribs at the Rendez-Vous
Dinner: Kids had Pizza, I had a cheeseburger and fries
Birthplace of Elvis
The "Adults" on Beale Street
Mississippi River
Smithsonian Rock and Soul
Alfred’s on Beale StreetThursday – Memphis, TN
Lunch: French Dip
Dinner: Kosher Fried Chicken
Sun Studios
Graceland
National Civil Rights Museum at the Lorraine Motel2008 Civil Rights Journey (Part 1)
BEING THE ADULT
Prior to leaving on the trip I had shared with my colleagues that I was pregnant. My first trimester was not yet complete, but I wanted to make sure that they understood my behavior (especially related to food) was because of my new pregnancy – not because I was anorexic, bulimic, depressed or rude. During the first trimester my relationship to food could only be described as erratic and impulsive: sometimes I wanted NOTHING to do with it and then all of a sudden I would need to eat IMMEDIATELY. Or, on more than one occasion, I would happily be eating a meal and then, inexplicably, I would need to be as far away from food as possible. It was a terrible idea to get between food and me. At book club several weeks ago someone tried to “ration” my portion of French toast because she wasn’t sure how many more people were on the way. Without missing a beat, I announced that she absolutely could NOT ration my French toast because I was pregnant! That caught a few people off guard! I was also very suggestible – an advertiser’s best friend.
So I shared my news, slightly prematurely, with colleagues and I’m very glad I did. They were so understanding and always made sure that I got to go to the front of the buffet line. They also let me sneak away for a burger when everyone else was eating pizza. It also led to a number of very touching conversations, especially with the fathers in the group. At one point I shared with one of them that I was nervous about being a mom because I was so used to being a daughter – he assured me that it was possible to be both. But the transition to mom was somewhat exaggerated by the need to chaperon 90 kids over the course of the week. I kept thinking: “When did I become the adult?”
I remember my school trips fondly: there was the Washington D.C. trip, an east coast staple; the bizarre trip to the Christian camp that was also a ski trip during which my arch nemesis spent an hour and half one night crying to me in a bathroom and promptly went back to ignoring me the next day; the trip to French Canada during which I made PW tell our host family I was allergic to peas because they served them on a hamburger drenched in gravy; the trip to Stratford to see Shakespeare; the amazing trip to study theatre and history in London and the life-changing Habitat for Humanity trip to Rochester, NY. I knew the trip we were on in the South was just as monumental as any of these, if not more so, and I was excited about the experience, but it was completely surreal being the authority figure. I kept thinking, did my teachers lay in their hotel rooms watching whatever the 1980s equivalent of Sex in the City was and talking about us?!
To be honest, I do not have a good track record as an authority figure. While in college I worked at a summer program for high school students. I enjoyed my summer there but I didn’t get great feed-back as a counselor and I know exactly why that was: I was a really well-behaved kid and I had no idea how to deal with kids who weren’t. I actually did not understand them in a very basic way. That is still true today. As a teenager I did not break rules; I did not break curfew; I was not rude to my elders. When faced with that behavior I develop quite an edge. There was no place for my edge on this trip. I was sent with the express purpose of getting to know the kids so that they would feel connected to me and therefore connected to the alumni program that I run. I wasn’t supposed to be the heavy and yet, at the same time, well, being the heavy is sort of in my nature. It took me a couple days, but I was able to work it out in the end. I figured it was all good when one of the kids I caught breaking curfew early in the week came up to me at baggage claim on Friday, hugged me, and thanked me for the trip. I’m still not sure how I became the adult.
The Justice League of Chaperons
Prior to leaving on the trip I had shared with my colleagues that I was pregnant. My first trimester was not yet complete, but I wanted to make sure that they understood my behavior (especially related to food) was because of my new pregnancy – not because I was anorexic, bulimic, depressed or rude. During the first trimester my relationship to food could only be described as erratic and impulsive: sometimes I wanted NOTHING to do with it and then all of a sudden I would need to eat IMMEDIATELY. Or, on more than one occasion, I would happily be eating a meal and then, inexplicably, I would need to be as far away from food as possible. It was a terrible idea to get between food and me. At book club several weeks ago someone tried to “ration” my portion of French toast because she wasn’t sure how many more people were on the way. Without missing a beat, I announced that she absolutely could NOT ration my French toast because I was pregnant! That caught a few people off guard! I was also very suggestible – an advertiser’s best friend.
So I shared my news, slightly prematurely, with colleagues and I’m very glad I did. They were so understanding and always made sure that I got to go to the front of the buffet line. They also let me sneak away for a burger when everyone else was eating pizza. It also led to a number of very touching conversations, especially with the fathers in the group. At one point I shared with one of them that I was nervous about being a mom because I was so used to being a daughter – he assured me that it was possible to be both. But the transition to mom was somewhat exaggerated by the need to chaperon 90 kids over the course of the week. I kept thinking: “When did I become the adult?”
I remember my school trips fondly: there was the Washington D.C. trip, an east coast staple; the bizarre trip to the Christian camp that was also a ski trip during which my arch nemesis spent an hour and half one night crying to me in a bathroom and promptly went back to ignoring me the next day; the trip to French Canada during which I made PW tell our host family I was allergic to peas because they served them on a hamburger drenched in gravy; the trip to Stratford to see Shakespeare; the amazing trip to study theatre and history in London and the life-changing Habitat for Humanity trip to Rochester, NY. I knew the trip we were on in the South was just as monumental as any of these, if not more so, and I was excited about the experience, but it was completely surreal being the authority figure. I kept thinking, did my teachers lay in their hotel rooms watching whatever the 1980s equivalent of Sex in the City was and talking about us?!
To be honest, I do not have a good track record as an authority figure. While in college I worked at a summer program for high school students. I enjoyed my summer there but I didn’t get great feed-back as a counselor and I know exactly why that was: I was a really well-behaved kid and I had no idea how to deal with kids who weren’t. I actually did not understand them in a very basic way. That is still true today. As a teenager I did not break rules; I did not break curfew; I was not rude to my elders. When faced with that behavior I develop quite an edge. There was no place for my edge on this trip. I was sent with the express purpose of getting to know the kids so that they would feel connected to me and therefore connected to the alumni program that I run. I wasn’t supposed to be the heavy and yet, at the same time, well, being the heavy is sort of in my nature. It took me a couple days, but I was able to work it out in the end. I figured it was all good when one of the kids I caught breaking curfew early in the week came up to me at baggage claim on Friday, hugged me, and thanked me for the trip. I’m still not sure how I became the adult.
