Skip to main content

Never Forget the People of 9/10

 Never forget. 9/11 was a horrible day. Worst part about it was the lies, the spin. In our lifetimes, most of us will never know the truth about those. The number of lives lost kept going up, until it started going down. That one was easy. The US couldn't telegraph just how bad the damage was. Rather than report the facts, it became about spin. 

Never forget. We hear that every year. Never forget. Anyone who lived through that day is not going to forget. We don't need a reminder. So why the constant, annual nudge? To make sure everyone remembers the spin, the lies. We're supposed to remember the official story. I remember the truth like it happened yesterday. I don't need a reminder.

Social media is despicable regarding 9/11. This year (24 years later) I started seeing posts suggesting we Americans remember 9/11 AND to be the people we were on 9/12. Really? That's fucked up. The people of 9/12 were terrified. No one went to work (except for a handful of us). Sure, everyone had their flag displayed. Was this pride or the first taste of nationalism? Some of you might not remember. The economy went into the toilet for a while. Is that why our current economy is in the shitter? Are we remembering and honoring 9/11? 

The people of 9/12 were assholes. Sure, they were scared but that was no excuse for who we became. I remember seeing news reports of brown-skinned people being attacked in the streets. Indians, Pakistanis, etc. These were American citizens. These were students. These were people who had nothing to do with 9/11 - but our neighbors were attacking them. Violently. Is this what we are now supposed to emulate? 

I spent a large part of 9/12 trying to get through to my ex-wife in NYC. I was trying to contact friends in NYC. I was ready to hop in the car and drive to NYC and volunteer my services. My boss talked me out of it. She reminded me that I was needed here. 

The worst part of 9/11 was the silence. I was one of the last people out of the city. On the 6-mile drive home, I didn't see another person, another car, not even a dog or cat. It was like being the last man alive. The air traffic had been stopped. The silence was alien. It seemed unnatural. After I couldn't watch the news any longer, I sat on my porch with my dogs. They both knew something was up. Then a fighter jet flew low over the neighborhood. It was LOUD! Scared the shit out of all three of us.  I guessed this was life now.

The people of 9/12 were a changed people. The reality was that We the People had been attacked. We'd let our collective mouths write a check our collective asses couldn't cash. Insufficient funds. Our world changed. I remember having to show my ID for the first time just to enter a building downtown. This wasn't a government building or anything. It was a doctor's office. I remember the faces of people in the city, as well as out in the suburbs. The look of fear and suspicion. The cops all started wearing buzz cuts. They were trying to look like some third-rate paramilitary group. It would have been comical at any other point in time. I started to miss the people of 9/10.

The people of 9/10 weren't unique. They mostly minded their own business. They went to work, did their jobs, and spent their money in their communities. The people of 9/10 enjoyed life as much as they could. For the most part, the 90s weren't awful. We worked, earned our money, paid our bills, and lived our lives. The people of 9/10 didn't politicize everything. Most of us thought George W. Bush was a pinhead, but he was our pinhead. But the people of 9/10 who survived 9/11 became the flag-waving hyper nationalists of 9/12. 

Never forget the people of 9/10. They weren't perfect, but for the most part they were reasonable. Crime existed, but it wasn't constantly blamed on the left or right. School shootings had happened, but not to the extent that they happen now. The people of 9/10 would have never accepted a dictator. Hell, Clinton was unsuccessfully impeached for lying about banging a fat girl. We held our chosen leaders to account or at least tried. The news reported the news. It wasn't just a never-ending stream of opinionated talking heads spewing partisan talking points. Fox News, at the time, was considered a joke. I remember the local Fox News team. With the possible exception of Alby Oxenreiter (Ox on Fox!) they were a bunch of inept clowns. I recall a night when two of the anchors came to one of my shows at Rosebud. 9:00pm and they were falling down drunk and had to be escorted out. Neither the station nor the incident was considered news. We all used to joke that Fox should stick to shows like The Simpsons.  

When you remember 9/11 (and trust me, you'll be reminded!), remember the people of 9/10. They're long gone. They're a myth. Was life ever that simple? Will it ever be again? Probably not in my lifetime. Never forget. You've been lied to for years, and you happily swallowed every lie. 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A Bluesy Melody and a Scratchy Photograph

Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't born in the mountains. Nor had he been raised in a cave. His appearance, though, often led people to think otherwise. A barber's chair was as likely a place for him to visit as the moon. I don't believe he had ever shaved. His hair, long and unkempt, looked even longer thanks to his seemingly endless beard, which was braided and knotted at the bottom. If unfurled, it probably would have dipped well below his waist.  His mannerisms and manner, while peculiar, were so only in that he was almost religiously polite. What at first glance might appear stand-offish was nothing more than his attempts at being inobtrusive. He was almost like some Appalachian monk, raised by a society trapped in the past, who occasionally ventured into town. He was extremely well-read and more tech savvy than most teenagers. Utmost, he maintained his privacy. No one knew just where he lived. He came and went at his own leisure, unnoticed by the world until he mad...

An Old Photo

The photo was old and scratched up. It looked like it had been handled and mishandled for years, and it probably had. Passed from hand to hand, tucked into scrapbooks, displayed in frames, stuffed into drawers, and rescued again. It had been looked at thousands of times. It was still his favorite. It wasn't historically important. Just a photograph of friends sitting in someone's back garden, sharing a few laughs and a few cold beers. The image was every bit as grainy as the memories attached to it. The colors had faded with age, drifting toward reds and yellows. Time had left its fingerprints everywhere. He was the only one left in the photograph. When his time came, would anyone remember those old glory days? Those years when importance itself seemed unimportant. When photographs weren't taken to prove anything, advertise anything, or preserve a carefully crafted image. They were taken simply because someone thought a moment was worth keeping. There was no guarantee the p...

The American

 In his native America, he'd always had a shady reputation. As a young man, he worked as muscle for hire, worked as a bouncer in gambling houses and brothels, and always had a side hustle moving drugs or weapons. He could always be counted on to find a buyer for stolen goods, too. He was smart enough to see the cracks forming in the government long before most. Within days of the First Attack, he'd made plans to leave the country. Some of his cohorts with Sicilian lineage helped him get to Europe. From there he was on his own. He managed to bring along a tidy sum in cash and jewels. This gave him the advantage of time to form new contacts. He was told time and time again that the capital of Bulgaria - Sofia - would be a good place to set himself up. There were gangs there who could make use of his skills, and provided he kept out of trouble and his name out of the local gossip, he would do fine.  And he did. He pretty much became, as he liked to call himself, a consultant. He ...