Uriarte is a fourth-year history student.
By Grace UriarteRarely is everyone in the
nation thinking the same thing at the same time, or every person
you encounter thinking what you’re thinking.
But on Tuesday, we were.
We were all thinking about the horrible tragedy. And here in New
Jersey, 15 minutes from the disaster, we continue to think about
it. Things have never gone very smoothly here. We deal with real
life on a day-to-day basis. The sun isn’t always shining and
people aren’t always smiling. We get caught up in the hustle
and bustle of things.
Only the Hudson Bay separates where I live (Bergen County) from
New York City. Here in its suburbs, Manhattan culture without the
culture exists. Everyone runs around in a rush; they live to work.
Phrases I hear from Bay Area people such as “the quality of
life rather than quantity” sound foreign, mushy and
impractical here.
The Associated Press The south tower of the World Trade Center
collapses in New York on Tuesday, Sept. 11. Being
“productive” and “efficient” is the
“necessity.” So we have the culture of New York City
without any of the redeeming qualities of its theater, music,
dance, museums or the electricity that pervades the busy streets.
We have the culture without the necessity of it. And people used to
rushing don’t have a lot of time for friendliness.
When my sister-in-law visits from California and gives a
friendly comment to someone in a public place, they look at her as
if they’re asking, “Why is she talking to me?”
and begin slowly backing away.
To all of us, however, whether we’re lovers or haters of
New York City, the Twin Towers represented solidarity and
familiarity ““ a sight that would always be there. A sight
that set the breathtaking skyline of New York City apart from any
other skyline.
Now, it is bare.
We mourn together. We all know people who worked there.
We’ve all walked the streets along there or spent time inside
of them. We all know we are a part of the same community as those
who were in them when they fell. We no longer speak in terms of
“I,” but “we.”
We all know we are a part of the same community. We no longer
speak in terms of “˜I,’ but “˜we.’
“We’ve had better days, haven’t we?” the
town eye doctor said to me on the day of the towers’
collapse. Now, the morning after, the houses that used to hang
flags reading “New York Yankees” have American flags
instead.
I walk down the street and a landscaper (New Jersey people pride
themselves for their lawns), had his radio tuned to the classic
rock station. Normally, he would be too busy to have a radio on
while he worked. But we find ourselves moving more slowly, unable
to stop meditating about the tortuous details. They were saying the
same things as every other station, talking about the horrible
tragedy. You cannot escape it. It is the only thing we can think
about.
A song came on then. “We need to pull together and be
strong,” it sang. I turned the corner and across the street a
garage door was raised and a man was working inside it. He had
pulled his television into it so he could watch it as he worked. I
knew he could only be watching one thing, since only one television
station has been working here for the past day. Most of the
stations were transmitted from the Twin Towers.
I continued walking. A lot more people seem to be at home now
rather than at work. I saw three people in their late 40s talking
on the opposite sidewalk. A few weeks ago perhaps we would have
avoided eye contact, not wanting to obtrude upon each other.
Today, they stared at me. I don’t know what kind of face I
must have had on, but one of them walked across the street and
said, “Are you OK?”
We have friends who watched from tall buildings very close by as
people jumped out of the towers, falling to their deaths. We have a
friend whose roommate worked in the second tower that was hit.
After the plane hit the first tower, she ignored officials who said
they were in no danger and should return to her building. Others
did listen, went back to work, and may never come out alive
again.
We know of those who were miraculously spared: classmates’
parents who worked there, but whose cars did not start that
morning, whose alarm clocks did not go off, or who missed their
trains. We have friends who were on their way to work, located one
block away from the disaster. But as they were catching the subway
in Port Authority, the bus terminal on 42nd Street that most New
Jersey residents filter through, they were ordered to evacuate the
station.
Trapped in the city, they sat in coffee shops for the next eight
hours along with those who tried to smoke away their nerves. My
brother and his family were scheduled for a flight from Newark to
San Francisco to leave this Saturday, only four days after the same
flight had exploded near Pittsburgh. On Thursday night, JFK Airport
was closed again, since someone with a fake pilot’s ID was
trying to board a plane. I, too, need to get to L.A.
We are renting a car.
And so many here have rushed to donate blood. Those in the city
try to help out at the site. Hundreds who could do neither have
joined the New York University student who brought out paper and
art supplies so New Yorkers would have the opportunity to express
their grief through art.
Living here, and watching a symbol of home collapse, confronts
us with the tragedy like no other faraway disaster. Seventy-two
hours later, more channels are working, but only the news is being
broadcast.
They continue to exhibit the familiar towers burning and then
collapsing to the ground. It is like pouring salt onto fresh
wounds.
We turn off the TV now and the radios. We know that things will
never be the same.