The Justice League of Chaperons2008 Civil Rights Journey (Part 2)
THE POWER OF HERE AND NOW
One of the best parts of the trip was that we met with people who lived, shaped and experienced history and we stood with them where history happened. I am a big reader and I love historical fiction – I love delving into a world that existed long before I did and being swept away by the narrative, but there is nothing that compares to talking to someone who was there – and actually being “there” with them.
We met with three pastors – two black and one white – the black preachers where both close associates of Martin Luther King Jr. and the white preacher was a friend of Rosa Parks.
We met Reverend Williams in Atlanta, GA where he is a park ranger at the Martin Luther King Jr. National Historic Site. He marched with Dr. King and had close associations with many Civil Rights workers who were murdered. We met with Reverend Graetz in Montgomery, AL at the Rosa Parks Library and Museum that is located on the corner where Ms. Parks made her historic stand by staying seated. We met with Reverend Woods who led us through Freedom Park/Kelly Ingram Park in Birmingham, AL on land just outside the 16th Street Baptist Church, famous for a bombing in which four young girls were murdered in a Klan bombing in 1963.
We heard stories we had all heard before, but this time we heard them from people who were there. I cannot overstate how important this distinction is. One of our students likened it to meeting with Holocaust survivors and went on to say that he was aware that he and his classmates were the last generation that would be able to have this kind of one-on-one live contact with these people. While it is truer of Holocaust survivors than it is for Civil Rights Activists (many were young when they were active in the 50s and 60s and will most likely live to speak to another generation of high school students or two) it was an eye-opening experience for our kids to meet with people who were routinely called the N word, were shot with water hoses by police, whose children were the first to integrate schools and who were jailed countless times for exercising their right to free speech.
The fact that two weeks prior to the journey our nation had elected our first African American president was not lost anyone. At the end of each preacher’s speech one of our students asked each man the same question: “When you were fighting for equality, did you think you would live to see the day when a black man would become President of the United States?” And they all answered in a relatively similar manner: No. They all believed it would happen some time, but the pace of the movement that they saw, the horror of what they experienced and the setbacks they witnessed time and time again led them to believe that change would be too slow to show this kind of progress in their lifetimes. They were all happy to be wrong, but they also shared in common just a tiny bit of skepticism, or maybe it was realism: they told us being black wasn’t enough. They felt like they didn’t know Barack OBama well enough and they said they were reserving judgment to see what kind of policies he enacted. I think those dialogues were very important for our students to hear.
But the trip wasn’t just about African Americans and their struggles; we visited the headquarters of The AIDS Memorial Quilt and met with a gay man living with AIDS. He was a fascinating speaker who shared openly and frankly with our students. We talked about the politics of AIDS and what it means to be a disenfranchised group in today’s society. The fact that California Proposition 8 had passed two weeks prior to our trip was not lost on our students either, or our guest speaker.
I don’t know anyone personally who has died of AIDS – this doesn’t lessen its impact on my life. While my father was alive during the Holocaust and both my parents lived through the Civil Rights Movement and my brother was born in the shadow of the Vietnam War, I have a clear memory of the AIDS crises. I’m not sure I would remember the start of it so distinctly if it weren’t for the appetite suppressant AYDS, which my father used to go through by the case. I remember the jokes that were made relating to the unfortunate coincidence in names between the disease and the diet pills and I remember my dad stocking up on the stuff for fear that they would take it off the market (eventually they did).
Later, when I became sexually active, AIDS was never far from my mind and I have memories of nervous visit to free testing facilities and the stress of waiting a week for the results. My friends and I used to remind ourselves as we walked in to get our results: “Negative is Good; Negative is Good.” But of course, our students don’t know a time before AIDS, and they also don’t know of a time when the syndrome was a certain and quick death sentence. The man who spoke to us talked about what it was like to have sex before anyone knew anything about it and he spoke to us about his choice to remain celibate since his diagnosis. He shared that his first ever test was positive so he has no idea when or from whom he caught it. He shared with us the various illnesses he has been miraculously able to fight off and he told us of the friends he lost to those same disorders. He told us what it was like to be told you had 18-months to live and then to outlive that prognosis by 14+ years. There’s no telling what impact his talk had on our students, but I know they won’t forget it anytime soon.
We also took a tour of the quilt’s headquarters and learned about its history. Our wonderful tour guide, Janece, the project’s communication director, walked the students through the warehouse and talked about how the project was started. She told the group about the need many people had to mourn the loss of their gay loved ones because often parents of those who died of AIDS were embarrassed and ashamed and didn’t allow their child’s community to visit them in the hospital or attend their funerals. I thought of all the people I had lost and shudder at the thought of not being able to say a proper goodbye. I also thought about my brother’s old roommate. The roommate had already been diagnosed with AIDS when they lived together in LA in the late 90s. This was prior to things like free long distance on cell phones and constant contact via email and Facebook. When my brother moved to San Francisco they lost touch and it was years later, through a mutual acquaintance, that my brother found out his former roommate had died. The roommate's parents had swept him away, wouldn’t let anyone see him in the hospital and did not tell his friends about the funeral. I have rarely seen my brother shaken, but when he called me to share this news it was clear he was beyond upset. Although it was only the first day of the trip and I didn’t know any of the students in the small group I was with, I felt compelled to share this story – I didn’t want them to think that AIDS and the bigotry that was associated with it was history – I wanted them to know that what they were learning about things that directly impacted my life – a living breathing soul that they knew. My voice quivered as I shared and I’m not sure I made my point but by bearing witness I felt I had done an important thing. (To read more about gay rights and my brother's roommate from his perspective, click here.)
One of the best parts of the trip was that we met with people who lived, shaped and experienced history and we stood with them where history happened. I am a big reader and I love historical fiction – I love delving into a world that existed long before I did and being swept away by the narrative, but there is nothing that compares to talking to someone who was there – and actually being “there” with them.
