There are many ways of breaking a heart. Stories were full of hearts broken by love,
but what really broke a heart was taking away its dream - whatever that dream might be.
Pearl S. Buck

Monday, September 11

its over now.

I was lying on the couch in my low rent apartment in the bario. Hangover. At an early hour, the "Mexican doorbell" (no offense readers) start honking outside my open window, calling the homies to work. I wake up to close the window, and decide to turn on the TV to drown them out for the morning.

Walking back from getting a glass of water and an ibuprofen, I hear an airplane has crashed into the world trade center. I remember thinking oh shit! both my cousins live and work in Manhatten. Then I realize what is happening. My ex was on the other couch when I scream out HOLY SHIT! as the second plane hit. He rolls over and says "What?" I said, "Look at the TV. There are suicide pilots crashing their passanger planes into the World Trade Center."

We pretty much sat there in awe all day. Watching the poor people from the top floors wave out the windows... Jump... the paper and ashes flying everywhere. Thinking to myself, what would I be doing in that situation? How would I handle myself? Would I panic? Or try to organize and get people out of there? Who would I make my last call to? What would I say? Do those people have children? Are there children in that building?

And most importantly, why didn't your government know about this before hand? An operation of this scale surely doesnt go unnoticed. (please remember these are things i was thinking on THAT day) And another thought, this has a smell to it. A very bad smell. The kind of smell the Kennedy assasignation had. Not good. Look at all the innocent people who died due to someone's insatiable struggle for power. And I cried alot. I am crying still.

Questions. Questions. Questions. Nothing will take back what happened. No memorial service, or parade, or monument will make up for the lives that have been lost. I just hope that the there are more strict guidelines and measures being taken behind the scenes. I have seen evidence of it in the airports. And despite the hassles, I am grateful. But the trust I have in our "defense" against these attacks is filled with gapping windtunnels. I am proud to be an American on some days. other days, I wonder if the people are ever really in charge. So what kind of America am I proud of?

My outpouring to the people who lost loved ones in this tragic event is a hope. A hope that peace shrouds you while recovering from the great loss you endured. namaste.

And to quote many a beauty pageant contestant, I (unrealistically) long for world peace. (whirled peas.. giggles)

1 comment:

  1. I had a Guatemalan doorbell when I live on 2nd Street in Ann Arbor - 5 fucking 30 AM M-F, and on Friday and Sunday night when the batos came to pick up for the crack party. :shiver: