Results tagged “911”

This year, as every year, I pause for a personal ritual of observing where I am today compared to where I was, and where we all were, on this day in 2001. I'm a New Yorker, who lived in the city for years before the attacks, but never quite identified as a New Yorker until after that day.

And it strikes me that this year the thing I want to observe most, even to celebrate, though this hardly feels like a day for celebration, is my beloved city. I've said many times that New York showed its best self on its worst day, but walking around today reminded me too that this city has made an even better version of itself in the years since.

Certainly I'm conflicted about some of what America has done as a country since the attacks, despite my passionate love for my country. War, intolerance, division — these weren't meant to be the results or the outcome of the attacks. In so many ways big and small, I grieve for some of the choices my country has made in brokenhearted, misguided response to an incomprehensible act. But my city? I couldn't be more proud.

Because this is, in many ways, a golden era in the entire history of New York City.

Over the four hundred years it's taken for this city to evolve into its current form, there's never been a better time to walk down the street. Crime is low, without us having sacrificed our personality or passion to get there. We've invested in making our sidewalks more walkable, our streets more accommodating of the bikes and buses and taxis that convey us around our town. There's never been a more vibrant scene in the arts, music or fashion here. And in less than half a decade, the public park where I got married went from a place where I often felt uncomfortable at noontime to one that I wanted to bring together my closest friends and family on the best day of my life. We still struggle with radical inequality, but more people interact with people from broadly different social classes and cultures every day in New York than any other place in America, and possibly than in any other city in the world.

And all of this happened, by choice, in the years since the attacks. We didn't withdraw, we didn't say "we can't build bike lanes because the terrorists will use them", we didn't abandon our subways en masse because we feared some theoretical attack that might strike us there. It could just have easily gone the other way. Many predicted an exodus from New York City after the attacks, with our once-proud citizenry retreating to the theoretically-safer environs of smaller towns or lesser cities. It didn't happen.

I point this out not (merely) to trot out my usual New York triumphalism, but because these attacks really did happen to New York City. I know it sounds ridiculous, but the attacks of September 11th are trotted out for political or rhetorical purposes so often that it's easy to see them only as a symbol, instead of as the true, historical, horrific event that they were. This happened to my city, and then we chose to become a better city in the years since.

I know why, too. Because in the hearts of all of us who lived here, who were here that day, we haven't ever, ever forgotten the sense of common purpose and common identity that bonds us. We have not conceded our public places or our shared spaces where we marry and play, eat and dance, walk and shop, or just sit quietly by ourselves. Maybe it seems like a small thing, but it's a beautiful and meaningful and brave thing, and I am nothing but thankful for those who've made the choices to enable this evolution of our city. And I hope that making New York more livable for those of us who are here is an appropriate, albeit humble, tribute. Because it's a peaceful, thoughtful, quiet, inclusive, loving, subtle, apolitical way of making lives better for those who are here, regardless of their age, identity, or culture. I can't think of a better way to honor the lives of those we lost.

I've observed this anniversary on my blog each year since the day of the attacks. If you're interested, you can read what was in my heart and on my mind every year.

In 2009, Eight Is Starting Over:

[T]his year, I am much more at peace. It may be that, finally, we've been called on by our leadership to mark this day by being of service to our communities, our country, and our fellow humans. I've been trying of late to do exactly that. And I've had a bit of a realization about how my own life was changed by that day.

Speaking to my mother last week, I offhandedly mentioned how almost all of my friends and acquaintances, my entire career and my accomplishments, my ambitions and hopes have all been born since September 11, 2001. If you'll pardon the geeky reference, it's as if my life was rebooted that day and in the short period afterwards. While I have a handful of lifelong friends with whom I've stayed in touch, most of the people I'm closest to are those who were with me on the day of the attacks or shortly thereafter, and the goals I have for myself are those which I formed in the next days and weeks. i don't think it's coincidence that I was introduced to my wife while the wreckage at the site of the towers was still smoldering, or that I resolved to have my life's work amount to something meaningful while my beloved city was still papered with signs mourning the missing.

In 2008, Seven Is Angry:

Finally getting angry myself, I realize that nobody has more right to claim authority over the legacy of the attacks than the people of New York. And yet, I don't see survivors of the attacks downtown claiming the exclusive right to represent the noble ambition of Never Forgetting. I'm not saying that people never mention the attacks here in New York, but there's a genuine awareness that, if you use the attacks as justification for your position, the person you're addressing may well have lost more than you that day. As I write this, I know that parked out front is the car of a woman who works in my neighborhood. Her car has a simple but striking memorial on it, listing her mother's name, date of birth, and the date 9/11/2001.

In 2007, Six Is Letting Go:

On the afternoon of September 11th, 2001, and especially on September 12th, I wasn't only sad. I was also hopeful. I wanted to believe that we wouldn't just Never Forget that we would also Always Remember. People were already insisting that we'd put aside our differences and come together, and maybe the part that I'm most bittersweet and wistful about was that I really believed it. I'd turned 26 years old just a few days before the attacks, and I realize in retrospect that maybe that moment, as I eased from my mid-twenties to my late twenties, was the last time I'd be unabashedly optimistic about something, even amidst all the sorrow.

