The Fourth Post

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Four years ago, around mid-August, I was casually putting some platters back into my dining room buffet after a brunch we had hosted, when I was suddenly forced to my knees by the roar of a fighter jet flying low and directly over my house. The sound was so loud, and the plane so close, that it shook the pictures on my walls, made my wine glasses clink together, and it was so terrifying that I fell onto my knees, covered my head with my hands, and immediately started sobbing. In one quick moment, I lost control of my emotions.

Minutes later, I was still on my knees. Shaking. Sweating. Muscles tense. Heart pounding so loud I was sure my children, who stood inches away from me, could hear it. There I was, gasping for air, and desperately reaching out for my husband to help me. Total loss of control.

Fifteen minutes after that jet flew overhead, with my shirt soaked in sweat and my eyes bloodshot from crying, I was calm enough to completely comprehend that the fighter jet was actually just a part of the Chicago Air & Water Show. Of course this jet was not going to crash into my house, or patrol my airspace for days on end, or even crash into a building.  At that point, I was composed enough to realize where my reaction came from. It was not the first time a jet had gone over my head.

****

I moved to Manhattan in 2000. It was the greatest and bravest decision I had ever made. I had no family in New York, and only a handful of friends, but I was determined to go to NYU, get my graduate degree, and start a life built completely on my own. I had a successful career and amazing bosses that allowed me to pick up my life and move 900 miles away but remain with the company and work from my own apartment. I had parents who had faith enough in me to let me go alone to that big city without ever blinking an eye. I had some great friends who promised to visit the minute I was settled into my new apartment. Absolutely nothing was holding me back from my experience of a lifetime.

My move to Manhattan started off with just the right proverbial bang… my father crashed the rental moving truck into a parked car as we were pulling out of Chicago. And once we arrived in New York, and began to load my belongings into my tiny $1700/month studio apartment, my father slipped on an ice patch while standing on the back of the truck and fell backwards towards the street. Luckily, I was standing there, and with catlike reflexes caught him, so he didn’t hit his head. Unluckily, I caught him while I was holding a small knife in my hand (used for opening boxes) and I cut him one inch above an artery in his hand. So less than an hour into my residency I was calling 911- I did not even know what address to give the 911 operator.

The ambulance and the police came.  They actually asked my dad if he wanted to press charges against me, and believe me, I think he may have hesitated with his answer. An ambulance ride across town, fifty some odd stitches and a large sling later, and my dad was back in my apartment in a chair writhing in pain and wondering how I had gotten him into such an outrageous situation. He only survived that move by one tiny little inch.

****

Months later, fully in the swing of my new life, it would be the summer of weddings. I flew back to the Midwest for 8 weekends in a row for weddings and wedding showers and dress fittings. One of those weddings was of my cousin, Erin, and her husband Carl.

Even though they lived in Boston, they had decided on a Chicago wedding. They had once lived in Chicago and they considered it the perfect spot to tie the knot. He is Chinese, so they had a traditional Chinese tea ceremony and Erin even wore a beautiful red traditional Chinese dress during the reception. I remember everything so vividly – the colors, the music, the conversations. I am, in fact, blessed and cursed in this way. I can remember the details of events and even conversations that have occurred in amazing detail from as early of an age as three. In this particular case, I am so grateful that I can remember her wedding weekend.

Before the ceremony took place that Saturday, my cousin Kate and I stole away from the family to have lunch at a local bagel shop. While there, we spotted our older cousin Karleton pushing his adorable 16-month old son in a stroller on their way to the zoo.  It was hard not to spot him- his 6’4 frame, wire-rimmed glasses, UNC hat, and goofy smile. He stopped to chat with us about nonsense and to crack a few smartass remarks about how handsome he was and how handsome in turn  (yes handsome) we were since we were related to him.  After a few minutes of sarcastic banter, he continued on his way towards the zoo, and as he walked away, I remember remarking to Kate how crazy it was that he had a son. Holy shit, were growing up, and man, he was such a natural father. Both Kate and I just stared in awe at him as he effortlessly pushed that kid down the street, and we cracked up talking about how random that was to see him just walk by in such a big city and how utterly hysterical his demeanor always was. She and I both remember that lunch so well.

At the wedding, we danced the night away to disco and hip-hop and Motown and everyone watched in amazement as my Great Uncle, who was 79 at the time, danced longer and with better rhythm, than any of us in our twenties. If one measures the success of a wedding by tired feet, then I would say this was a good one. I’m not sure there was a single person who did not test out that dance floor.

****

Tuesday, September 11, 2001. It was about 8:55am and my cell phone was ringing. While I was usually up and working by 8am, this particular morning I was still in my bed. The night before I had flown in very late from Hilton Head, SC, and I was exhausted. I saw the call was coming from someone in my office, so I picked it up, trying to sound awake and slightly embarrassed I had overslept. On the other end was a panicked voice. “Amanda, are you in your apartment?”…Well, yes I was. “A little plane just crashed into the World Trade Center”…So I rolled out of bed, and turned my TV to The Today Show.

Then my call waiting beeped in and the caller ID said it was my brother. “Amanda where are you?”…Well, in my apartment. “OK, I guess a plane hit the Trade Center”…I knew already. I was watching on TV. But actually no one really knew what it was. At first it was a small plane, maybe a twin engine? The reporters did not know anything. Speculating. Then, at 9:02, as I was watching the news and talking to my brother, I saw another plane fly into the South Tower.