We met with three pastors – two black and one white – the black preachers where both close associates of Martin Luther King Jr. and the white preacher was a friend of Rosa Parks.
We met Reverend Williams in Atlanta, GA where he is a park ranger at the Martin Luther King Jr. National Historic Site. He marched with Dr. King and had close associations with many Civil Rights workers who were murdered. We met with Reverend Graetz in Montgomery, AL at the Rosa Parks Library and Museum that is located on the corner where Ms. Parks made her historic stand by staying seated. We met with Reverend Woods who led us through Freedom Park/Kelly Ingram Park in Birmingham, AL on land just outside the 16th Street Baptist Church, famous for a bombing in which four young girls were murdered in a Klan bombing in 1963.
We heard stories we had all heard before, but this time we heard them from people who were there. I cannot overstate how important this distinction is. One of our students likened it to meeting with Holocaust survivors and went on to say that he was aware that he and his classmates were the last generation that would be able to have this kind of one-on-one live contact with these people. While it is truer of Holocaust survivors than it is for Civil Rights Activists (many were young when they were active in the 50s and 60s and will most likely live to speak to another generation of high school students or two) it was an eye-opening experience for our kids to meet with people who were routinely called the N word, were shot with water hoses by police, whose children were the first to integrate schools and who were jailed countless times for exercising their right to free speech.
The fact that two weeks prior to the journey our nation had elected our first African American president was not lost anyone. At the end of each preacher’s speech one of our students asked each man the same question: “When you were fighting for equality, did you think you would live to see the day when a black man would become President of the United States?” And they all answered in a relatively similar manner: No. They all believed it would happen some time, but the pace of the movement that they saw, the horror of what they experienced and the setbacks they witnessed time and time again led them to believe that change would be too slow to show this kind of progress in their lifetimes. They were all happy to be wrong, but they also shared in common just a tiny bit of skepticism, or maybe it was realism: they told us being black wasn’t enough. They felt like they didn’t know Barack OBama well enough and they said they were reserving judgment to see what kind of policies he enacted. I think those dialogues were very important for our students to hear.
But the trip wasn’t just about African Americans and their struggles; we visited the headquarters of The AIDS Memorial Quilt and met with a gay man living with AIDS. He was a fascinating speaker who shared openly and frankly with our students. We talked about the politics of AIDS and what it means to be a disenfranchised group in today’s society. The fact that California Proposition 8 had passed two weeks prior to our trip was not lost on our students either, or our guest speaker.
I don’t know anyone personally who has died of AIDS – this doesn’t lessen its impact on my life. While my father was alive during the Holocaust and both my parents lived through the Civil Rights Movement and my brother was born in the shadow of the Vietnam War, I have a clear memory of the AIDS crises. I’m not sure I would remember the start of it so distinctly if it weren’t for the appetite suppressant AYDS, which my father used to go through by the case. I remember the jokes that were made relating to the unfortunate coincidence in names between the disease and the diet pills and I remember my dad stocking up on the stuff for fear that they would take it off the market (eventually they did).
Later, when I became sexually active, AIDS was never far from my mind and I have memories of nervous visit to free testing facilities and the stress of waiting a week for the results. My friends and I used to remind ourselves as we walked in to get our results: “Negative is Good; Negative is Good.” But of course, our students don’t know a time before AIDS, and they also don’t know of a time when the syndrome was a certain and quick death sentence. The man who spoke to us talked about what it was like to have sex before anyone knew anything about it and he spoke to us about his choice to remain celibate since his diagnosis. He shared that his first ever test was positive so he has no idea when or from whom he caught it. He shared with us the various illnesses he has been miraculously able to fight off and he told us of the friends he lost to those same disorders. He told us what it was like to be told you had 18-months to live and then to outlive that prognosis by 14+ years. There’s no telling what impact his talk had on our students, but I know they won’t forget it anytime soon.
We also took a tour of the quilt’s headquarters and learned about its history. Our wonderful tour guide, Janece, the project’s communication director, walked the students through the warehouse and talked about how the project was started. She told the group about the need many people had to mourn the loss of their gay loved ones because often parents of those who died of AIDS were embarrassed and ashamed and didn’t allow their child’s community to visit them in the hospital or attend their funerals. I thought of all the people I had lost and shudder at the thought of not being able to say a proper goodbye. I also thought about my brother’s old roommate. The roommate had already been diagnosed with AIDS when they lived together in LA in the late 90s. This was prior to things like free long distance on cell phones and constant contact via email and Facebook. When my brother moved to San Francisco they lost touch and it was years later, through a mutual acquaintance, that my brother found out his former roommate had died. The roommate's parents had swept him away, wouldn’t let anyone see him in the hospital and did not tell his friends about the funeral. I have rarely seen my brother shaken, but when he called me to share this news it was clear he was beyond upset. Although it was only the first day of the trip and I didn’t know any of the students in the small group I was with, I felt compelled to share this story – I didn’t want them to think that AIDS and the bigotry that was associated with it was history – I wanted them to know that what they were learning about things that directly impacted my life – a living breathing soul that they knew. My voice quivered as I shared and I’m not sure I made my point but by bearing witness I felt I had done an important thing. (To read more about gay rights and my brother's roommate from his perspective, click here.)
2008 Civil Rights Journey (Part 3)
PROTESTING THE PROTESTER
One of the highlights of the trip was our time at the National Civil Rights Museum that is located in Memphis, TN at The Lorraine Hotel. Having seen countless images of the hotel it was quite surreal to be standing outside the balcony where Dr. King was shot.
The museum itself was fascinating and its placement on our itinerary, on our last afternoon together, was perfect: the first two days were fairly tightly scheduled and full of heavy content; the third day was all about rock ‘n’ roll and the students had plenty of free-time; by the fourth day the students had had a break from the denser content and had blown off some steam. As we walked through the museum at our own pace the students asked the adults some really insightful questions and we had impromptu discussions in small groups that showed the students had begun to process all that they had seen. You could tell that they felt good about knowing some of the names and stories they saw in the exhibits and it seemed like they really felt ownership over the material.
But there’s something else going on at The Lorraine Motel: there is Jacqueline Smith.