In 2006, After Five Years, Failure:

one of the strongest feelings I came away with on the day of the attacks was a feeling of some kind of hope. Being in New York that day really showed me the best that people can be. As much as it's become clich� now, there's simply no other way to describe a display that profound. It was truly a case of people showing their very best nature.

We seem to have let the hope of that day go, though.

In 2005, Four Years:

I saw people who hated New York City, or at least didn't care very much about it, trying to act as if they were extremely invested in recovering from the attacks, or opining about the causes or effects of the attacks. And to me, my memory of the attacks and, especially, the days afterward had nothing to do with the geopolitics of the situation. They were about a real human tragedy, and about the people who were there and affected, and about everything but placing blame and pointing fingers. It felt thoughtless for everyone to offer their response in a framework that didn't honor the people who were actually going through the event.

In 2004, Thinking Of You:

I don't know if it's distance, or just the passing of time, but I notice how muted the sorrow is. There's a passivity, a lack of passion to the observances. I knew it would come, in the same way that a friend told me quite presciently that day back in 2001 that "this is all going to be political debates someday" and, well, someday's already here.

In 2003, Two Years:

I spent a lot of time, too much time, resenting people who were visiting our city, and especially the site of the attacks, these past two years. I've been so protective, I didn't want them to come and get their picture taken like it was Cinderella's Castle or something. I'm trying really hard not to be so angry about that these days. I found that being angry kept me from doing the productive and important things that really mattered, and kept me from living a life that I know I'm lucky to have.

In 2002, I wrote On Being An American:

[I]n those first weeks, I thought a lot about what it is to be American. That a lot of people outside of New York City might not even recognize their own country if they came to visit. The America that was attacked a year ago was an America where people are as likely to have been born outside the borders of the U.S. as not. Where most of the residents speak another language in addition to English. Where the soundtrack is, yes, jazz and blues and rock and roll, but also hip hop and salsa and merengue. New York has always been where the first fine threads of new cultures work their way into the fabric of America, and the city the bore the brunt of those attacks last September reflected that ideal to its fullest.

Maybe some of those people who said "today we are all New Yorkers" 9 years ago don't feel that it's true for them anymore; Maybe our values mean that their empathy has been tested too much for them to keep identifying with my beautiful city. If so, they're missing a wonderful moment in the history of a great place. I love you, New York.

One year ago, I wrote a remembrance, as I do every year, of where I'm at compared to where I was on this day in 2001. As a New Yorker, it's a personal ritual, one that I share publicly but do more for myself than for anyone else.

It was startling to see how angry I was a year ago, because I'm not angry today. Writing then, I said,

Finally getting angry myself, I realize that nobody has more right to claim authority over the legacy of the attacks than the people of New York. And yet, I don't see survivors of the attacks downtown claiming the exclusive right to represent the noble ambition of Never Forgetting. I'm not saying that people never mention the attacks here in New York, but there's a genuine awareness that, if you use the attacks as justification for your position, the person you're addressing may well have lost more than you that day. As I write this, I know that parked out front is the car of a woman who works in my neighborhood. Her car has a simple but striking memorial on it, listing her mother's name, date of birth, and the date 9/11/2001. Every single day I walk by there and know that blowhards who only ever saw the attacks as a video loop on CNN would never dare pontificate to her about Never Forgetting.

But this year, I am much more at peace. It may be that, finally, we've been called on by our leadership to mark this day by being of service to our communities, our country, and our fellow humans. I've been trying of late to do exactly that. And I've had a bit of a realization about how my own life was changed by that day.

Speaking to my mother last week, I offhandedly mentioned how almost all of my friends and acquaintances, my entire career and my accomplishments, my ambitions and hopes have all been born since September 11, 2001. If you'll pardon the geeky reference, it's as if my life was rebooted that day and in the short period afterwards. While I have a handful of lifelong friends with whom I've stayed in touch, most of the people I'm closest to are those who were with me on the day of the attacks or shortly thereafter, and the goals I have for myself are those which I formed in the next days and weeks. i don't think it's coincidence that I was introduced to my wife while the wreckage at the site of the towers was still smoldering, or that I resolved to have my life's work amount to something meaningful while my beloved city was still papered with signs mourning the missing.

Certainly, some of this is just the nature of growing up. I'm not the young man I was back then, and some of this is just the maturity of being at a different stage of life now. But I find some consolation in the idea that at least one of my lessons taken away from such a senseless loss of life was that I needed to live my own life with urgency, passion, love and obligation to others. I'm not there yet, but I am trying, and I can at least look back at the last eight years and see a bit of progress, in my own life, in the work of those around me, and in my city and my country as well.

