It’s a bone chilling day in winter as I park my car on a side street next to the Cyclone [...]
Friday, September 9, 2011. My friend and neighbor Judy the Therapist and I ponder the upcoming 10th anniversary of the World [...]
In 1974 I was twenty-five. I’d just left my secure job as a kindergarten teacher. The job: compliments of my, [...]
"A short but deeply researched, dark, intense biography... studded with original aperçus about the art of biography, the nature of literary influence, and the importance of place to a writer's sensibility." -- Priscilla Gilman, The Boston Globe
Friday, September 9, 2011.
My friend and neighbor Judy the Therapist and I ponder the upcoming 10th anniversary of the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks. On that terrible day, Judy and a young couple from my building had just picked up the morning paper at a news stand around the corner; they saw the first plane hit. Another friend woke me up with a frantic phone call; she knew I live downtown, and wanted to make sure I was still alive.
As the tenth anniversary approaches, the city announces plans for bagpipes and color guards and government officials reading the victims’ names. I’m ambivalent about all this. Is it an appropriate remembrance, or is it an unnecessary, ritualistic dredging up of terrible sorrows? Does it re-congratulate the terrorists every year on their great success in inflicting pain?
I’m not even sure I have the right to ask these questions. After all, I didn’t lose anybody. Everyone I know got out alive.read more...