Ms. Smith has been protesting the existence of Civil Rights Museum since 1988 when she was removed for her home in The Lorraine Motel where she was the last tenant. She is protesting the existence of a museum that is “dedicated to the past” in the place where she thinks a homeless shelter or clinic or educational outreach center should be. She is protesting gentrification and commerce that she feels go against the ideals for which Martin Luther King Jr. died. In speaking with her though, as our guides encouraged us to do, it was hard not to see that most of her protest stemmed from her personal beef – she had been kicked out of her home and she was mad. She offered her services to the museum, she was rebuffed and she was mad. Some of our students were moved by her protest; others were saddened by the futility of it. I was hurt.
When she was talking about the need for an education center one of our students mentioned to her that the museum did have an education program and likened it to the Holocaust museum in Israel where he had participated in an educational program that had made an extremely positive impact on him. She clearly wasn’t talking about that kind of education program: she wanted job training, she wanted reading and writing help, she wanted the poor of Memphis to be lifted up (just as Dr. King had wanted). Her point was that Dr. King didn’t come to The Lorraine Motel to be shot – he came to The Lorraine Motel to help sanitation workers live a better life and it was her contention that that was the kind of work that should still be taking place at the site. But I think our student’s point was spot on: a job readiness center might help a few thousand, maybe tens of thousand of Memphis locals, but a museum education center that is visited by people from all over the world has the possibility of carrying Dr. King’s message and methods into the next generation. I couldn’t help myself, I asked her about that.
“What if someone comes here and is changed by it – changed enough to go on and change the world?” I asked, maybe not as eloquently as that, but something like it.
“What if, what if, what if?” she parroted back, “I can’t see ‘what if,’ can you see ‘what if?’”
It was a pat response and one I’m sure she had given a million times but it really hurt my heart, there’s no other way to describe it. We had just taken 90 16-year-olds on a journey throughout the south in an effort to show them how small actions of the people who came before them had had huge ramifications. Our journey was meant to inspire them to take actions in their own lives that would positively impact those around them and those who came after them. And here was a woman, claiming to represent the spirit of Dr. Martin Luther King, claiming to be more authentic than the educators and historians who put together the museum, telling our students and telling me that “what if” doesn’t matter. As an administrator who spent years providing arts education to New York City school children, I can tell you, sometimes “What if” is the only thing that matters.
One of the highlights of the trip was our time at the National Civil Rights Museum that is located in Memphis, TN at The Lorraine Hotel. Having seen countless images of the hotel it was quite surreal to be standing outside the balcony where Dr. King was shot.
The museum itself was fascinating and its placement on our itinerary, on our last afternoon together, was perfect: the first two days were fairly tightly scheduled and full of heavy content; the third day was all about rock ‘n’ roll and the students had plenty of free-time; by the fourth day the students had had a break from the denser content and had blown off some steam. As we walked through the museum at our own pace the students asked the adults some really insightful questions and we had impromptu discussions in small groups that showed the students had begun to process all that they had seen. You could tell that they felt good about knowing some of the names and stories they saw in the exhibits and it seemed like they really felt ownership over the material.
But there’s something else going on at The Lorraine Motel: there is Jacqueline Smith.
Ms. Smith has been protesting the existence of Civil Rights Museum since 1988 when she was removed for her home in The Lorraine Motel where she was the last tenant. She is protesting the existence of a museum that is “dedicated to the past” in the place where she thinks a homeless shelter or clinic or educational outreach center should be. She is protesting gentrification and commerce that she feels go against the ideals for which Martin Luther King Jr. died. In speaking with her though, as our guides encouraged us to do, it was hard not to see that most of her protest stemmed from her personal beef – she had been kicked out of her home and she was mad. She offered her services to the museum, she was rebuffed and she was mad. Some of our students were moved by her protest; others were saddened by the futility of it. I was hurt.
When she was talking about the need for an education center one of our students mentioned to her that the museum did have an education program and likened it to the Holocaust museum in Israel where he had participated in an educational program that had made an extremely positive impact on him. She clearly wasn’t talking about that kind of education program: she wanted job training, she wanted reading and writing help, she wanted the poor of Memphis to be lifted up (just as Dr. King had wanted). Her point was that Dr. King didn’t come to The Lorraine Motel to be shot – he came to The Lorraine Motel to help sanitation workers live a better life and it was her contention that that was the kind of work that should still be taking place at the site. But I think our student’s point was spot on: a job readiness center might help a few thousand, maybe tens of thousand of Memphis locals, but a museum education center that is visited by people from all over the world has the possibility of carrying Dr. King’s message and methods into the next generation. I couldn’t help myself, I asked her about that.
“What if someone comes here and is changed by it – changed enough to go on and change the world?” I asked, maybe not as eloquently as that, but something like it.
“What if, what if, what if?” she parroted back, “I can’t see ‘what if,’ can you see ‘what if?’”
It was a pat response and one I’m sure she had given a million times but it really hurt my heart, there’s no other way to describe it. We had just taken 90 16-year-olds on a journey throughout the south in an effort to show them how small actions of the people who came before them had had huge ramifications. Our journey was meant to inspire them to take actions in their own lives that would positively impact those around them and those who came after them. And here was a woman, claiming to represent the spirit of Dr. Martin Luther King, claiming to be more authentic than the educators and historians who put together the museum, telling our students and telling me that “what if” doesn’t matter. As an administrator who spent years providing arts education to New York City school children, I can tell you, sometimes “What if” is the only thing that matters.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
An Adventure in Pies
This morning, looking at the possibility of yet another day on the couch, I decided SMS and I better embark on an adventure. You see, due to the Jewish Holidays and early closings on Shabbat, we have worked a total of 4 full days in the past 3 weeks. This means I have watched too much television and the thought of doing just that all day today was just too much. So I picked somewhere we had never been before (Eagle Rock) and did some research. I knew there was a pizza place there that is supposed to serve "the best pie west of brooklyn" and I knew there was a college campus (Occidental) so I thought it might be a cool area to check out.
I was right and wrong.
We departed the house a little before 2pm and due to a crazy traffic jam on the 101 we took surface streets to the 134. On the way to the freeway a restaurant with a sign that read, simply, Peanut Butter Chocolate Banana Pie. Not, "We have Peanut Butter ..." or "Stop in for ..." No. Simply the name of the pie. And, man, did it sound good!