If you're interested in taking a look back, I posted on the day of the attacks. I can also offer some excerpts from past years.

In 2002, I wrote On Being an American:

Get annoyed, get angry, be incensed as you are with your sister who always votes the opposite of you, as annoyed as you get with your father who never quite got where you were coming from politically. And come back, shaking your head but still smiling, and enjoy the chance to appreciate those Americans that your reflexes tell you to resent. Be thankful for the chance to have neighbors or fellow citizens who raise your ire or offend your sensibilities. Be thankful that we can sit in a quiet small town and roll our eyes at the inanities of a visitor from a big city.

In 2003, Two Years:

There's other people, who are consumed by their anger, unable to move forward with their lives, and determined to pick the scab and make sure it never heals. They find honor in making sure the pain never subsides, and in trying to make others hurt like they do. We have some of those, and I understand why they have to hold on to their anger. I just hope they see that it's not the best thing for them, in the long term. I spent a lot of time, too much time, resenting people who were visiting our city, and especially the site of the attacks, these past two years. I've been so protective, I didn't want them to come and get their picture taken like it was Cinderella's Castle or something. I'm trying really hard not to be so angry about that these days. I found that being angry kept me from doing the productive and important things that really mattered, and kept me from living a life that I know I'm lucky to have.

In 2004, Thinking of You:

I don't know if it's distance, or just the passing of time, but I notice how muted the sorrow is. There's a passivity, a lack of passion to the observances. I knew it would come, in the same way that a friend told me quite presciently that day back in 2001 that "this is all going to be political debates someday" and, well, someday's already here.

In 2005, Four Years:

I was so defensive because I saw people who hated New York City, or at least didn't care very much about it, trying to act as if they were extremely invested in recovering from the attacks, or opining about the causes or effects of the attacks. And to me, my memory of the attacks and, especially, the days afterward had nothing to do with the geopolitics of the situation. They were about a real human tragedy, and about the people who were there and affected, and about everything but placing blame and pointing fingers. It felt thoughtless for everyone to offer their response in a framework that didn't honor the people who were actually going through the event.

In 2006, I wrote After Five Years, Failure. At the time, I was feeling resigned to a more cynical observance of this anniversary:

[A]fter all the grief of the day, one of the strongest feelings I came away with on the day of the attacks was a feeling of some kind of hope. Being in New York that day really showed me the best that people can be. As much as it's become clich� now, there's simply no other way to describe a display that profound. It was truly a case of people showing their very best nature.

We seem to have let the hope of that day go, though.

In 2007, I was trying to come to terms with the sense of distance that had developed, with Six Is Letting Go:

On the afternoon of September 11th, 2001, and especially on September 12th, I wasn't only sad. I was also hopeful. I wanted to believe that we wouldn't just Never Forget that we would also Always Remember. People were already insisting that we'd put aside our differences and come together, and maybe the part that I'm most bittersweet and wistful about was that I really believed it. I'd turned 26 years old just a few days before the attacks, and I realize in retrospect that maybe that moment, as I eased from my mid-twenties to my late twenties, was the last time I'd be unabashedly optimistic about something, even amidst all the sorrow.

Thank you to those of you who've joined me over the years in remembering, and especially those who were there for me eight years ago today. As I said earlier today, eight years later, I am still thankful for the memory of my city showing its best nature on its worst day. I love New York.

Each year, I try to write a memorial post on the anniversary, to remind myself, and as a record of where I am compared to where I was that day. As I read back over them, what I see nearly ever year is that I wanted to cling to the sadness of the day, the very real sense of grief and loss that I think colors the day for those of us who were in New York City then in a slightly different way than it did for people who were more distant.

If you could smell the smoke, I think, it was a different experience.

And as a result, I never had as much of the anger that so many others, who were more distant, felt as a reaction to the attacks. "Let's grieve first", I thought. "There will be plenty of time for being angry."

In 2002, I wrote On Being an American:

Get annoyed, get angry, be incensed as you are with your sister who always votes the opposite of you, as annoyed as you get with your father who never quite got where you were coming from politically. And come back, shaking your head but still smiling, and enjoy the chance to appreciate those Americans that your reflexes tell you to resent. Be thankful for the chance to have neighbors or fellow citizens who raise your ire or offend your sensibilities. Be thankful that we can sit in a quiet small town and roll our eyes at the inanities of a visitor from a big city.

In 2003, Two Years:

There's other people, who are consumed by their anger, unable to move forward with their lives, and determined to pick the scab and make sure it never heals. They find honor in making sure the pain never subsides, and in trying to make others hurt like they do. We have some of those, and I understand why they have to hold on to their anger. I just hope they see that it's not the best thing for them, in the long term. I spent a lot of time, too much time, resenting people who were visiting our city, and especially the site of the attacks, these past two years. I've been so protective, I didn't want them to come and get their picture taken like it was Cinderella's Castle or something. I'm trying really hard not to be so angry about that these days. I found that being angry kept me from doing the productive and important things that really mattered, and kept me from living a life that I know I'm lucky to have.

