Fire and Rain Brilliant Disguise By Martha Thomases

September 10, 2011 Martha Thomases 12 Comments

I wrote this September 14, 2001.  There’s a lot that’s not in here, things that became apparent in the days that followed.  For example, the eerie walls of flyers seeking news on the missing, or the amazing sense of camaraderie New Yorkers shared (along with those from around the world who came to help).  On this, the eve of the tenth anniversary of that terrible day, I thought it appropriate to print it here, lapses and all.

My son, Arthur, is 17 years old.

When I was 17, my sense of the world was exploded by the shootings at Kent State.  People around my own age were killed by my own government for exercising their right to free speech and free assembly.  Kent State was near Youngstown, Ohio, where my parents lived, and one of the victims had grown up across town.  My mother, president of the local chapter of the American Civil Liberties Union, got hateful phone calls from people saying, “They should have killed more of them.”

Nothing was ever the same for me again.  Nothing was ever innocent again.  The emotional landmarks of my life were torn down.

My son’s world exploded on Tuesday when the World Trade Center was destroyed in front of his eyes.  He’s lived his entire life in lower New York.  The constant landmarks of his life are gone.  The source of this destruction is not our government, nor is it an enemy government.  Instead, it’s a group of fanatics who feel they have God on their side.

Nothing will ever be the same again for Arthur.

Trying to get anything done is more difficult than I could have anticipated.  I find it hard to concentrate.  I’m exhausted, but I can’t stay asleep.  Every time I hear an airplane, I get goosebumps (even though the airplanes are F-16s, flown by the Air Force to protect us).

The firehouse around the corner lost 11 firefighters.  This is the firehouse I’d take Arthur to when he was little.  If he was fussy, it always cheered him up to see the fire trucks and the firemen’s boots.  On the news Wednesday night, we saw Engine 5 crushed, twisted, and white with soot.

Yesterday, I had a meeting uptown.  I had to walk because there is no subway service below 42nd Street.  It was in an office that didn’t have a radio playing, and it was delightful to sit for an hour or so without the news, talking about work.  It made me very happy to make plans to promote concerts.  

On the way back, I had to cross a police line at 14th Street.  I had to show identification to enter Greenwich Village, my own neighborhood.  It felt like the set-up for a joke:  “But I live here!  See, I’m wearing black!”  Or that, instead of wooden barricades, they should have velvet ropes.  John ruefully joked that they finally found a way to keep the bridge-and-tunnel tourists out.

The policeman who looked at my ID was very kind.  I did not argue with him.  In fact, I offered my driver’s license before he could ask for it, having seen other people ahead of me.  But I was aware that I had just acquiesced to a major limitation of my personal liberties. 

I still haven’t been able to give blood.  I still don’t know what I can do to help.  It’s not as if anyone needs an emergency press release.  As a Jew, and as my mother’s daughter, I want to reach out to Muslims and Arab-Americans who received threatening phone calls.  I know what it’s like to be threatened because someone imagines you’re guilty by association.

It’s raining now.  Sometimes, when it rained, the clouds would obscure the view of the Trade Center from our windows.  It’s almost possible to imagine life as normal.

Martha Thomases,Media Goddess, still feels wary of those clear September skies.