We didn't stop for pie (we hadn't had lunch and we were on an adventure) but I did imagine what it might taste like and I did post the following status on my Facebook page: "Jamie just passed a restaurant with a sign that said 'chocolate peanut butter banana pie.' that's all the sign said. that's all it needed to say." This status received quite a few comments and an email. Let's just say the people were interested, but I digress, back to our adventure.
Upon arriving in Eagle Rock we hit another traffic jam due to some road work so we wound our away around town through a very nice neighborhood north of Colorado Blvd. We then parked at Eagle Rock Blvd and Colorado Blvd and starting walking south. The first block was cute, but it petered off quickly.
There were a ton of churches, strip malls, industrial businesses (like lumber yards and plumbing shops), fast food joints with a few cute boutiques and restaurants sprinkled throughout. I was disappointed and I couldn't believe it because I had just read that the Los Angeles Times had recently said that Eagle Rock is "the latest 'it' neighborhood." It made me think that people out here don't know the definition of 'it,' or 'neighborhood' for that matter.
Eagle Rock, like much of LA, lacks density and it really bothers me. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm happy out here and like it for what it is (beautiful, warm, expansive) but an "it neighborhood" LA is not - at least most of it isn't. I think I may have read too much Jane Jacobs or something but I think I'm eerily in tune with density and how important it is to the flow of a neighborhood -- much of LA gets it completely wrong. Even somewhere like Abbott Kinney in Venice, Main Street in Santa Monica or Robertson in Beverly Hills lacks flow. There will be two or three cool stores right next to each other and then nothing you would ever go in for blocks. It feels weird and stilted and, just, well, off. SMS says that's because everything here is a "destination store" -- you drive there, park in their lot, do your shopping or eating, get back in your car and drive away. A culture like that doesn't need flow, it needs parking spaces, but I don't understand why certain stores or restaurants couldn't serve as hubs -- you would drive to a neighborhood to go to that business and walk around before or after. SMS says it doesn't work that way. But I digress again... the weather was perfect, we had the sidewalks to ourselves, so we walked.
We ended up at Senor Fish, a decent Mexican joint where we got a snack of chips and salsa and guac. It was good. The clientele was a decent mix of families, young couples and hipsters. One thing Eagle Rock definitely has going for it is diversity. Here's a pic of the snack:
To further prove my point that Eagle Rock is NOT the next 'it' neighborhood, I can tell you that while we were eating I approached a woman sitting near us who was waiting for her food. I asked her if she lived around the area. She said yes, cautiously. "We've never been here before," I said, "and we're exploring, can you tell me what we should check out?" She looked at me as if I had a second head. "Um," she said, "there's a place with good dessert right across the street." "Great," I said, "Is the college nearby?" "It's not far," she said. "That way a bit," she said gesturing vaguely over her shoulder but not helping more than that. I thanked her and rejoined my husband. Not very neighborly if you ask me.
Nevermind. We ate our guac and continued our walk. We passed the diner where the opening scene of Reservoir Dogs was shot and I took a picture:
We continued on to the campus and then made a big loop back up to Colorado Boulevard determined to try the "best pizza west of Brooklyn."
Casa Bianca opens at 4pm. We arrived at 4:05pm. By 4:30pm it was packed and by the time we left at 5pm there was a line out the door and around the corner.
SMS ordered a small pie with onions and garlic. I ordered the Deluxe (house special) with sausage made on site, green peppers and mushrooms. Both pies were good: SMS' was better and while my sausage ROCKED, the green peppers chunks were too big and the mushrooms were canned. (I will never understand why anyone puts canned mushrooms on pizzas, let alone a place that goes through the trouble of making their own sausage.) It was my mistake though -- at a new place you always get a plain pie to test the place, but I was hungry and made an impulsive decision spurred by the idea of homemade sausage. On the positive side, the sauce was VERY tasty, but there was too much cheese for my taste and for thin crust, it wasn't very light -- it was almost like over-cooked bread. Like I said, they were good, but not great. And, as the last time I checked, Pittsburgh was west of Brooklyn, I can categorically say, this was not the best pie west of the borough!
All in all, though it sounds like I'm doing a heck of a lot of complaining, it was a very nice day. The weather was perfect and SMS and I enjoy each other's company -- we enjoyed the day, even if I didn't enjoy Eagle Rock per se. So after pizza we headed home and SMS said we could stop for PIE!!!
Four N 20 calls itself a "Grill and Bakery" -- I'm not sure what's wrong with "diner" or "coffee shop," which is clearly what it is, but no matter. Once inside, I found out that the reason the sign outside said nothing more that "Peanut Butter Chocolate Banana Pie" was because it was the "Pie - of - the - Month" and when you're the pie of the month, what more do you need to say?! We sat ourselves down and ordered me a slice.
"We're out," the hipster waiter said.
"Excuse me? You're kidding, right?" I asked.
"No, we switched today to Key Lime Pie."
I almost hurled.
"You should probably take the huge sign down," I informed him.
He didn't seem any happier than I did.
We left.
We were almost out of the parking lot when he called after us, "We found one!" he yelled.
"Really?" I asked.
"Yeah, there was one left."
We returned and purchased the whole pie. Yup. The whole pie.
It is YUMMY! It seems to be a no-bake pie consisting of chocolate cookie crust, HUGE chunks of bananas coated in peanut butter (remember this: large chunks of bananas: good; large chunks of green peppers: bad) and a heavy does of whipped cream.
I guarantee we will not eat the whole thing before work on Monday, so if you work with us and you're reading this, get ready for yummy leftovers!
So today was a relative successful adventure in pies -- I'm certainly sleepy and glad to have not spent the day on the couch.
CODA
Now for those of you who are thoroughly confused and thinking to yourself, "But Jamie HATES pie," remember the rule: gooey fruit gross; banana, chocolate, peanut butter or pizza YUM!
I was right and wrong.