In 2004, Thinking of You:

I don't know if it's distance, or just the passing of time, but I notice how muted the sorrow is. There's a passivity, a lack of passion to the observances. I knew it would come, in the same way that a friend told me quite presciently that day back in 2001 that "this is all going to be political debates someday" and, well, someday's already here.

In 2005, Four Years:

I was so defensive because I saw people who hated New York City, or at least didn't care very much about it, trying to act as if they were extremely invested in recovering from the attacks, or opining about the causes or effects of the attacks. And to me, my memory of the attacks and, especially, the days afterward had nothing to do with the geopolitics of the situation. They were about a real human tragedy, and about the people who were there and affected, and about everything but placing blame and pointing fingers. It felt thoughtless for everyone to offer their response in a framework that didn't honor the people who were actually going through the event.

In 2006, I wrote After Five Years, Failure, which marked the beginning of me feeling resigned to the far more cynical remembrance this day was starting to have:

[A]fter all the grief of the day, one of the strongest feelings I came away with on the day of the attacks was a feeling of some kind of hope. Being in New York that day really showed me the best that people can be. As much as it's become clich� now, there's simply no other way to describe a display that profound. It was truly a case of people showing their very best nature.

We seem to have let the hope of that day go, though.

Then finally, last year, resignation with Six Is Letting Go:

On the afternoon of September 11th, 2001, and especially on September 12th, I wasn't only sad. I was also hopeful. I wanted to believe that we wouldn't just Never Forget that we would also Always Remember. People were already insisting that we'd put aside our differences and come together, and maybe the part that I'm most bittersweet and wistful about was that I really believed it. I'd turned 26 years old just a few days before the attacks, and I realize in retrospect that maybe that moment, as I eased from my mid-twenties to my late twenties, was the last time I'd be unabashedly optimistic about something, even amidst all the sorrow.

Over and over, I've resisted getting angry, but this year when I first saw the Towers of Light, I finally understood that I am finally, genuinely mad. Not just at those murderous barbarians who attacked us, but at the sheer number of people who've actually stopped caring about the victims or the attacks at all, except so far as chanting "9/11" is useful to them. People who would mock the idealism and optimism that made so many of us hopeful in the days after the attacks, treating our best instincts with condescension.

Because to me, as naive as it may seem seven years later, the attacks were about hope. The hope that immediately after, people would remember the basic, decent humanity they'd shown to one another that day. Along with the memories of those lost, that's what I've tried to never forget.

I'd hoped observances would stay apolitical. I remembered seeing some of my most cynical and jaded friends moved to tears by the site of a bunch of tuneless congressmen singing hoary old patriotic songs. But the insistence of those who proclaim that they'll "Never Forget" has been used to mask the fact that we're only a few years away from footage of the attacks being used to sell pickup trucks. The thing they'll Never Forget is not the genuine grief of losing so many lives, or the inspiring hope of people putting aside their differences. Instead, they want to Never Forget that this unforgiveable violation could be used as an unassailable political bludgeon.

Finally getting angry myself, I realize that nobody has more right to claim authority over the legacy of the attacks than the people of New York. And yet, I don't see survivors of the attacks downtown claiming the exclusive right to represent the noble ambition of Never Forgetting. I'm not saying that people never mention the attacks here in New York, but there's a genuine awareness that, if you use the attacks as justification for your position, the person you're addressing may well have lost more than you that day. As I write this, I know that parked out front is the car of a woman who works in my neighborhood. Her car has a simple but striking memorial on it, listing her mother's name, date of birth, and the date 9/11/2001. Every single day I walk by there and know that blowhards who only ever saw the attacks as a video loop on CNN would never dare pontificate to her about Never Forgetting.

And I get even more furious at the random meaninglessness of it all. The pathetic denoument to the Anthrax attacks is a sad, small man who was bitter about being rebuffed by a sorority girl forty years ago. The mighty and mysterious terrorist network that was going to upend our daily lives forever turned out to be, while still a persistent and real threat, just as likely to be populated with incompetent and disaffected bumblers as with criminal masterminds. If they had a goal of disrupting the American economy and reducing our standing overseas, well it's been accomplished, and yet it's not as if that's going to make the terrorists any happier. They're just differently miserable, making the whole thing seem even more pointless and unnecessary.

The thing is, it's in my nature to try to find a silver lining. I am proud that my memory of how decent people can be has not faded. I'm comforted that my vulnerability to images and feelings of that day has not muted. But finally, sadly, I'm angry that the spirit of remembrance on this day has so often been perverted on every other day of the year.

I'm not a Pollyanna — I don't expect everyone everywhere forever to bow and scrape reverently at any mention of the hallowed date. The kids at school on the next block over are too young to even really remembered what happened, and I envy them that. But I did think that perhaps this one thing that, for all its terrible tragedy, had inspired some hope could remain meaningful. It feels like there have been people continuously chipping away at that idea for years.

