Seven is a mythical number in the world, and seven years is an almost mythical amount of time. In the Bible, Joseph forsaw seven years of bumper crops followed by seven years of famine for Egypt. There’s seven years bad luck if you break a mirror. You supposedly get a seven year itch after enough time with one person (hmmm…I’ll think about that next year).
Seven years ago today, I did a lot of growing up in a hurry. When I woke up, I was almost 24 and relatively carefree. My coursework for my MFA was over, I was about to give up my part-time job at Some College to be a temp in the city so I could focus on dramaturgy, and all I was thinking about on my commute in to work on September 11, 2001 was how blue the sky was and how good the music on my CD player sounded. The next hours changed my life forever. I tried desperately to find out where my friends were, since such a large number of them were in and around the WTC that day. Eventually I learned that they were all safe, a miracle that even today blows my mind. That we all made it through, with only varying amounts of mental scarring depending upon where we were and what we saw/heard/felt…we were very lucky although at times over the years it hasn’t always felt like that. I was emotionally numb for days, weeks, months. The temp jobs in the city dried up, and I took my current full-time job at Some College to pay the bills. I think my artistic career has been one of the casualties of 9/11 as surely as anything else: although I do get to work as a dramaturg in fits and starts, having a 9-5 job means that I don’t get to work on shows that rehearse during those hours. 9/11 did not kill my artistic life, but it stunted it and redirected it greatly, and it’s taking a lot of work, thought, and planning to get it back to where I feel it should be (not there yet).
September 11, 2001 also put my friends and I on the path to what I call our “wild year,” the year where five of us were out drinking almost every night of the week, curled up in one dive bar or another, and sleeping on each others’ couches before running off to work the next morning. There was so much hurt to get through, so many things that we wanted to say but discovered we weren’t ready to talk about, but kept trying to get out anyway…and we were no different from anyone else. Young New York had its very own Lost Generation that year, and as we looked at the tables around us we saw faces so similar to our own trying to find an escape or at the very least some peace through laughter, alcohol, and nicotine. Eleven months after 9/11, I started dating Rick and started to emerge from that hard shell I had put up to protect myself from the hurt. Seven years after 9/11, I think I’m down to the last few layers. And what have I turned into because of this? I still have no idea.
So today, for those of you in the rest of the country and the rest of the planet: know that the living victims of 9/11, which I believe includes everyone who had their hometown or place of work hit by a plane on that beautiful day seven years ago, even those who didn’t lose anyone in the blasts…just know that we’re making it through the other side. And thank you for all of your thoughts for us over the years.
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A very nice entry. Thanks for sharing.
I live 4 hours from ground zero, but even my life changed that day. A life of fear, that did not exhist previously. A constant need, not desire, to know what is happening in the news 24/7. I can’t even listen to CDs in my car, only NPR. I hope you heal soon. I hope we all heal.
Big hugs. I wasn’t in NYC that day, but I still feel it.
Great entry. I was in Times Square that morning, and watching a gaping hole in the WTC on a small black and white TV, my first panicked thought was that our area was next. To this day, I get antsy when I have to work above the 3rd floor of a building; for years, I’d say, “If I can jump and just break a leg, I’ll be fine.” I wasn’t being morbid.
It’s a journey we’re all getting through. I still can’t quite process when I see armed SWAT walking around lower Manhattan, but I know why they’re there. I can’t say they provide comfort; it’s a reminder of a time where there was complete chaos that I’m still trying to put back in order.
Has it been that long? Seem like a lifetime since then has passed.
You’ll always be in my thoughts and prayers.
Fabulous entry. I’m glad you and your friends were all safe and have continued to grow and thrive. Thanks for telling your story!
My one dominating thought, among others, because this is a really thoughtful entry, is that I wonder whether Rick’s place in your life at that time was a lifeboat that came rowing past at just the right time…and if maybe had 9/11 never happened, would his place in your life been as critical? I don’t mean less important, I mean as much of a saving grace? Maybe a rhetorical question. I don’t know your guy, but it strikes me that people really do come into our lives at appointed times and sometimes we’re too drunk (literally or figuratively) to notice…or to remember their names the next day.
I had no media on that day. It was beautiful weather. I got a phone call from someone who told me that he felt badly working, but things had to be done. I told him I hope he felt better later, and we conducted our business. When we’d finished, he apologized, and again told me how badly he felt to be working. This time I asked what was wrong. And he told me.
After I’d hung up the phone, I walked outside. The sky was gorgeous, the air warm, and a playful breeze ruffled the untrimmed bushes. I looked around and wondered whether instantaneous information technology had done us any favors.
My mother woke me up that morning to tell me what happened. It took hours and email to find out my cousin was stuck in Jersey that morning and my very good friend, who’s family is like my own, father was near the Pentagon, but merely delayed in his travels. But I can still see those images burned in my head from my television set on the coast of New England….
I know I don’t know you or your friends, but I’m glad you all survived.
I can’t think of a single person who doesn’t know where they were when they heard the news. When the plane hit the Pentagon, my first thoughts were of Troy, who was supposed to be there. It took me three days to reach him and his voice never sounded so sweet.
Thank you for sharing this with us, Julez. *Big hug*