We departed the house a little before 2pm and due to a crazy traffic jam on the 101 we took surface streets to the 134. On the way to the freeway a restaurant with a sign that read, simply, Peanut Butter Chocolate Banana Pie. Not, "We have Peanut Butter ..." or "Stop in for ..." No. Simply the name of the pie. And, man, did it sound good!
We didn't stop for pie (we hadn't had lunch and we were on an adventure) but I did imagine what it might taste like and I did post the following status on my Facebook page: "Jamie just passed a restaurant with a sign that said 'chocolate peanut butter banana pie.' that's all the sign said. that's all it needed to say." This status received quite a few comments and an email. Let's just say the people were interested, but I digress, back to our adventure.
Upon arriving in Eagle Rock we hit another traffic jam due to some road work so we wound our away around town through a very nice neighborhood north of Colorado Blvd. We then parked at Eagle Rock Blvd and Colorado Blvd and starting walking south. The first block was cute, but it petered off quickly.
There were a ton of churches, strip malls, industrial businesses (like lumber yards and plumbing shops), fast food joints with a few cute boutiques and restaurants sprinkled throughout. I was disappointed and I couldn't believe it because I had just read that the Los Angeles Times had recently said that Eagle Rock is "the latest 'it' neighborhood." It made me think that people out here don't know the definition of 'it,' or 'neighborhood' for that matter.
Eagle Rock, like much of LA, lacks density and it really bothers me. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm happy out here and like it for what it is (beautiful, warm, expansive) but an "it neighborhood" LA is not - at least most of it isn't. I think I may have read too much Jane Jacobs or something but I think I'm eerily in tune with density and how important it is to the flow of a neighborhood -- much of LA gets it completely wrong. Even somewhere like Abbott Kinney in Venice, Main Street in Santa Monica or Robertson in Beverly Hills lacks flow. There will be two or three cool stores right next to each other and then nothing you would ever go in for blocks. It feels weird and stilted and, just, well, off. SMS says that's because everything here is a "destination store" -- you drive there, park in their lot, do your shopping or eating, get back in your car and drive away. A culture like that doesn't need flow, it needs parking spaces, but I don't understand why certain stores or restaurants couldn't serve as hubs -- you would drive to a neighborhood to go to that business and walk around before or after. SMS says it doesn't work that way. But I digress again... the weather was perfect, we had the sidewalks to ourselves, so we walked.
We ended up at Senor Fish, a decent Mexican joint where we got a snack of chips and salsa and guac. It was good. The clientele was a decent mix of families, young couples and hipsters. One thing Eagle Rock definitely has going for it is diversity. Here's a pic of the snack:
To further prove my point that Eagle Rock is NOT the next 'it' neighborhood, I can tell you that while we were eating I approached a woman sitting near us who was waiting for her food. I asked her if she lived around the area. She said yes, cautiously. "We've never been here before," I said, "and we're exploring, can you tell me what we should check out?" She looked at me as if I had a second head. "Um," she said, "there's a place with good dessert right across the street." "Great," I said, "Is the college nearby?" "It's not far," she said. "That way a bit," she said gesturing vaguely over her shoulder but not helping more than that. I thanked her and rejoined my husband. Not very neighborly if you ask me.
Nevermind. We ate our guac and continued our walk. We passed the diner where the opening scene of Reservoir Dogs was shot and I took a picture:
We continued on to the campus and then made a big loop back up to Colorado Boulevard determined to try the "best pizza west of Brooklyn."
Casa Bianca opens at 4pm. We arrived at 4:05pm. By 4:30pm it was packed and by the time we left at 5pm there was a line out the door and around the corner.
SMS ordered a small pie with onions and garlic. I ordered the Deluxe (house special) with sausage made on site, green peppers and mushrooms. Both pies were good: SMS' was better and while my sausage ROCKED, the green peppers chunks were too big and the mushrooms were canned. (I will never understand why anyone puts canned mushrooms on pizzas, let alone a place that goes through the trouble of making their own sausage.) It was my mistake though -- at a new place you always get a plain pie to test the place, but I was hungry and made an impulsive decision spurred by the idea of homemade sausage. On the positive side, the sauce was VERY tasty, but there was too much cheese for my taste and for thin crust, it wasn't very light -- it was almost like over-cooked bread. Like I said, they were good, but not great. And, as the last time I checked, Pittsburgh was west of Brooklyn, I can categorically say, this was not the best pie west of the borough!
All in all, though it sounds like I'm doing a heck of a lot of complaining, it was a very nice day. The weather was perfect and SMS and I enjoy each other's company -- we enjoyed the day, even if I didn't enjoy Eagle Rock per se. So after pizza we headed home and SMS said we could stop for PIE!!!
Four N 20 calls itself a "Grill and Bakery" -- I'm not sure what's wrong with "diner" or "coffee shop," which is clearly what it is, but no matter. Once inside, I found out that the reason the sign outside said nothing more that "Peanut Butter Chocolate Banana Pie" was because it was the "Pie - of - the - Month" and when you're the pie of the month, what more do you need to say?! We sat ourselves down and ordered me a slice.
"We're out," the hipster waiter said.
"Excuse me? You're kidding, right?" I asked.
"No, we switched today to Key Lime Pie."
I almost hurled.
"You should probably take the huge sign down," I informed him.
He didn't seem any happier than I did.
We left.
We were almost out of the parking lot when he called after us, "We found one!" he yelled.
"Really?" I asked.
"Yeah, there was one left."
We returned and purchased the whole pie. Yup. The whole pie.
It is YUMMY! It seems to be a no-bake pie consisting of chocolate cookie crust, HUGE chunks of bananas coated in peanut butter (remember this: large chunks of bananas: good; large chunks of green peppers: bad) and a heavy does of whipped cream.
I guarantee we will not eat the whole thing before work on Monday, so if you work with us and you're reading this, get ready for yummy leftovers!
So today was a relative successful adventure in pies -- I'm certainly sleepy and glad to have not spent the day on the couch.
CODA
Now for those of you who are thoroughly confused and thinking to yourself, "But Jamie HATES pie," remember the rule: gooey fruit gross; banana, chocolate, peanut butter or pizza YUM!
Friday, September 12, 2008
Why I didn't go to work yesterday...
This was written yesterday on September 11th, 2008. It is far too long for a blog post, but I thought some of you might find it interesting. It makes no mention of those killed on that day, it is about me and my experiences.