So I haven't given up, and I will still remember that day seven years ago for how a display of the worst impulses of mankind turned into the best of mankind. But I don't think I can feel that untarnished hope anymore without feeling a bit angry and bitter about how some of the promise of that day has been squandered. And for that, I offer my apologies to the memory of those who died. You deserve a better honor.

It's the first year that the anniversary didn't hang over everything I do. I'm still aware of it, I'll always be aware of it, but time and distance and some amount of willful disbelief have dimmed the sharpness of the remembrance.

On the afternoon of September 11th, 2001, and especially on September 12th, I wasn't only sad. I was also hopeful. I wanted to believe that we wouldn't just Never Forget that we would also Always Remember. People were already insisting that we'd put aside our differences and come together, and maybe the part that I'm most bittersweet and wistful about was that I really believed it. I'd turned 26 years old just a few days before the attacks, and I realize in retrospect that maybe that moment, as I eased from my mid-twenties to my late twenties, was the last time I'd be unabashedly optimistic about something, even amidst all the sorrow.

After that, things were more often cloudy than clear. That day, I knew who the bad guys were, but wanted to know that all of us who were the good guys were on the same side. I miss the clarity.

But I've let it go. There won't be another moment when people aren't picking sides. Maybe it's just human nature, but we're unwilling to accept nuance and tolerate each other despite our differences, except for a very brief window when we're still in shock. Today "Never Forget" only exists as a marketing slogan for various political advocacy efforts. And it's not as if I can forget -- just last week I was listening to a random playlist and the tune that came up was the one I'd used as my solace on the day of the attacks, and my heart still lept into my throat, my chest still got tight. That part will probably never go away. But that's hardly the same as Never Forgetting.

I don't mean to sound bitter; Maybe there's something great about the fact that we are so rambunctious and willful and stubborn that even our greatest tragedies ultimately can't force us to stop being so ornery and human. Maybe staying in that moment too long means never living in the now.

Somehow, though, I still miss the idealism and hope that were the best things that came out of the worst days. I'm hoping that's the part I'll never forget.

From years past:

• 2006: After Five Years, Failure
• 2005: Four Years
• 2004: Thinking of You
• 2003: Two Years
• 2002: On Being An American
• On the day of the attacks: Thank You

In 2001, I checked in with everyone on the morning of the attacks, and then again that night before I finally went to bed.

In 2002, I reflected on what it is to be an American. And it was just as important to me to note that we're all wrong.

In 2003, I was stuck thinking about the impact that violence and anger have on all of our lives.

In 2004, I had to watch and remember from a distance.

And last year, I think I finally started to understand how others may have seen the attacks when they happened.

But this year is something sadder for me. I feel as if we've failed in so many ways. All of us. I have alluded to it in all the pieces I wrote in the past, but after all the grief of the day, one of the strongest feelings I came away with on the day of the attacks was a feeling of some kind of hope. Being in New York that day really showed me the best that people can be. As much as it's become cliché now, there's simply no other way to describe a display that profound. It was truly a case of people showing their very best nature.

We seem to have let the hope of that day go, though. I see that public discourse has dissolved, again, into the same petty partisan politics that we were occupied with in the past. I remember in 2001 it was a summer of shark attacks and Gary Condit and I'll be damned if we're not right back to the same depths of idiocy now. There's no genuine appreciation for the fact that we share our American experience with people whom we can love despite our disagreements.

I'm a hypocrite here, too; I fall into the bickering myself. But I hope, at least, that I'm a sinner trying to be saved, and I loathe the fact that I only ever hear those horrible attacks used as a lever to help win an argument. Just once, I wish I'd hear someone talk about "9/11" as a justification for compromising with their neighbor, or with the person across the aisle. Just once.

And I don't feel safer. I feel like we understand less of the threat against us today than we did when we were attacked. I have not forgotten that, despite the lunacy of news reports about duct tape recommendations and hair gel policy, there actually were envelopes of anthrax mailed around. There really are threats, but all the day-to-day precautions seem to be focused on trying to close the door after the horse has already bolted. What happened to Osama Bin Laden?

I got complacent, too. I was ready to make a change. I was ready to make a sacrifice. I wanted to be asked to buy war bonds, to spend steel pennies, to plant a victory garden. I did make some changes, trying to use less gasoline or to better understand the world around me. I even got a solid start on embracing the ideas of people whom I thought I disagreed with, and have become a passionate moderate. But when we had a chance to really change the way people live their lives in our country, those who should have been leaders asked us to go back to our normal lives.

Today, I'm not 100% satisfied with our normal lives. I want the better life I saw from my friends and neighbors for a few brief moments after the worst day of our lives. I grieve not just for all the lives we lost that day, but for the fact that their loss could have helped us all be better, and that it could have inspired us to keep living the way we do at our best.

