A Memoir - 91101

I woke up that morning to the phone ringing. I ignored it. It was entirely too early for anything to get me out of bed. I didnt have to be at work for another 6 hours. I had a hangover from the night before and imagined the solicitor on the other end just wanted to bribe me into switching my long-distance plan for the third time in the infancy of that month that was early September.

The answering machine will pick it up. Ten minutes later the phone rang again. I threw my pillow in the general direction of my cordless sitting on my bookshelf about 6 feet away. Somehow I missed. Now I was not only hungover and dehydrated, but aggravated that I had no pillow to cover my splitting head from the morning light seeping in through my window.

It rang again. I stumbled out of my bed and answered with a scratchy and purposely annoyed tone. "HELLO?"

"Alison?"

My mother.

"Yes??" I said, rolling my eyes, as if anyone else would be answering my phone, with my voice.

"What are you doing?"

"It's 9 am. What do you think I'm doing?" Annoyed. Pissed off. This definitely was not the time for small talk. I had sleep I had to get in. Recovery. Self-healing. Replenishment.

"So you have no idea what's going on in the world?"

I blinked. Paused. Thought about that question for a few seconds as the Texas heat had already begun to warm my room. "I'm sorry. Am I not supposed to sleep in case I might miss some ground-breaking world event that will forever change the face of humanity?" I said sarcastically as I crawled back into bed with the phone dangling between my ear and shoulder.

"We are under attack!"

As soon as my head hit the mattress, I jerked it back up, now wide awake and sitting on the edge of my bed. Then standing, then collapsing to the floor. Finally I ran into the living room, and turned on Headline News. All in a matter of what seemed like minutes, but was mere seconds, while she started explaining the ground-breaking world event that would forever change the face of humanity, through broken sobs and trembling vocal chords.

At this point, terror set in. I saw the planes hit on the relay of tape that was being broadcast on every channel. They hit, over and over and over again.

Explode. Fire. Smoke. Collapse.

The ticker scrolled across the bottom over the fear-filled shocked faces of the millions running for safety. Blurred flight numbers, names of places in Pennsylvania I had never heard of, predicted death tolls, WTC, Boston Logan, Pentagon, Washington Dulles. Bush, Powell, Giuliani, the names, all blurs over ash-covered business suits. Soot-covered cars. Sirens upon screams upon sirens upon dead silence.

I couldn't move. My mothers voice had turned into a distant mumbling on the other end of the line. I sat in catatonic shock. In petrified disbelief. In the middle of my Ikea filled living room, watching my 27" Zenith as it unfolded the present tragedy before me.

The assumptions began before the questions ended. It's Pakistan. It's Palestine. It's Saudi Arabia. It's the Taliban. It's China. It's Saddam Hussein. It's Osama bin Laden.

Who?

For the next several hours, I didnt try to understand any of it. I just phoned every person I had ever known and sat with them in a state of mixed silence and confusion that eventually lead to an out-pouring of forgotten "hellos" and missed "i love yous". It was an awakening on every level. My clothes-filled closet was left unopened, as I threw on the first thing I grabbed off my floor and drove to my friends loft. Suddenly my large cd collection grew dusty and my radio was stuck on NPR. That 1 mile drive was the longest drive of my life. I felt lonely. I felt vacant. I felt nothing and everything. I looked at other drivers faces. They felt the same.

At Alan's loft, Sean and I were given a crash-course lesson in America's foreign policy. We were given the history of Israel and Palestine. We were given the culture and beliefs of the Taliban. We were taught about Muslims. About CNN, OPEC, UN, CIA, Hussein, Musharraf, Sharon, Arafat. Alan knew his world history. But none of us had heard of Al Quaida. None of us had heard of Bin Laden.

The day went on and more friends gathered at the New Amsterdam Coffeehaus downstairs from Alan's loft. Usually it was a lively place on any night of the week. The jukebox would pump out Grandaddy and Tom Waits. The bar would be packed with the regulars talking, drinking, flirting, reading great literature, doing crosswords, waxing philosphical, and there was always talk of the current trend in the arts and politics of the world. It was a perfect mix of the liberal-spirited hippies, chess-playing intellects and the partying rockabilly punk rebels of Dallas, Texas. The one thing we all had in common was we were the minority in this plastic conservative city. That night was different.

There was a new thing in common. And our styles that once separated us from one another, were now embraced as the core of what made us individuals of one race. The race of mankind. We were no longer black, white, hispanic, asian, indian, mid-easten, british, italian, brazilian, african. We were no longer gay, straight, bi-sexual, asexual, transexual, transvestites. We were no longer jewish, christian, muslim, hindu, buddhist, atheist, pagan. We were no longer rich, poor, middle-class, white collar, blue-collar, unemployed. We were no longer democratic, conservative, libertarian, independent, unaffiliated. We were no longer male, female, blond, brunette, red head, thin, fat, tall, short, old, young. We were no longer skaters, punks, cowboys, hippies, businessmen, rasta, rave-kids, cyber-geeks, art snobs, athletes. We were mankind brought together in silence by a ground-breaking world event that would forever change the face of humanity.

I'm no patriot. I don't own a flag. I'm an American. But I know that does not make me innocent. I have shame for my country's policies. But I will not blame the lives lost for those policies. Today, I have remembrance. I have silence.