The 10th anniversary of 9/11 was only 15 days ago, yet we’ve already latched onto the next tidbit of news, whether it be the latest political infighting among the Republicans or the newest celebrity gossip. Our society moves fast. We grieve too quickly. We celebrate too quickly. In the Old Testament you read of people sitting at the city gates ripping their clothing for days after someone has died. Perhaps some cultures still do this. In Indian culture traditional weddings last a week or more. Everyone stops their daily routine and celebrates. If Americans were able to slow down we would experience a richer life: richer in meaning but poorer in material goods. I think we would be more content.
I recently came across a great blog, written by a woman named Rebekah. She lives in New York City and her blog is called “Of Course New York.” I recommend it highly. This post was written on the 10th anniversary of 9/11, two short weeks ago:
9/11/11 from Brooklyn
On the 10th anniversary of the Twin Towers attacks, I found myself in a Brooklyn Catholic Mass. As we approached this anniversary, the wounds of the event we are all remembering today, stung in the hearts of the country. It is felt all over, but here in New York, they saw the smoke in the sky and stood in their streets watching it rise. Here in New York it was people they knew that worked in those towers and performed the services of going in to search for the living and the dead.
In Windsor Terrace, a neighborhood that was established around blue collar workers, cops, and firemen, 9/11 was more than a national tragedy — it was a local tragedy. Yesterday afternoon I sat out on my stoop and smelled meat grilling a couple streets over. Windsor Place residents were having a block party. They were gathered to remember, and I suppose, try to forget a little too. While Samuel played in the driveway with our neighbors, blissfully unaware that 10-years-ago tomorrow, the United States stood stunned and helpless as the Twin Towers were hit by two airplanes and came crashing into Manhattan with a destructive force. 10-years-ago the Pentagon was plowed by this same force.
Samuel doesn’t know that 10-years-ago I woke up to the news report of the first tower being hit, only to then watch live, the second. And now, 10 years later, I find myself living in New York during the tragic anniversary. As I sat on my stoop yesterday, Maria, my landlord’s wife, shared a few memories with me about the event.
She is not one to mince words. She is a very matter-of-fact, Italian-Catholic with jet-black hair and eyes almost as dark. She is an immigrant to this country, and she is a Brooklynite to the core. She was pregnant with her son Anthony when the 9/11 attacks occurred. She was the one to tell me she could see the smoke from the impact of the planes. Then, as the dust began to settle, so did the debris. It settled as far as our street, but the affect was felt across the nation.
She said she watched people flock to the churches, crying for mercy and understanding. She watched anger and resentment wash away — it was replaced by deep and confusing wounds. She hoped people would see why they need a saviour and she told me she secretly knew that most of them would forget.
And we have. We go back to normal, you have to. When the attacks happened, I was sixteen-years-old. I was floundering and lost myself, and I had never really felt the impact of this global war we are in. 9/11 was the first time I really saw the horror and senselessness of ignorance and hatred illustrated in a tangible way. It did that for all of us. It opened our eyes that we are not immune to terror, and it made us feel less isolated and powerful in this world we are all unsuccessfully trying to share.
So, today, we went to Mass at our landlords church. We didn’t go because we were in pain ourselves — as I said before, the wounds we felt definitely lessened over the years. We had actually been planning on going to a service for a while. Maria told me there would be a special commemoration for those who were lost in the towers, as there were quite a few from this neighborhood who were. We went to be a part of where we are, where God has planted us. We went to remember this tragedy and the hope that came out of it, with people who felt it deeply, with people who watched it happen on their stoops and from their balconies.
The message was one of forgiveness and living as an example. It was not an alien message to me, and it was delivered with conviction — not religion. There were elements of Mass that I will never understand, and don’t need to. Religion is a foreign concept to me, but to Catholics, it is very sacred and important to them. I am strong enough in where I stand to sit in their service and respect their religion. I am strong enough to know that it is a form of faith, and not be threatened by that. There were moments where I sensed the spirit, and was thankful to be there for it. I watched them take Communion and was blessed by my landlord and his wife for being there.
She then introduced us to her friends and the Priest named Father Jim. She told them all we were Christian and that was met with smiles and acceptance. They do not want to convert us, they want to share their faith, and they like us to share ours. They liked when I asked questions, and I genuinely wanted to hear and try to understand the answer.
On the anniversary of the 9/11 tragedy I got a chance to do something the people who took down the towers will never get to do — share in an expression of faith that is different from my own and not be afraid of it. Tolerance begins with not trying to change. Change is up to God. I worshipped God in a Catholic Church today, and I mourned with Brooklyn for those who died 10-years-ago. 10-years-ago that is not something I could have done.