Honestly, looking around today, I feel we've failed. We aren't properly honoring those we lost. But I'm still optimistic that we can revive the effort, and that we can do justice to those we remember. Maybe we can still get it right. Most of all, I just hope that we never get a reminder that forces us to realize what an opportunity we've missed.

I can't see the date anywhere today without just stopping, freezing in my tracks. It surprises me it's still that close to the surface, even after four years. Even after writing about it over and over and over and over. Even after being 3000 miles away, again.

The worst part about remembering the attacks this year is that now we have a tragedy that's on the same scale, at least in some ways. There's a world of difference between natural disasters and humans attacking one another, of course, but in terms of an event being big enough to stop you in your tracks and make you really reconsider where you are, how your life is going, how damn lucky you've been, there's some similarity.

The biggest difference in remembering September 11th for me in 2005 is that I finally understand, at least a little bit, what it was like for people who weren't in New York. For a long time, for years, I carried around a lot of resentment towards people who weren't in New York City during the attacks but felt as if they understood. I'd rant, to myself or others, that they'd just seen it on television, or read about it in the papers, but that they couldn't possibly understand what it was like to be there.

Dear New York,

I'm sorry I couldn't be there today. I feel guilty that I couldn't be present to observe. I had to look up the weather there to find out it was, again, a clear, beautiful day in September. I almost wish it weren't, because I know that it just acts as a reminder for so many in the city of the perfect indian summer day we were having three years ago.

Things are very different here, a continent away. They're clearly sympathetic and thoughtful about this date, but... it feels like an observance. Not that it's not sincere, but people are sincere on Memorial Day or in remembering Pearl Harbor, too. They just don't feel them at a visceral level.

Every September 11th since three years ago, someone I know has made a dark joke or not-quite-covered their nervousness with an offhand remark wondering whether there will be an anniversary attack. I have faith that there won't be, but I get a sick pit in my stomach thinking that so many people I love and care about are having to go through that and I can't be there for them. It's that obligation again; When someone you love is afraid, you're not supposed to leave them.

And today doesn't have any of the bittersweet beauty, either. Besides perfect weather, my memory of this day three years ago includes all of the most touching and humane kindnesses between strangers that I've ever seen. It feels like another world being away, where nobody's ever seen strangers hug in the streets, where stores have never thrown their doors open to offer free clothes to businessmen wearing tattered and dust-covered suits, where restaurants have never had a "sit down and have some water" sign in the window.

I'm sure people here would be good and kind in extreme circumstances. I've seen the people of New York do it, and it binds me to them and makes the city a permanent part of my identity.

I don't have an elaborate observance. Last year, I realized my "tradition", if any, is to let this be the one day I really let myself feel it again. Feel the dread that entire day of waiting to hear if there was any more horrible news. Of watching those hellish videos of the attacks replay on television, since I don't allow myself to rewatch them the rest of the year.

I recently saw a personal website that features a picture of the Twin Towers burning at the top of the page, ostensibly as a reminder to "never forget" what had happened. I found myself growing extremely angry and realized that the reason for my anger was the presumption that I could forget, and that someone could be so desensitized to the image that they could see it every day on the top of their page, letting themselves become blind to it like it was a banner ad. But though I still can't look at those images, on the anniversary I force myself to.

The prompt for me to look back in past years was always when it gets dark and I could first see the Towers of Light. Something about remembering that nightfall three years ago, where we all eventually had to make a leap of faith and assume that we'd all be there in the morning, that it was safe to go to sleep... it was the first step to moving forward. Those beams of light remind me of that, and of course they're beautiful.

You're not supposed to say that, because they're an observance of a horrible memory, but they are, and these beams of light that make something beautiful of the tragedy feel to me like a tacit granting permission to look back. That it's okay to let return that dread, that pit in my stomach, everything else that was choked back that day still seems right under the surface for me. Because it will pass.

I don't know if it's distance, or just the passing of time, but I notice how muted the sorrow is. There's a passivity, a lack of passion to the observances. I knew it would come, in the same way that a friend told me quite presciently that day back in 2001 that "this is all going to be political debates someday" and, well, someday's already here.

But for me, it's a day to remember how much we've lost, both in human lives that day, and in my own innocence. So New York, I feel guilty that I can't be there, but please know that you're on my mind and in my heart. I love you, and I miss you, and take care of yourself today.

I've never been mugged. I grew up in a town where the impression of New York City was basically either "That place you go to get mugged." or "That place you go to see a Broadway show, but be careful you don't get mugged!" Still, with the exception of getting my nose broken by some kid in junior high, I've really never been the victim of a violent crime. So what I know of these things is, I'm lucky to say, second hand. But I've seen a pattern.

I've seen people who have suffered from violence. Either victims of random violence, or those who were abused as children, or people who've experienced any of the other horrible things we do to each other as humans. And some of these people who are hurt, they live with it every day and learn from it. They can never forget, of course, but they push through the anger and find solace in rebuilding their lives, in identifying with other people who've been through similar circumstances. By moving on, they reclaim their lives. I think the people of New York are like that.

