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stealth-liberal · 8 months

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So, it's that time again, the anniversary of 9/11. Two years ago, on the 20th anniversary, I wrote an essay about the Twin Tower jumpers and how we as a society have refused to look their fear and pain in the face and hold it.

Now, it's been 22 years since that day and my thoughts go elsewhere. Now I am thinking about legacy and remembrance. Honoring the dead. How do we fully honor the 3,000 people who were killed that day? Because I have some serious issues with how that has played out over the last 22 years.

I was in my 20's when 9/11 happened, and I was in the Marine Corps, so, as you can imagine, it changed my life, and not a single one of those changes was positive. Right now though, it's not what I want to talk about.

We say never forget, always remember, but how are we doing that. By dooming ourselves to what was 20 years of unending war? That doesn't sound like a good memorial.

I never had an issue with the war in Afghanistan. We were attacked Pearl Harbor style, and that was always going to end the way it did. But the war in Iraq? It made me an angry liberal. I had never been conservative, and I joined the Marine Corps to pay for college, we had been at peace for So Many Years that I guess I didn't really think that could change. The war in Iraq was criminal, though. Dubya and his cronies whipped our pain and our grief into a storm and used it to help him LIE to Congress (both sections) so he could get his war. Afghanistan had no natural resources besides poppies for opium that would benefit the war profiteers. They were strategically placed, but that was it. Iraq? Iraq had oil and Haliburton, Chaney, Dubya, Condoleezza Rice, and the rest made So Much money. Billions were made, and billions were "misplaced." Congress was given false intell reports so they would vote for the Iraq War. The fact that no one went to jail for that scarred me. They lined their pockets, and my friends came home in body bags because they SOMEHOW didn't have the money for proper body armor. I will never forgive them for that.

So... It's not a very good way to remember the 3,000 who died on 9/11. Perhaps the worst memorial of all time. Dubya shackled us to pain and grief, and no one was allowed to recover. Least of all the families who lost people. They were paraded for the cameras to be used, and looking back on it, it was sickening. How could they do that to families and the survivors? Why?

I mean, intellectually, I know why. Emotionally, I will never understand it. The survivors and the families deserved to recover. We, as a nation who witnessed the horror, deserved to recover. But recovery meant no profit. Recovery meant no Iraq War. Recovery meant Halliburton might not make quite as much money. So we all stayed traumatized, unable to move forward.

And here it is, 22 years later. How should we honor the 9/11 dead and the survivors? Well, I have a few ideas.

1. 3,000 people died that day, but it could have been less. Why? Both the Twin Towers and the Pentagon had structural and safety issues that made something catastrophic even worse. The Twin Towers did not have enough emergency staircases for it's size. All skyscrapers were supposed to have 4 staircases in case they ever needed to be evacuated. Both Towers only had 2, and the why of that is rage inducing.

You see, 4 staircases meant less floor space, which meant less desk space, which meant less ability to charge businesses higher rents. So money changed hands when the towers were built, and the number went down to 2 emergency staircases. This was a decision that was heavily criticized at the time, and many in the trades predicted disaster.

When the 1993 bombing of the Twin Towers happened, the towers stayed standing, and the 2 missing staircases weren't a problem. Everyone thought all was good. To be fair, NO ONE ever thought a terrorist group would fly a jumbo passenger jet into each tower. No skyscraper was built with that eventuality in mind. They are now, though.

When the planes hit the towers, each tower lost access to elevators and 1 staircase each. Now, both towers had to be fully evacuated with just that one staircase. It wasn't enough, and survivors have all spoken about how everyone was jammed into the stairwells going down those stairs one at a time at a snail's pace. It's a miracle as many people actually survived as they did.

The South Tower was hit more on the side, so some people above the impact zone were able to get out. The North Tower was not so lucky. It was hit head on, everyone above the impact zone was doomed, and they knew it. It's why so many of them chose to jump once faced with what was no real choice to begin with, burn, or jump to their deaths.

Had there been enough staircases, had there been 4 instead of 2, many more people would have survived. So I think a suitable way to never forget the people who died in The Twin Towers is to enact legislation so that never again can a skyscraper be built without proper emergency egress/staircases in case of an evacuation. Any skyscrapers without enough staircases are brought up to code so that if the worst happens, as many people can be saved as possible. That seems a fitting memorial.

