the Cry
Oh! I have suffered
With those that I saw suffer: a brave Vessel,
Who had, no doubt, some noble Creature in her,
Dash’d all to pieces. O the Cry did knock
Against my very Heart. Poor Souls, they perish’d.
The Tempest, I, ii, 5-9.
I was asleep when the first plane hit. We had law firm interviews that day and I was avoiding them – the partners who swarmed to our billable hour font, ready to begin the wooing.
The hallway was crowded. Law students in business suits, except, unlike the day before, today they were not pretending.
A plane has flown into one of the Twin Towers!
Really? That’s odd.
Didn’t something like that happen once before? Some guy flew a prop into the Empire State Building or something.
No. This is different.
Another one! They’ve hit the other one!
Oh my god.
What other one?
And the Pentagon!
That’s weird. What are the odds of that?
And the White House!
We’re at war!
The PENTAGON?
We’re being invaded!
This is serious. This is really serious.
Oh my god.
In the lounge, a small T.V., wheeled out from who knows where. Students and professors together. Huddled.
Secretary of Transportation Norm Mineta has ordered the immediate grounding of all air … just a minute, we’re getting reports that there may be another plane down in a field outside of …
Another plane?
It’s an invasion.
… just look at the smoke pouring out of the tower. There must be a devastating inferno in …
What is that falling? Is that?
… and on the line with us now, we have Brian O’Byrne of the New York Fire Department. Mr. O’Byrne, what can you tell us about the conditions inside the towers right now?
Don’t look. Look away.
They’re jumping! Oh my god! Why are they jumping?
The fire … It’s too hot. They can’t …
Oh my god.
There’s a bomb in Stuyvesant High School.
Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus.
Why don’t they climb down? My god, there’s another one. They’re jumping! They’re jumping! Somebody help them!
Mayor Giuliani has ordered 11,000 body bags.
They can’t climb down, the fire’s blocking …
IT’S COMING DOWN! DEAR GOD, IT’S CRUMBLING!
Oh no. no.
… debris everywhere. We’re completely blinded. I can’t see … anything.
Shock. Like falling into cold water at night. Shock.
And then, a strange sense of optimism. A war is coming, but that’s all right because there has to be a war. And, surely, there will be a miracle story. A pregnant woman, or a child, rescued after thirty days. Something.
But there was no miracle story, and there was one war too many.
How to feel? What to do? I wrapped myself in isolation. In radio and darkness.
Welcome back. This afternoon, we’re asking some esteemed musicians to tell us what music they listen to in times of grief. What music do you listen to to help you through times like these? Call us. We’d like to hear from you.
I listen to the Adagio from Beethoven’s E-flat string quartet, Op. 127. He wrote it on his deathbed. It’s farewell music. I listen to the Adagio from Bruckner’s 7th. He wrote it as an homage to Wagner, you know.
Radio and darkness, for days. Books. Poetry. Just words. Just sounds.
I wonder if, perhaps, Doctor, you have had time to consider the character of the men who might do such a thing as this?
Well, it’s an interesting question. Here is what I find most interesting: They lived with us for some time. They learned to fly in Florida. They ate with us. They had neighbors. They met us. And yet, they were not seduced by the goodness of this country …
When I’m finally able, I leave the shuttered apartment and step out into the light.
I walk a long time. I walk alone. A restaurant. I sit.
What can I get you, Sir?
Hummus please.
What am I doing here?
You know what. You want to prove to people that you still love them. You want to prove it to yourself.
Why should I love them?
Because they are people.
And to drink?
Water. Just water.
She smiles shyly and leaves. She tells the cook my order, in Arabic.
They slit women’s throats with box cutters.
Others did. Not her. Not anyone here.
If others did it, she could do it. What one is capable of, another is capable of.
Including you?
Yes, including me.
Maybe, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is choice. She chooses to be here. And so do you. Eat her food. Be with her. Experience her humanity. Let her experience yours.
Here you are, sir. Can I get you anything else?
No, thank you.
Ok. Enjoy.
… they were not seduced by the goodness of this country …
Thanks. Uhhh, excuse me?
Yes?
Umm. Never mind. It’s alright. That’s alright. Thank you.
What were going to ask her?
I don’t know. Nothing.
Nothing?
I don’t know. Something. I wanted to say some words to her. I’ve been in my apartment, alone with music. With books. I wanted to say something to her. I don’t know what. I have no words. I have no music.
But you have enough.
I have anger. And sorrow. What do I have?
You have everything. You know you do. And that’s why you came here, to this restaurant, instead of another.
What do I have?
You have what Vonnegut learned from the charred corpses in Dresden: what they whispered to him through their blistered lips.
What? What did he learn? What did they whisper?
Be kind. Be kind. Be kind.
September 12, 2008 at 02:53 p
Kind.
September 12, 2008 at 06:45 p
After reading four or five blogs yesterday I was just about done with 9/11 posts. Enough. But then I read yours. And then I read it again. It reminded me of James Dickey’s Falling, a poem that never fails to move me with every reading. “the Cry” is definitely worthy of a comparison to “Falling” and in some way, I think it exceeds it. You have captured emotion without being maudlin or overly sentimental. You have captured terror, anxiety, fear, and the aftermath. You have encapsulated the day in what is probably the best tribute, poem, statement I have ever read.
September 13, 2008 at 04:31 p
Dingo,
What you said is more than kind. Thank you.
TuB
September 15, 2008 at 04:49 p
This is a beautifully written post. It’s more than a story. It’s a poem. I have read it and reread it and now I have printed it out and will keep it handy. Nothing I have read better expresses the momentous turmoil and aftermath. Thank you.
Yes, we should be kind. In a number of works and speeches, including his very last speech on April 27, 2007, Kurt Vonnegut told how he asked his son what life was all about and his son responded, “Dad, we are here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is.”
You do that.