I was born and raised outside of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. A few weeks ago, an editor of The Patriot-News, the local paper, asked me for my thoughts regarding the anniversary of the attacks.

To put things in context, I was always very ambivalent about the culture of the area I grew up in. Though it's very geographically beautiful, it is a much more conservative place that I didn't really begin to appreciate until years after I had left. It is also a simpler place, in many ways, which is why the tone of my editorial is a little more straightforward and literal than my usual cynical and sarcastic self. Not, of course, that they wouldn't understand my piece, but that the usual tone of my writing wouldn't really do justice to the ideas I was trying to express.

Or, to put it a different way, I'm a lot more corny and maudlin in this essay, but it's mostly because one of the things I've tried not to do since the attacks is mask actual emotion with the usual ironic distance that I tend to apply to such matters. I'm an idealist at heart, and I'd rather have that show.

Also, the Harrisburg Senators are the AA minor league baseball team, which after a rocky history had shut down in the 1950s, only to be revived in 1987 as part of a revitalization of Harrisburg. The city has flourished since, and I can't help but think that part of the reason why is because it was so inspiring to watch that team achieve such a tremendous success their very first year out.

This essay appeared with slightly different edits in last Sunday's Patriot-News.

A month after last September's attacks, I left Manhattan for the first time. I had holed up a bit, clinging to my adopted city as a bit of a sanctuary, wanting to hold on tightly to a New York that suddenly seemed vulnerable, even fragile. But it was time to venture out, so I found myself en route to Harrisburg, and to the town I was born and raised in.

The thing that struck me, other than the usual contrast of Harrisburg, with its quiet and its slower pace, was the distinction between New York City and Central Pennsylvania's signs. The marquees in front of restaurants and car dealerships and churches had all sprouted similar reassurances of "United We Stand" or "God Bless America", in a singularity of message that I hadn't seen since my days as a teenager in the area, when the success of any local sports team would prompt all of the signs to show a similar unity.

That driving down the street would evoke memories of rooting for the home team when I was younger probably wasn't coincidence. As a self-described member of the New York liberal media, and a man who is the son of first-generation immigrants, I was never unaware on my visits to my hometown that there were some who felt I was somehow less American than they were. Add in that I probably physically look a little more like the hijackers of last September than most people's mental image of the boy next door, and suddenly what seemed uncomfortable or unusual might now be construed as downright Unamerican. But my identity as an American was forged by my experiences growing up in these small towns.

And in those first weeks, I thought a lot about what it is to be American. That a lot of people outside of New York City might not even recognize their own country if they came to visit. The America that was attacked a year ago was an America where people are as likely to have been born outside the borders of the U.S. as not. Where most of the residents speak another language in addition to English. Where the soundtrack is, yes, jazz and blues and rock and roll, but also hip hop and salsa and merengue. New York has always been where the first fine threads of new cultures work their way into the fabric of America, and the city the bore the brunt of those attacks last September reflected that ideal to its fullest.

It was no accident that the primary target, the location deemed most threatening and offensive to those who would resent American culture, is the place where we embrace the widest variety of people. Where what it is to be American is at its most inclusive, and it becomes clear that American is not something that one does, but rather something that one is. Among those lost in the collapse of the Twin Towers were citizens of at least 42 countries. To have lost people from so many countries around the world is part of what makes those events a particularly American tragedy.

I realized shortly after the attacks that, while flying, or when crossing one of the bridges or tunnels into Manhattan, or even just in going about the course of my daily life, I might have to show not just that I had no ill intent, but that I might need to prove my "American-ness". A photo ID or a knowledge of American customs wouldn't be enough, now that those murderers had tainted those formerly unblemished credentials.

What came to mind on the times when I wondered about proving myself as an American were the images of my youth spent in Central Pennsylvania. I started to carry around in my wallet some ticket stubs from one magical summer when I was in junior high school, when the then brand-new Harrisburg Senators went from being nonexistent to being Eastern League champs. The proof of my loyalty was my history in Harrisburg, not because I had gone to a few baseball games, but because being American is part of who I am. Anyone can come to our country and eat a hot dog and watch a ball game and stroll along the riverside, but that won't make him an American. Being able to grow up amongst fellow fans, despite not knowing of the history of the Senators who played in the 50's, being able to bridge small-town boy and big-city man, being able to live both as a personally conservative son of immigrants and a politically liberal citizen of the United States: these were the proud privileges and cherished rights that made me an American.

It's a lesson not easily learned. I've seen the eye-rolling as politicians and opportunists on both sides of the political spectrum try to use the World Trade Center attacks as justification for whatever plans or programs they've always been convinced should be foisted upon the public. I've seen the grimaces and groans as challenges to the Pledge of Allegiance were mounted. I've seen good people with unpopular views labelled as disloyal, untrustworthy, even treasonous. So it bears repeating that being an American isn't something that you do, it's something that you are.