**************************************
Between December 1999 and January 2007 I lost all four of my grandparents, my uncle and my father, and I watched with my own eyes, live and in person, the twin towers burn. This means in just over 6 years, I lost 6 close family members and watched in horror as our nation was attacked in my hometown. And it wasn’t just my hometown, it was all of my hometowns: In September of 2001, by the time I was 25, I had lived in exactly three places (excluding summer camps): Western Pennsylvania, Northern Virginia/DC/Maryland and New York City. Lots of people make fun of how I “make everything about Jamie” but on September 11th, 2001, for a very brief moment, I really did feel like these attacks were an attack on me.
I remember that moment vividly; I can actually feel in my body all the feelings I felt then. I had returned to my apartment after my attempt to vote was aborted by the sight of smoke and debris coming from the towers only to hear that the pentagon had also been hit. I was lucky that my mom had called the apartment immediately upon hearing the news on The Today Show so I was able to speak to my parents before the lines got jammed – my brother had also gotten through to them, on the other line, while I was speaking with them, so my family knew I was ok and I knew they knew I was ok. I was reluctant to hang up with them, even though we didn’t have anything more to say, because I knew it would be hard to get through to them again. Eventually we said our goodbyes. A short while later the TV station SMS and I were watching announced:
“We have reports from KDKA in Pittsburgh, another plane….”
And I didn’t hear anything else…I shut down. I was shaking; my hands were out of control. Between sobs and gasping for breath I was demanding that SMS get my mother on the phone. He couldn’t.
Shortly thereafter we were able to discern that the plane that went down near Pittsburgh, was not actually that close to Pittsburgh at all. Eventually I did speak to my family again and the day continued to unfold. Looking back we now know that once the plane went down in Shanksville that the attacks were “over” but we didn’t know that then. Anything could have happened next. I remember at some point we heard that there were seven planes unaccounted for, I remember thinking all sorts of things. I also remember later that night that a sense of relief came over me when there were reports of a suspicious truck on the George Washington Bridge. “Okay,” I thought, “Here we go, the other shoe has dropped. It’s time for the land attacks.” It turned out that that truck was actually nothing, but I will never forget the sick feeling of calm I felt when I thought I knew what was coming next.
I have always felt frustrated by the fact that in telling one’s September 11th story you are, by definition, robbed of the true power of it. If I am here to tell the story, I didn’t perish. It is hard to hold in your mind, when hearing anyone’s story of that day, that living was not a foregone conclusion. We did not know we would survive.
On the first anniversary of September 11th, I went to work. I went to work, but I also went home early after a break-down in a colleague’s office. It was too much, too soon. We tried to be strong, but really we were all painfully uneasy. And for me it was something else. September 11th is the sobriety date of someone very close to me. He had been sober three years the day of the attacks and four years on the first anniversary. I was angry that a day that should be cause for celebration in his life, and mine, had been robbed of that joy. I was wrestling with how the private butts up against the public and I was losing.
I think of the losses in my life in the same way. It’s been seven years since the attacks and each year, in some way, the date is marked by society. It is talked about on TV and in the places I work. Op Eds are written, names of the fallen are read. And though it is not a national holiday (at least not one during which we are excused from school and work), it is forefront in the national psyche. That is not true for the other losses I have suffered in the past decade. The date of my father’s death, not even three years ago, means nothing to most people, though the feelings I have on the anniversary of that day are similar to the ones I have today. The personal and the private all always butting up against each other and it’s rarely pretty.
I didn’t go to work today because I could bare the duality of it: people would both be talking about September 11th and going on with their regular lives of mailings and meetings. I know that this is normal, even the way it “should be,” but I couldn’t be a party to it. I can’t go on with my normal life today and I can’t stomach how most people talk about it. It is hard to be so far from New York City today – people who weren’t there, or in DC, or in Western PA have their own valid response to the day, but it is not similar to those who were on the scene. On a macro level, yes, America was being attacked and we are all Americans; but on a micro-level, seeing things with your own eyes, smelling things with your own nose, hearing things with your own ears, touching things that were falling from the sky … I almost can’t go on. And yet, there are people I know who were in far more immediate danger than I, so I suppose everything exists on a continuum.
Last night, in two separate conversations, I confessed to my brother and to my husband that I think I may be suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. They both responded with the exact same words: “I think we all are.” This self-diagnosis came to me earlier this week when the talk of how to commemorate September 11th came up in a meeting. At the mention of it, I (uncharacteristically) put my head down, stared at my notebook and hoped the conversation would wrap up quickly and not include anything that would offend me. This is not how I typically respond to a conversation about something that means a lot to me, but it was as if I were not in control, I just shut down.
But even though I am not at work today I am considering going to work on my father’s yahrtzeit (the anniversary of his death). This may seem counterintuitive given that my father’s death is more recent than September 11th and has had a far greater impact on my personal life, but really, that’s just the point. Somehow, the fact that the people I will be around won’t know that that day is any different than any other day may make it easier to go through the motions myself. But I am not sure.
I must end this post by admonishing myself … for I know better than to let life be defined by a series of tragedies. In the days between September 11th, 2001 and September 11th, 2002 I spent a lot of time thinking about sayings like “Now more than ever” which was all you ever heard around New York. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the idea that people were somehow supposed to be more “present” just because they had witnessed or experienced disaster. It felt too much like the idea of a death-bed confession which I am morally opposed to on principal: I think we are the sum of all of the moments in our lives, not just the ones when we think people are watching. It is that sentiment that prompted me to create The Before Project in 2002. It was an effort to create a forum that could help people remember what they thought was meaningful prior to the attacks. I am so glad I did it then, because I think I have lost sight of that now.
On second thought, maybe I haven’t lost sight of it, maybe I actually genuinely feel quite differently seven years later. Call it growth, call it perspective, I’m not sure, but I think I have a new understanding of what happens in these situations. It may seem obvious to those of you more evolved than I, but it is just coming to me now: a death-bed confession, a change of heart in the face of a life threatening diagnosis, “now more than ever:” the changes that these catastrophic events facilitate are not arbitrary shifts that should have or could have happened prior to these events, I understand now how they are tied to the new realities these events create.
