Uncategorized

Yesterday’s observances were … well, that’s about all I have to say. They were. Some were moving, some less so.

Some argue that we should forget that day, but I think we should think about why it’s worth remembering, and what it’s made us become. Have we honored the fallen, and upheld the values they were attacked for, and for which they sacrificed? We’ve become more combative, both abroad and in our internal life, more sharp and judgmental, nationally brittle. Somehow the groundswell of 2001′s “we will never forget” became just a few years later the imperative to “NEVER FORGET”. How does a promise become a command?

We’re more superstitious, too. Safety apparently means letting the government listen to all our phone calls and fondle our testicles. It means sending our sons and daughters to die in distant, dusty countries, unable to say under what conditions they could return. It means winning hearts and minds, and keeping some people imprisoned without evidence or trial for the rest of their lives in prisons which don’t officially exist. We’ve lionized uniforms, whether it’s the Bravest or the Finest or the Few and the Proud, but forgotten that it’s the service, not the signs, that are worthy.

Who we are is not who we were. That statue may still ask for the tired, weary and huddled, but our institutionalized fear would add “only if they’ve been properly checked.” Everywhere there’s paranoia, and a deep abiding sadness. We wear our hurt on our sleeves, even those of us who’ve never been to New York or Washington, or Shanksville, Pennsylvania. And yet, in many respects this feels ridiculous.

We’re sad, and often angry. We cheered a man’s death, unintentionally aping the most vicious responses to our own suffering. I don’t see the hand of some broader meaning in this, not some cathartic national greatness regained, only the disgusting and darkly funny pastiche of logic; his death certainly was justice, and for the sake of justice we became what we had originally opposed. We were attacked for being great, and we’ve used the hurt and pain and loss to make of ourselves so much less than we were.

I can’t talk about the sorrow of the victims or their families; for that I am grateful, and deeply empathetic. Men like Rick Rescorla are the heroes, and they’re dead. More cannot be said, only felt. They deserve more than we’ve given them, and they never asked for what we have offered.

Our national wallowing, our angry outbursts in the skies over Baghdad and  poppy-fields of Helmand are disappointing, and wasteful. Bin Laden’s death was a relief, but it hasn’t brought our soldiers home, or wound back our misguided empire-building. Hunter Thompson recognized the grotesque impulses gnawing at the public immediately after that day, and predicted the next decade with a cold, sorrowful accuracy:

The towers are gone now, reduced to bloody rubble, along with all hopes for Peace in Our Time, in the United States or any other country. Make no mistake about it: We are At War now — with somebody — and we will stay At War with that mysterious Enemy for the rest of our lives.

It will be a Religious War, a sort of Christian Jihad, fueled by religious hatred and led by merciless fanatics on both sides. It will be guerilla warfare on a global scale, with no front lines and no identifiable enemy.

Our fear and our anger drain us, and keep us from the real work of rebuilding. I don’t mean that shiny hubristic  monstrosity, but rebuilding the humanity we’ve lost over the last ten years. It’s time to spin down the invective of our politics, and rededicate our attention to the goodness among and around us. Each story of heroism from 2001 has the same simple decency at its heart. Whether it’s Rick Rescorla going back to make sure everyone was out, or the fire-fighters who ran towards the burning towers, everyone was moved by the same impulse – there is a job to do, so up and in, and toward the fire. In the face of such clear-eyed commitment, such unselfish, un-self-conscious goodness words fail.

In nine days in 1940, common fisherman, sailors, day-yachtsmen and sea rats ferried 300,000 men away beaches where they were marked to die. On September 11, 2001, the everyday people of New York’s waterfront ferried over 500,000 people off the burning island in nine hours.

Goodness comes, first and always, in small things and intimate moments. Like Rick Rescorla on a smoking stairwell, a tugboat captain on the East River turning into the smoke, or the passengers of Flight 93 calling their husbands and wives. It isn’t sanctified further by grand words or sweeping monuments. The empty pools at the tower’s footprints couldn’t be filled with blood. We can’t honor the empty chairs in Bryant Park by filling them with dead bodies.

Both the NFL and Major League Baseball played games yesterday. Both leagues faced the question of how to appropriately recognize the anniversary. The NFL waived the rules relating to what players could wear as part of their uniform, allowing players to wear special cleats, gloves, and other paraphernalia. On the other hand, MLB clamped down on the Mets, who wanted to wear hats dedicated the fire-fighters and cops against the Cubs:

The Mets wore the first-responder hats, which will be auctioned off for charity, during pregame. David Wright, though, was seen in the dugout early in the game wearing a first responder hat.

“If we got a vote in, I think we’d want to wear the hats,” Wright said, “but at the end of the day Major League Baseball makes that call, and we’re going to respect that.”

Mets pitcher R.A. Dickey, in a statement posted on his Twitter page, said he and his teammates had planned to wear the hats anyway, until their plans were foiled.

“For all those upset that we didn’t wear the hats, I understand your anger. However, they physically took them from us after the ceremony,” read the entry on Dickey’s page. “We had conspired to wear them but we got found out and MLB got involved.”

The lessons from 9/11 are many, contradictory, and painful. But this seems the perfect finale of our dark and destructive decade; in 2001 ordinary people did what they felt was right, even at the cost of their own lives, and it showed the power inherent in a free people. Ten years later, to remember the fallen, what hats grown men wear to play a game is an exercise in official censure.

At least the Cubs players leaving New York took a private flight, and didn’t get felt-up in a grim parody of duty and safety. This is who we are now. Loose lips sink ships. Whatever is not permitted is verbotten. You know, to make us safe. Which will prove our greatness, I guess. Never forget, or else.

{ Comments on this entry are closed }