Wednesday, September 19, 2001
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Wednesday, September 19, 2001 |
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A nightmare from hell By
SALLIE SATTERTHWAITE
Please, God, let us wake up now. It's a nightmare, right? Airplanes falling out of the sky, Manhattan in flames, office workers running pell-mell through the streets, the president being whisked to an undisclosed location, airports closed nationwide. Oh, God, it seems so real, but I know I'll wake up, clammy with sweat, shaking and thirsty. I need to sort out the images, the barrage of information that rolled into our lives like clouds of concrete dust. Fire equipment, ambulances symbols of rescue and refuge crushed by falling debris, burnt out, like those you see in pictures from other places. A guy in a suit and tie guiding an injured woman, so covered with dust that he was almost indistinguishable from workers and victims on the street. A river of pedestrians, evacuating Manhattan, flowing across the Brooklyn Bridge, and all I can think is, Gosh, I hope they had tennis shoes with them. I'd hate to think I had several miles to walk in dress shoes. Palestinians cheering and flashing V-for-victory signs like they just won the World Cup. And I thought it was the end of the world, a few days ago, when the video card went askew in my computer case, followed by one thing after another. My desktop not functioning? What could possibly be worse? It may well be the end of the world as we know it. A turning point in history like no other we've ever experienced on our shores. Consider the ripple effect on our common humanity. There is the theory that nearly every person in this country is connected to every other citizen by only six degrees of association. For instance, the best friend of the next-door neighbor of my daughter's kindergarten teacher's nephew would be five degrees from me. Given the staggering number of casualties in this attack, I doubt there's anyone in the United States who isn't in some way personally affected. And then I remember: Last summer I met the son of a cousin I don't know well. He's career Air Force. Stationed at the Pentagon. "We will find and punish the cowards who did this, and any nation that gave them support." Like we did the creeps that killed the Marines in their beds in Lebanon? Like we did the killers of Pan Am 103? Like we did those who bombed our embassies in Kenya and Tanzania? I want to believe it. Surely we'll see a tightening of security measures. Seldom as I fly, I've been struck for the past couple of years by the nonchalance of airport security personnel. I'm too nervous a flier to call attention to myself by saying, "You're not even looking at that X-ray machine. Do your job." And if that's all the attention being paid to carry-ons, with security people under constant public scrutiny, how much less is the inspection of checked bags? A friend who flies a lot says she did reprimand security personnel who looked at her instead of her bag, and said, "That's a lovely smile you're wearing today." Amazing. I've begun finding that Noo Yawk accent endearing, as I listen to eyewitness accounts of police, firefighters and other rescue workers. They look so tired. But that isn't just fatigue; it's frustration, shock, grief. As a former paramedic who, like medical workers everywhere, used to curse the volume of paper work required by legal and billing procedures, I noted no one in the rescue scenes wielding pens and clipboards. Posters for missing family members paper cover every flat surface near the site and the hospitals, while mothers and brothers and wives go from place to place speaking the names of loved ones to people paging through lists. You can hear the question mark. Perhaps a few days of hope will cushion the almost inevitable blow, when they know. When did candlelight vigils and floral shrines and drawn faces become so commonplace in this country? After three days almost constantly on the air, Peter Jennings looks exhausted. It's unnerving to see him beginning to lose his concentration. They've done heroic duty, the news people. As have the rescuers. A search-dog handler sleeps with his German shepherd on the sidewalk. We've seen efforts like these before, but in other places, and usually as a result of earthquake. Manhattan Island quaked last week. Scenes from abroad: A Russian woman wiping away tears. Palestinians celebrating as though they'd just won a soccer match. Crowds gathering to watch the popular changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace in London. They were not prepared for what happened there. Neither was I. Even Peter choked. Tears streamed down the faces of onlookers, Brit and American alike, as our national anthem rang out. Tears streamed down my face, too. In America, the flag. That bright, brave banner of red, white, and blue. Grimy firefighters raise it above the rubble, and the remembrance of another scene imprinted on our collective memory hits us viscerally. Another star-spangled banner unrolls from the roof of the Pentagon. Then flags begin to bloom all along the streets where we live. As we saw those hideous initial scenes played and replayed and replayed again, we kept hearing two words. "My God. My God." Those were prayers, not oaths. My God, it's been more than a week, and it's real. But there is a higher reality, and for longer. Forever. Don't let us forget that.
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