9/11

Tuesday

For Matthew Yarnell

 

1.

How appropriate, those two “ones” in eleven

standing side by side, the left only slightly longer. Like a left leg is slightly longer.

Or two haystacks standing side by side

one burning more quickly and thoroughly, the one that got the first match.

 

Korean grandmother beside me on the R train

Nose deep in her paper and sticky bun

feels the meteoric fireball warm her plastic window.

She glances up then turns back to Page Six.

 

I mumbled under my breath

I trust you with my life as I walked to 25th street station.

Steps from Greenwood Cemetery the almost ghosts of firemen screamed

up the Avenue, disturbing my reverie. I thought of the firemen I pulled groggy

from their beds to rescue a brood of half dead kittens pinned beneath scaffolding.

 

Later, drunk on gin and tonics I saw the image of the Virgin in soot;

human flesh and fax cover sheets carried on the breeze

to my brother’s front yard in Brooklyn. Financial Projections, Interoffice Memoranda,

singed at the edges, but otherwise perfect, unharmed.

 

2.

1986 Honda Civic, light blue, with Terrapin Station bumper sticker parked

under gathering trees. Pot & patchouli, Tijuana blankets in the backseat; forbidden

from riding in it I headed home. The next morning

it was wrapped around a telephone pole.

Then that next summer there was another car, a truck,

I traced its oil rainbows with my toe in a puddle outside Pasquale’s Pizza.

This time it was a boy I liked. Streets lubricated with summer rain, an unseen ditch, and ditchweed. Two teenaged

drivers lit like Roman candles on Christmas.

 

Only it wasn’t Christmas or even night.

It was Tuesday; clear and blue and beautiful.

You were fast asleep in the back seat of Kate’s dad’s

brand-new Passat as black ice pounded us for 6 hours on the New Jersey Turnpike

and a blazing, neon cross sneered from the grill of an 18- wheeler riding our tail.

 

I chewed my mouth to ribbons, a pocket-sized bird thrashed in my chest.

I recited the Lord’s Prayer (I made it up, I didn’t know the Lord’s Prayer),

and smoked. You slept, then the rain finally stopped.

 

The highway was about to end at Pittsburgh

When ice, or was it glass, shot out in a perfect arc, mid-air

It was the impact of a crash 30 feet in front of us.

Just keep driving baby, I said, just keep driving,

and we did, and the glass fell softly all around us.

But you knew nothing about this

You were asleep in the backseat and why would I tell you?

Should I have?

 

 

3.

Then so many year later, all that glass and fire and metal;

I saw the smoking carcass

(My brother and I’d walked 14 blocks with a wine buzz)

but I didn’t think of you immediately.

Or for days, even. I called your voice mail.

 

Then I remembered the view from your office

and how there aren’t any other buildings

with 103 floors. There aren’t any other buildings like that one,

from where standing and looking just right you can see

all the way back to your parents house in Jersey.

You can see all the way back to tiny cars and trains,

snaking one by one over the river and through the tunnel,

taking us, innocent as doves,

from one place to the next. From this life, to the next.

 

 

photo by:

Ground Zero & the American Dream

Just as man cannot live without dreams, he cannot live without hope. —Elie Wiesel

Background:

On 9/11/2001, one of the engines from the hijacked planes landed in our street, almost killing a pedestrian. For the past ten years, I have been, with my wife and three children, a “Ground Zero” resident. All of our three children attended public schools surrounding the towers. We were, like the pedestrian, spared.

Ground Zero, October 2001. Photo by Flickr user Susan E. Adams.

We were allowed to return to our loft, after being exiled for two months, for Thanksgiving of 2001. The stubborn fire that persisted throughout that time at Ground Zero finally went out around Christmas, and our children were able to return to their school building in February of 2002. By that time, Ground Zero was no longer Ground Zero.

No longer a raw, devastating and severe reality, Ground Zero had quickly become sanitized. Cheap trinkets were sold and American flags were waved for all sorts of ideologies. Tourists flocked to the site after the Canal Street entrance was opened. It became the flash point for demonstrations surrounding everything from wars to Islam to American destiny.