The Pentagon was built like a fish trap, the idea was if an enemy somehow got in, they would never get out. No one ever factored in the notion of a jet being flown into the building, most of the inner ring collapsing and massive explosion damage and fire racing through everywhere. There are many stories of people pounding on the glass and not being able to get out.

Thankfully for the people at the Pentagon, they were not in a skyscraper, and first responders were able to find ways to get to them. But they couldn't and didn't get to everyone. So I think a fitting memorial to the Pentagon dead that day would be to make sure no building is so secure that you can't get out, can't truly evacuate, if the catastrophic happens. When a building is on fire, everyone deserves the best possible chance to get out and get home alive.

2. The first responders of 9/11 were the heroes of that day. I think we can all agree that the very definition of heroic is running back into a collapsing and/or burning building determined to save just one more life. So many first responders died that day doing the best they could to save lives. The ones who survived were harrowed to their bones.

The people who worked the wreckage of both sites, who collected what was left of human remains. Who bit by bit picked up the wreckage and tried to heal two cities with the labor of their hands. These people were also heroes, and anyone who says differently is just wrong.

They were told it was safe, and they were told we would take care of them. However, it wasn't safe. Both of these groups of people have had massive health complications ever since from the toxins they were immersed in for days, weeks, months, and even years. The dust alone caused so much lung damage.

Then, to add insult to injury, a Republican congress tried to take away their health benefits, to leave them twisting in the wind. These ghouls left the ACTUAL heroes of that terrible time in chronic illness, terrible pain, and in many cases tried to let them die. Why? Because they were too cheap to spend a dime on these people. John Stewart basically had to retire from The Daily Show to shame Congress into taking care of these people.

On the 17th anniversary he gave a blistering speech to them and I paraphrase here: "17 years ago, they acted heroically and did their jobs. They did their jobs! NOW DO YOURS!"

You want to know the very best way to remember the first responders who died in 9/11? Take care of their brothers and sisters who survived, their brothers and sisters who spent years working The Piles. None of these people should EVER pay so much as a dime for their health care ever again. For the rest of their lives. Period.

This is how we should memorialize them, this is how we never forget. Not chaining us to a never ending cycle of pain, despair, and anger. Not lying to us to get a second war that no one needed. Not war profiteering and then calling it patriotism. Not terrorizing our Muslim citizens. Not taking away our rights, not trading our civil rights for the illusion of safety.

This is how we make peace with the horror of what happened. This is how we move forward and let the memory of the dead be a blessing.

#sl speaks #9/11 #the twin towers #the pentagon #september 11th

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 8 months

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Remembering 9/11: Honoring the Victims (by Robert Mooney)

* * * *

Billy Collins Here is that poem, written by Billy Collins for a special joint session of Congress in New York commemorating the first anniversary of 9-11.

THE NAMES by Billy Collins

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night. A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze, And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows, I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened, Then Baxter and Calabro, Davis and Eberling, names falling into place As droplets fell through the dark. Names printed on the ceiling of the night. Names slipping around a watery bend. Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream. In the morning, I walked out barefoot Among thousands of flowers Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears, And each had a name – Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins. Names written in the air And stitched into the cloth of the day. A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox. Monogram on a torn shirt, I see you spelled out on storefront windows And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city. I say the syllables as I turn a corner – Kelly and Lee, Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor. When I peer into the woods, I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden As in a puzzle concocted for children. Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash, Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton, Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple. Names written in the pale sky. Names rising in the updraft amid buildings. Names silent in stone Or cried out behind a door. Names blown over the earth and out to sea. In the evening – weakening light, the last swallows. A boy on a lake lifts his oars. A woman by a window puts a match to a candle, And the names are outlined on the rose clouds – Vanacore and Wallace, (let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound) Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z. Names etched on the head of a pin. One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel. A blue name needled into the skin. Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers, The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son. Alphabet of names in a green field. Names in the small tracks of birds. Names lifted from a hat Or balanced on the tip of the tongue. Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory. So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.

from AIMLESS LOVE, Random House, 2013

#Billy Collins #The Names #Aimless Love #9-11 #The Twin Towers #remembrance #memory

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taxi-davis · 10 months

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Gürbüz Doğan Ekşioğlu

#art #magazine art #the new yorker #cat #surreal #surrealism #surrealist art #surrealist painting #painting #oil painting #1990s #90s #nyc #the twin towers #world trade center #cityscape

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sofiaflorina2021 · 4 months

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Nostalgic cinematic montage of the Twin Towers of World Trade Center in New York City, U.S. It's so beautiful to see these gigantic towers. For me, the Twin Towers are the most impressive and astonishing buildings I have ever known. These towers had some magic around them, love it.

