I have porous borders. I can relate to America in this way. Much crosses over the joke of a wall surrounding my psyche, and not all of it proceeds to operate in my best interest. Consequently, and much in the manner of my country, I've developed a screening process. And so...and so...that I am late to my 9/11 reading is not a surprise to me.
I remember that day. I remember the sudden silence of the sky, the empty streets, the marked absence of voices. I remember being alone, thousands of miles away from my family in Manhattan - one of whom was a bond trader and, for several hard hours, could not be located. I remember my immobility in front of that television set; the endless loop of tape replaying the second plane's moment of impact. I remember the pilot's deliberate, last-minute bank and thrust. I remember the plume of scarlet and black. The hundred times it hit that building and burst into flame; the hundred faces of women so similar to myself; the sisters, wives and mothers pleading, "Please. Please just tell me you've seen him." Bargaining down to a second-hand report. Third. Fourth. Please. I remember Bruce Springsteen standing in a field of candles, singing of his city of ruin, urging us to rise up. And I remember the later concert for the first responders. I remember Roger Daltry demanding to know. Who are you? Who? Who? Who? Who?
Blindsided. Too many questions. Too few answers. Skittering for the pocket of a metaphor like a ball on a roulette wheel. The tears. All the tears.
This initial stage of processing is fully illuminated in September 11, 2001: American Writers Respond. The breadth of our ignorance is conveyed by several contributors authoritatively referencing the Taliban plan, the Taliban intent, the Taliban stance. So many brains flailing to adopt a knowledgeable position; filling in the gaps with crusted political polemic and self-blame. Israel. Oil. Iraqi sanctions. Our support of the repressive Saudi regime. Third World exploitation. Of course, of course, who couldn't see this coming? Ever hopeful the architect of this horror might be right, might have cause, and it would turn out to be something we could address and change. Because if it wasn't something we might introject enough to take responsibility for and negotiate to further prevent? If it was simply a homicidal statement made to further the global ambitions of a religious zealot? What then?
Some writers understood that these initial moments of shock and devastation were individual - that, initially, it was a solo flight in hell; that you're alone before you're together; that the wounded must take stock of themselves prior to taking stock of something as ephemeral as a perpetrator's psychotic intent. These are the careful voices, and the two that moved me most belonged to Jack Matthews and Diane Seuss. Others, and understandably so, were desperately seeking control and some productive avenue to take. Some appeared quite unable to accept the full portion of powerlessness the day dealt. Unable just now. Yet. In the aftermath. On the heels. It was while reading these contributions that, for a scary second, I noted the kinship between these minds grappling to process and the airline passenger who had just witnessed his flight attendant's murder. If I wait. If I wait calmly now and behave well, better than I have...if I am good - not knowing. Not knowing of the World Trade Center, the ignorance of the inevitable banking into a building, the unawareness of next steps.
I'm giving this book my highest rating because I believe it preserves the multiplicity of reactions to a distinct moment in time, the moment immediately following the attacks of September 11. My companion reading, The 9/11 Commission Report, is equally important as a cogent response to the gut-wrenching cry for information on the heels of an incomprehensible event.