Has the concept of the  “American Dream” changed since the events of September 11, 2011?

The American Dream: a term coined by historian James Truslow Adams in 1931, meaning “life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement.” Each generation, until recently, passed on a higher expectation for the next generation to follow. I suspect each journey toward the American Dream is also a re-fictioning, or at least a re-telling, of personal narratives. Just as Ground Zero became co-opted, the American Dream can very quickly be short-changed into sheer materialism. Whatever the “American Dream” can mean, it is true that each generation may have its own version. Today, the “American Dream” can be liquid, and certainly elusive, but the incarnation of these ideals can morph and still fit the original definition.

What did 9/11 end, and what did it begin? 9/11 exposed the assumptions behind terms like “Ground Zero” or “American Dream.” For that we need to be grateful. For me, the past decade was an opportunity to think through the consequences of these assumptions. These two terms can be connected in such a reflection.

Theologically, the whole of earth is “Ground Zero.” We live in the fallen world in which every good, true, and beautiful reality is quickly idolized to something selfish, greedy and destructive. Christians believe that Christ came to redeem this path to self-destruction by taking on all of our “pride of the flesh” on the Cross.

“Ground Zero,” in Christ, can also mean a cancellation point, a new beginning where we can stand on the ashes of the Wasteland we see and still seek renewal and “genesis moments.”

The “American Dream” can be a collection of such “genesis moments.” The American Dream does not have to be merely a calculus of how many material possessions we can accumulate; it can be a measurement of happiness based on creative and relational capital. Rather than the blind drive to advance into all the areas of this fragile earth, we can purpose to care for her, as Creation Care advocates have noted. Rather than making Darwinian decisions on “limited resources,” we can endeavor to believe that God’s resources, especially the creative and relational capitals, are infinite. Creativity based on love can create a capital of generosity, feeding the world with fresh opportunities rather than fostering competition.

Caring for culture (or Culture Care) at large, just as we have began to do for our environment, is a noble goal for the next generation. This does not have to be a socialistic vision, by the way, which is based on limited resources, but can be based on the abundant optimism of what “America” represents. In other words, the “American Dream” does not have to be all about the houses and boats we own, but it can be about the celebration of the prudential and humble steps to steward the infinite grace we receive. It can become truly about the dreams of an individual, just as Adams defined the term the “American Dream.” We can see possibilities even as we grieve, standing on the ashes of Ground Zero, and as we endeavor to pass on hope to future generations.

This will require faith. And one does not even need to be an American to be part of that dream. The American Dream is no longer bound by geography, what passport we carry, or what political parties we belong to. A Dream is always meant to be open-sourced, imparted as a gift to those who dare to take on the challenge. Yes, America is a place, a locality. As such, America can be a ferment of experimentation: a place where new ideas can be tried out, tested in the microcosm of that locality, and shared. It can be a nexus of the creative and communal movement of dreamers, gathered to steward the future of the world.

Now, of course, immediate suspicion will challenge such an optimistic view. The world, certainly, does not operate out of generosity, but individual preservation and even greed. Capitalism depends on this drive. From the faith communities of churches, I can hear dissent as well. Are we meant to be triumphant over the city of men on this side of eternity? And if we are, are we not simply able to push back the darkness for a limited time before corruption sets within us? Are we not simply trying our best to be a force of resistance to the evils of our days until Christ returns? All of these positions are valid. Yet, I submit here a radical thought rising from the ashes of 9/11 and the subsequent financial crisis on Wall Street: capitalism based on only greed is not sustainable, and faith without audacity cannot survive in our extreme climate of pluralism.

Like Saint Francis and Saint Clare of Assisi, we can begin our journey with a position of humility, and radical, audacious faith. We can journey on the winding path upward, praying with the birds’ trills calling each other through the tree branches of pluralism. A community that depends on material capital will only grow with the territorial battles. A community that depends on creative faith and communal vision will thrive even if the whole system of the world, or even the corrupt church of St. Francis’ times, is set against it.  Even the financial, political, and military “gates of hell” shall not prevail against it.

See Refractions: A Journey of Art, Faith and Humanity, for more essays on our post 9/11 journey.