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severussnapedamagedlove · 1 year

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Eomer X OC Fluff Scene

This is an excerpt from a fic I’ve been working on...

Eomer was bent over a table. A map stretched across its length. There were lands he had memorized listed, where his memory filled in the gaps with ridges and dips, valleys and streams too little to be noted on the map’s face. Grimbol pointed to a section where a grouping of farms laid on the outskirts of The East Fold.

His eyes squinted at the map in search of something.

“I have news of the Hlud if I could just find it…” The old voice said.

The king reached and pointed to the spot where the Hlud lived. “Here, Grim.”

“Ah, yes. The Hlud reports of - .”

There was sound in the Golden Hall that echoed through the barren aisles. It was cleared of the day. Post celebration come down was still underway since the grand royal party a few days prior.

Even Eomer was dressed down in tunic and leggings, devoid of finery.

He gave little consequence to the noise, as he expected it was Heferth back with reports of how much the celebration had cost the coffers. However, he shot another look quickly when he realized it was Lady Eira in a simple loose dress he recognized from one of Rohan’s wardrobes. It was especially remembered by Eomer. It was one of his mothers.

“Lady Eira,” he said with stern surprise. “You should be resting.”

“I have done naught but rest, your grace.”

Her gait was stilted. Her face winced with each motion.

Eomer stepped away from his advisor at the high seat and approached the wandering woman with no business attempting to walk after an injury like the one she had suffered.

The memory of her warm blood between his fingers still filled his mind, never to leave.

“Are you in search of something, my lady?”

She shook her head. The muscles of her neck tightened. Her hand reached forward and grasped to the edge of a nearby table, wobbling ever so slight. “Just a stroll.”

His heart sped as he neared. The thick cling of her sweat struck his nose. She exude too much to be healed. His brow fell.

“I don’t need tending to, so don’t even ask,” she snapped.

When her eyes finally met his, there was a cruel twist in their bodies. The pallid color of her face stabbed him further through.

Theodred’s face. It was back at the river, pulling his beloved cousin from the blood stained waters, seeing that same lifeless tone to his body. That tangy swell in his mouth brought him back to that haunted moment in time where chaos surged throughout him and stayed for many long months.

Eomer blinked away from the memory. “I am not asking. I am telling.” He tilted his head with a warning look. “Please, retire.”

Her jaw clicked in place.

“I will escort you back to your chambers.” His arm rounded behind her back to direct her back the way she’d came to prevent any falls to the floor.

The lady stiffened her grip on the table. “No thank you. Your grace.”

Eomer shook his head. There was no option in his mind that would allow her to walk around his palace so gravely injured without care. The risk to her body was too great. He’d be on constant edge.

His hands practically shook in fear. “I will not permit you to continue in this state.”

“I am not yours to worry about.”

That stung his heart. He blinked back his surprise, recovering quickly.

“I swore your safety to your friends before they departed,” he stated evenly. “My sister would have my head if I let you injure yourself further. Just stop being so self-righteous and let yourself be cared for.”

The fact that she refused his help festered deeper and deeper as time passed.

When her knees buckled, he reached out for her on instinct. His heart beating fast as she fell right into his arms. The fragile trembling of her body from so little movement settled his resolve. She was far too ill to be upright.

He cradled her against his chest as he lifted her up.

“Eomer,” she slipped, forgoing his title. “Put me down. I can walk on my own.”

The servants of the palace parted from his way as he marched through his palace halls. It was a worn path of memory back to his sister’s old rooms. All the while, Eira resisted. Her body was too weak to fight. The tongue within her mouth, however, was another story.

“Put me down. I am not some damsel. My legs are capable of walking. This is so unbecoming a king, you know. Th-they do not permit such actions by royals.”

“I was not born to be a king,” he said evenly. Her weight was nothing to his strength. “And I was not raised to let a lady suffer so.”

They made it to the door. It, the last obstacle in his path.

“Oh,” she said. The journey over, there was no point in fighting his hold. “I can get that.”

The bed was the only place he would place her.

His leg raised and kicked against the wood. The door flew open at the force and clattered against the wall behind.

“Hot water. Cloths. Oils,” he shouted.

