Tuesdays in September – 9/11 Poetry
I have no harrowing story related to the events of 9/11, no personal tragedy. Seven-year-old me was safely tucked away in a classroom at James M. Brown Elementary School. That’s in Walhalla, South Carolina, notable for some suspect Southern hospitality and their annual Oktoberfest. It’s also just a twenty-minute drive down the mountain to the schoolhouse, versus the winding half-hour it takes to reach North Georgia. And though my mother is originally from Long Island, New York and I have extended family in Connecticut, on that Tuesday morning in 2001 as we pulled out of the driveway of our farm, I was more preoccupied with the well being of my puppy than impending terrorist attacks.
My memory is limited as to the particulars of the day itself. I’m sure I wore some sort of overall getup, because that and a big red bow on top of my head was a look I rocked, albeit reluctantly. What I remember is one teacher screaming and several others running. I remember lining up in the hallway, and then, pretty immediately, being ushered back into our classroom. I remember an announcement about the doors being locked. Nothing to write home about. I asked what was wrong, and no one answered. Even the afternoon bus driver pretended not to hear me, and we were great friends.
At home, my parents told me everything they knew, all teary-eyed and pale-faced. We watched the evening news, and I laughed. I’m almost positive this reaction did not go over well. It seemed silly, like one of those heightened action movies starring Nicolas Cage or Gary Oldman. And I’m not proud of it, haven’t been for a long while. So some time ago I wrote a poem to make amends, if only for my own conscience. How could I be so callous? Who knows; I was a kid, still am when I’m not keeping tabs. I grew up in a pre and post 9/11 world, during an abstract “war on terror.” And this year, Mother Nature herself is doing all she can for the day not to pass thoughtlessly.
And so I’m thinking of you, whoever you are.
TUESDAYS IN SEPTEMBER
I need another rock like I need a hole in the head.
Another plane has hit Tower Two.
Somebody’s doing this on purpose.
Our children just don’t know it yet.
This is why our parents told us to read the fine print.
It’s called the long road to freedom.
Something like an old Spiritual hums and shimmies.
America delights in the Blues.
There’s a pain in my head.
People enjoy that raw humanity.
Lead me to a new level of thinking.
One thing I learn to do is follow directions from north to south.
You interview someone and they will give you their shoe.
It is a detailed record of every move they made.
The man is to stand with a folded newspaper in his right hand.
Stories break out of buildings up in the air.
We love to dissect the bewildered laughter.
Look just there, my sweet.
Lower Manhattan is crashing.
Incidentally, my paper cut stings.
The florid woman is to change her clocks presently.
Monday was the last good day of the week.
I cut my grass down to the roots this morning.
Everything beyond my front stoop was becoming a wilderness.
It comes to me that smoke carries no sound.
We all fall back to Zero annually.
Read other writings by Miriam:
The Young Women’s Guide to Making Bad Matters Worse
A Brief Record of Interrupted, Rural Solitude
This poem reminds me of two things, even before it brings back September 11. First, those portions of Ancient Greek drama known as stichomythia, a dialogue in which characters trade one-line statements, back and forth. Here we often get to the bottom of some tragic bind, pushing faster and faster some horrible realization, the dread anagnoresis. It reminds me to0 of Bob Dylan’s explanation of the way he wrote “A Hard Rain’s a Gonna Fall.” He said he sat down and wrote out the first lines for as many different songs as he could think of and then made them each a line in the song we have. I don’t believe him, but it’s a good myth. The result feels similar somehow.
I was 22 when the planes hit. The first plane was first reported to be a small Cessna or something. The TV news had nothing to go on and there was no big internet yet to spread cell phone video and live tweets. Maybe it’s because Fight Club had just run at the local bar-theater, but our first guess was some sort of anti-capitalist gesture, a blazing but harmless suicide.
Then the second airliner hit on live TV, and “Somebody’s doing this on purpose” was thought by a million minds at once.
Athens GA was a like a ghost town that day. No jet trails in the air; the sky was perfectly clear for the first time in memory. Much later, my NASA meteorologist brother-in-law told me that the satellite data from 9-11 is used as a sort of control, so clear were the skies. Somebody had parked a delivery van in front of the Athens federal building and everyone was flipping shit about it. The street was closed off and the cops surrounded the van. Turns out it was just a van.
Now we have a bored gambler picking off people at random in Vegas and he doesn’t even have a fucking personal conviction. A hard rain’s a’fallin.
I’m honored by how much you considered this work! Really. It does me well to hear your own narrative. Indeed, the world is a screwed up place. Increasingly so or the same as always, I can’t tell. But I always want to do better.
Love what you write, Miriam. I’m sharing some on Facebook. Keep us posted.