**************************************
Between December 1999 and January 2007 I lost all four of my grandparents, my uncle and my father, and I watched with my own eyes, live and in person, the twin towers burn. This means in just over 6 years, I lost 6 close family members and watched in horror as our nation was attacked in my hometown. And it wasn’t just my hometown, it was all of my hometowns: In September of 2001, by the time I was 25, I had lived in exactly three places (excluding summer camps): Western Pennsylvania, Northern Virginia/DC/Maryland and New York City. Lots of people make fun of how I “make everything about Jamie” but on September 11th, 2001, for a very brief moment, I really did feel like these attacks were an attack on me.
I remember that moment vividly; I can actually feel in my body all the feelings I felt then. I had returned to my apartment after my attempt to vote was aborted by the sight of smoke and debris coming from the towers only to hear that the pentagon had also been hit. I was lucky that my mom had called the apartment immediately upon hearing the news on The Today Show so I was able to speak to my parents before the lines got jammed – my brother had also gotten through to them, on the other line, while I was speaking with them, so my family knew I was ok and I knew they knew I was ok. I was reluctant to hang up with them, even though we didn’t have anything more to say, because I knew it would be hard to get through to them again. Eventually we said our goodbyes. A short while later the TV station SMS and I were watching announced:
“We have reports from KDKA in Pittsburgh, another plane….”
And I didn’t hear anything else…I shut down. I was shaking; my hands were out of control. Between sobs and gasping for breath I was demanding that SMS get my mother on the phone. He couldn’t.
Shortly thereafter we were able to discern that the plane that went down near Pittsburgh, was not actually that close to Pittsburgh at all. Eventually I did speak to my family again and the day continued to unfold. Looking back we now know that once the plane went down in Shanksville that the attacks were “over” but we didn’t know that then. Anything could have happened next. I remember at some point we heard that there were seven planes unaccounted for, I remember thinking all sorts of things. I also remember later that night that a sense of relief came over me when there were reports of a suspicious truck on the George Washington Bridge. “Okay,” I thought, “Here we go, the other shoe has dropped. It’s time for the land attacks.” It turned out that that truck was actually nothing, but I will never forget the sick feeling of calm I felt when I thought I knew what was coming next.
I have always felt frustrated by the fact that in telling one’s September 11th story you are, by definition, robbed of the true power of it. If I am here to tell the story, I didn’t perish. It is hard to hold in your mind, when hearing anyone’s story of that day, that living was not a foregone conclusion. We did not know we would survive.
On the first anniversary of September 11th, I went to work. I went to work, but I also went home early after a break-down in a colleague’s office. It was too much, too soon. We tried to be strong, but really we were all painfully uneasy. And for me it was something else. September 11th is the sobriety date of someone very close to me. He had been sober three years the day of the attacks and four years on the first anniversary. I was angry that a day that should be cause for celebration in his life, and mine, had been robbed of that joy. I was wrestling with how the private butts up against the public and I was losing.
I think of the losses in my life in the same way. It’s been seven years since the attacks and each year, in some way, the date is marked by society. It is talked about on TV and in the places I work. Op Eds are written, names of the fallen are read. And though it is not a national holiday (at least not one during which we are excused from school and work), it is forefront in the national psyche. That is not true for the other losses I have suffered in the past decade. The date of my father’s death, not even three years ago, means nothing to most people, though the feelings I have on the anniversary of that day are similar to the ones I have today. The personal and the private all always butting up against each other and it’s rarely pretty.
I didn’t go to work today because I could bare the duality of it: people would both be talking about September 11th and going on with their regular lives of mailings and meetings. I know that this is normal, even the way it “should be,” but I couldn’t be a party to it. I can’t go on with my normal life today and I can’t stomach how most people talk about it. It is hard to be so far from New York City today – people who weren’t there, or in DC, or in Western PA have their own valid response to the day, but it is not similar to those who were on the scene. On a macro level, yes, America was being attacked and we are all Americans; but on a micro-level, seeing things with your own eyes, smelling things with your own nose, hearing things with your own ears, touching things that were falling from the sky … I almost can’t go on. And yet, there are people I know who were in far more immediate danger than I, so I suppose everything exists on a continuum.
Last night, in two separate conversations, I confessed to my brother and to my husband that I think I may be suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. They both responded with the exact same words: “I think we all are.” This self-diagnosis came to me earlier this week when the talk of how to commemorate September 11th came up in a meeting. At the mention of it, I (uncharacteristically) put my head down, stared at my notebook and hoped the conversation would wrap up quickly and not include anything that would offend me. This is not how I typically respond to a conversation about something that means a lot to me, but it was as if I were not in control, I just shut down.
But even though I am not at work today I am considering going to work on my father’s yahrtzeit (the anniversary of his death). This may seem counterintuitive given that my father’s death is more recent than September 11th and has had a far greater impact on my personal life, but really, that’s just the point. Somehow, the fact that the people I will be around won’t know that that day is any different than any other day may make it easier to go through the motions myself. But I am not sure.
I must end this post by admonishing myself … for I know better than to let life be defined by a series of tragedies. In the days between September 11th, 2001 and September 11th, 2002 I spent a lot of time thinking about sayings like “Now more than ever” which was all you ever heard around New York. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the idea that people were somehow supposed to be more “present” just because they had witnessed or experienced disaster. It felt too much like the idea of a death-bed confession which I am morally opposed to on principal: I think we are the sum of all of the moments in our lives, not just the ones when we think people are watching. It is that sentiment that prompted me to create The Before Project in 2002. It was an effort to create a forum that could help people remember what they thought was meaningful prior to the attacks. I am so glad I did it then, because I think I have lost sight of that now.
On second thought, maybe I haven’t lost sight of it, maybe I actually genuinely feel quite differently seven years later. Call it growth, call it perspective, I’m not sure, but I think I have a new understanding of what happens in these situations. It may seem obvious to those of you more evolved than I, but it is just coming to me now: a death-bed confession, a change of heart in the face of a life threatening diagnosis, “now more than ever:” the changes that these catastrophic events facilitate are not arbitrary shifts that should have or could have happened prior to these events, I understand now how they are tied to the new realities these events create.
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