Eira’s body relaxed in his arms. He felt her settle further, easier to hold to his body. A subtle excitement filled his veins.

“Have you eaten?” He asked her quietly.

��A little,” she admitted.

He turned his head around at the servants he knew lingered near. “And a meal. Bring it all to Lady Eira’s room immediately.” The door was kicked back closed behind him.

“You should stop calling me Lady Eira,” she murmured.

Her hands clasped behind his neck as he lowered her to the fluffy top of her bed. He released her only when he believed her settled in its hold.

“It gives them the wrong idea. Moreso with me staying in this room. I should be in the servants quarters or in a house out in the city. Not here.”

“Your wellbeing has been trusted to me,” he explained as he pulled the chair from the desk over to her bedside. “And I take care of those in my stead.”

Eira raised herself against the headboard of her bed. Her face turned lazy, less stiff. “I am not a lady, your grace.”

“You are to me.”

He swore at the slightest coloring to her cheeks. The way her lips lifted from a thin line to the start of a smile had him in raptures. It was impossible to look away from her beautiful blue eyes and devious tongue that toyed with him – he was sure that she did – at every given opportunity.

A small knock was at the door. She raised herself, as if to get up to answer.

He put his hand to his chest. “Please,” he said gently. “Stay. Allow me.”

The doorway spilled a mess of servants all bearing gifts of food and drink and bandage and a steaming bowl of water. There was a stack of small cut cloths placed alongside the bowl. A hearty stuffed tray with roasted wild game and vegetables of the land with small dishes of spiced apples and small foraged berries. It was placed at her side on the bedspread.

Eomer nodded his head as the servants bowed in their leave. He made sure to close the door behind them.

He began to roll the long sleeves of his tunic. The rolling white cloud off the water had him wince ever so slight as his hands split the surface. He pulled a cloth into the waters, allowing it to swell with the heat before he wringed it free and brought it over to the side of the bed.

Lady Eira watched his motion through lazy eyes. Her head rested against the board for support. He saw the drain. What little she had done was too much.

She placed her wrist in his outstretched hand. He ran the cloth along the exposed flesh of her forearm and hand, taking care to be gentle against her skin. It was so slender in his hold. There were seldom things so small and dainty in the Riddermark.

“You are not what I expected,” she revealed after a time of watching him rinse her skin of the dense sweat throughout her. “Warrior king Eomer. Brave, bold, horse lord of Rohan.” When he said nothing on the matter, she continued. “I’ve heard of your brazen attitude, reckless and brave with stupidity. Your words are daggers, blunter than your spears but none the less piercing.” He kept quiet and allowed her mind to flow than staggered thought. He rather liked the fill of her voice. It chased away the flashbacks that took the heart of him at times. “It is not a learned behavior from Eowyn, I take it.”

That finally brought a small smile to his mouth. “Is that how I am spoken of in the other kingdoms?”

“It is said with respect,” she answered. “Seldom better spoke of, in terms of men. Aragorn excluded.”

He settled back to the seat at her bedside. The weight of many restless days pulled at him. A course jumpy ride through emotions had him stretched thin ready for rest.

“My parents died when I was young. My father, cut down by orcs. And not long after, my mother gave up. She seldom had the strength to get out of bed. I would cry and pull her arms and try to drag her out, but I was not strong enough to save her.” He cleared his throat. The words became a struggle to get out. “The only people left in the world were my sister, my cousin and my uncle. All of whom have gone on in these years. By one leave or another.”

Eira looked at him with a strange expression. He did not understand it.

“I hated that feeling.” Her voice was small as she picked at pieces of her dress.

“What feeling,” he asked.

“Being left behind…I hated being left in Rivendell. My father would go and protect the border. Not a place for children, he’d say. He’d want me to tend to my studies and practice with my bow, but.” Her eyes swam in gentle waters. “All I ever wanted was to be with him.”

It was in that moment that Eomer was struck off his guard. He never said the words aloud, as they were too fragile for his tone, but he often felt that same desolate feeling of being left behind. It was first at the death of his father, then watching his mother live on in hell until she was granted enough peace to be freed. Eowyn lived fierce and wild. He had no choice but to keep up or else lose her, too.

There were so few in the world who knew how devastating it was to be the only one remaining.

Eira was a kindred soul. He felt it inside himself the more time passed. She was a piece that he recalled missing. Apart that he did not want to do without any longer.

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