The lesson I've learned is to extend the embrace to all the members of our American family. Get annoyed, get angry, be incensed as you are with your sister who always votes the opposite of you, as annoyed as you get with your father who never quite got where you were coming from politically. And come back, shaking your head but still smiling, and enjoy the chance to appreciate those Americans that your reflexes tell you to resent. Be thankful for the chance to have neighbors or fellow citizens who raise your ire or offend your sensibilities. Be thankful that we can sit in a quiet small town and roll our eyes at the inanities of a visitor from a big city. I'll be the first to admit that every time I return to New York City from a visit to Harrisburg, I look around at all my fellow New Yorkers and wonder for a moment if they're all just a little bit crazy. And, of course, they are. Or at least they're a little bit different.

It's a difference we're privileged to have.

The drums, of course, are beating. The Anniversary is coming up, and everyone is insisting not just that we remember, not just that we mourn, but that we do it The Right Way.

I'm a bit saddened to see that the unity I saw in my city just after the attacks has faded, that some of the assumption of kindness, of good intent, has given way to assertions of different people's agendas.

I see James Lileks mourn a girl lost, comparing her age to his own daughter's, and Jeff Jarvis, correctly, is moved by the empathy clear in his writing. He points out, correctly, that being moved to make a small change in one's life like starting a diet or living more healthily isn't particularly significant compared to the attacks, though he later admits that he feels he hasn't done enough himself.

I see that same Lileks essay read by Dean Allen, and he points out, correctly, that it's a bit macabre and manipulative to be Googling for a picture of a dead child to make a political point. Clearly the Hanson family is not looking for solace by searching the web, hoping that the guy who scans in the tacky interior design pics has posted their lost little girl's picture.

And I'm not offended by either of their views, as they're both right. I'm offended that Jeff, in his emotional and physical closeness to the attack, and Dean, with his well-reasoned and critical view of the responses, have both not paused to consider that it's not a binary choice.

I had hoped people could see that we were all right, and more importantly, that we're all wrong. I'm frustrated that two smart, literate men can't see that maybe theirs isn't the only proper way of grieving. Jeff blasts others' reactions as Californian wrongness, not understanding that analysis and introspection might be the way that they choose to grieve over a tragedy that's 3,000 miles distant for most of them. Just as I can see two girls kidnapped in England and be saddened but not grief-stricken, it would be false for people in California to not temper their sympathy with some more detached and analytical review.

When I was in high school, a friend who volunteered at a library told me about a woman who had come in and begun researching alcoholism and drunk driving at a near-obsessive pace after having lost an uncle to an accident caused by a drunk driver. It's not unusual for some groups of people to try to understand a situation as part of their response, as part of their grieving process. I doubt that woman thought her uncle deserved to be killed by a drunk, though she was striving to understand what caused his actions.

And for some people, including myself much of the time, processing grief requires identifying with the victims. It is absolutely self-serving at times, and might appear narcissistic. But I realized a few years ago that, for me, the worst thing that ever happens to someone is their worst thing, and we can't really judge it to not be awful enough, whether it's hangnail or heartbreak or heart attack.

So I can't fault someone looking at the most precious thing in their life and comparing it to what was lost last September. That it might be maudlin or treacly is obvious. That it might be okay... that's the harder point.

Dean criticizes Lileks' writing as if he had deliberately set out to co-opt a family's loss as a means to manipulate people into agreeing with the conclusions he draws about what actions we ought to take in the future.

Every response to grief is cliché and maudlin self-indulgence, though. It's become cliché precisely because grief is universal. No one ever doesn't know loss. No good parent doesn't ever fear seeing their own child in the shoes of any child ever victimized or wronged.

Dean, Jeff, please understand: I mean neither of you any disrespect. Nor James, for that matter. But I expect that all three men, and all good people affected by the attacks a year ago, want to do right by the people who died. I suspect that the best way we can honor them is to agree that we have different ways of honoring them, as individual as they were.

I've gotten it wrong, too, I know. I've seen firsthand this past weekend, and this past year, that you will never convert someone to your system of grief, despite any reasoning, cajoling, manipulation, or threats that you might direct at them.

That we might not have to attack each other for feeling our pain the way we each do... that's a goal. I have a name for that lack of contention, that lack of discord among those of like mind and like goals and like moral constitution. That absence of conflict is called peace.

Thank you so much to all of you who have messaged, emailed and called. (Or tried to.) I am physically fine, as are all my family members and immediate friends. I've been watching the footage all morning, I can't believe I watched the World Trade Center collapse... for those of you unfamiliar with New York, somewhere around 50,000 people or more work at the WTC Towers. I've been hearing sirens all day, although I live well north of the scene of the catastrophe, halfway up the island of Manhattan.

I've been sitting here this whole morning, choking back tears... this is just too much, too big. I can see the smoke and ash from the street here. I have friends of friends who work there, I was just there myself the day before yesterday. I can't process this all. I don't want to.