This time, no one was speculating. It was no small plane. It was a large passenger jet. Plain as day, it was a United plane. And then I said to my brother, “oh my God, I gotta go.” And I hung up.

I ran down two flights of stairs and out the front doors of my building. I do not know why I ran outside. Panic. Often times you’ll hear people talk about the weather that day because it was such juxtaposition of perfect and disastrous. It was 80 degrees, not a single cloud in the bluest sky you’ve ever seen. Zero humidity. Yes, under any other circumstances, this was perfect day in New York. But today was “9/11”.

When I ran into my street, everything actually appeared normal. After a few moments of deep breaths, I went back into my apartment and turned on my computer. The TV was still on, and by now, it was not hard to figure out that we had just experienced a terrorist attack. I sat in my office desk chair, and watched as my email inbox was just a continuous stream of emails. Subject lines, “are you ok?”, “what’s going on?”, “trying to call”. They kept popping up and I would open, and reply back, “yes, I’m fine” or “thank you for asking, I’m fine.” Finally, I sent a mass email out to everyone saying I was safe. 

By 945am, it was clear the entire country was under attack, not just New York. We could not use our phones. “All circuits are busy.” Hmmm? You think? My voicemail box kept flashing new messages…1, 2, 3…19, 20, 21, 22 …Just around this time was when I figured out I had no one. No family to go to, no way to get out of the city, only a handful of friends. My experience of a lifetime was suddenly a lonely and terrifying mistake. Thoughts raced through my mind. What was I supposed to do? How do I get off this “island”? What if they keep attacking, where will I run?

I was glued to that office chair, but now under the reality check of my isolation, I was praying for emails, any contact to the outside world was comforting. Could someone please instant message me? Where once I was living my dream, it was so clichéd to think that in an instant, I was living a nightmare.

Then at 10:13am another email, subject line: Very bad news. I opened it.

The email came from my aunt in North Carolina. I began reading. It said my cousin, Karleton, was probably on one of those planes that hit the World Trade Center.

I lost my breath. I pushed my office chair out from under me and I fell to my knees. I began hitting the seat of the chair and screaming, “no, no, how can this be? No, how can this happen?” The sobs came as gasps for air. That moment is frozen in time. I don’t know how long I sat on my knees there in front of my chair, it was as if time stopped. I was watching those large towers fall to the ground and I was still sitting on my floor. I could not feel my body and I began to see everything happening as if I was watching it on TV in some action packed unimaginable thriller. It would be days before I would be willing to live in my body again.

The first thing I did after regaining some composure was try to use my cell phone to call my home in Chicago. I knew my mom was at work and if she received this news about her nephew, she would need my father to give it to her, not an email. She was the type of person who needed family to brace her.  I dialed the home number over and over. All circuits are busy. Then a miracle- my father answered. “Did you see the email from Barb?” He hadn’t. “It’s bad Dad, Karleton was on that plane.” My normally stoic and close-to-the-vest with his emotions father emitted a sound that I’ve only heard twice in his life, one of utter shock and sadness all rolled into one. I had delivered the worst kind of news. “Dad, you have to go get mom. You have to go to her work and tell her.”

I sat in my office chair again, hoping for a sign of what to do. My instant messaging on my computer was in full swing. A good friend, who worked in the Newscorp building on 6^th Ave. said, “it had to be Bin Laden.” And as I was responding he said, “they are evacuating us. Call me if you need anything.” I didn’t even have a chance to tell him about my cousin.

Karleton was the kind of guy that everyone wanted to know. He picked up friends everywhere he went, and everyone who was his friend consistently said the same things about him. He was kind, he was generous, he loved his wife Haven “unequivocally”, he couldn’t get enough of his new son Jackson, he was too smart for his own good, he was tall, he was hilarious, he was always awesome, he was handsome, and ok, he was fancy…he once jokingly described himself as ubiquitous, and hot damn, I think he was.  Karleton, or KDBF as our family referred to him, was the kind of person that everyone thought was their very best friend. He made everyone feel special. Months after he died, we’d get emails from people about how they considered him their best friend and they’d tell a story about how they were lucky enough to spend time with him and Haven having dinner, or how KDBF would take them out for a cup of joe just to spend some time and catch up.

I had just emailed back and forth with KDBF the day before 9/11 about his son, 18-month old Jackson. He had sent out pictures from his trip to the Cape where he was holding Jackson’s hand on the beach. The pictures of this extremely tall man and his baby walking down the beach towards the water warmed your heart, and I told him so in my reply email. He replied to me, “thanks Cuz. You’re too kind. Love, KDBF” One day later, those same pictures broke my heart and I printed the email and hugged it close.

By mid-day, I began to see the people walking by my windows. I decided to brave the outside and I went out to my front stairs. People were walking in one direction- North. Most of these people had their briefcases and work bags. Women were wearing high heels, some were barefoot, but these people were all trying to make their way home. There was no bus service, no subway service, and no commuter trains. They closed the bridges & tunnels to all civilian cars. In a city that counted on public transportation, there was none. Anyone who wanted to go home had to walk across the bridges to get there. What I saw, was the beginning of the mid-town crowd. It would be hours before I would see the soot covered people making their way from downtown.

I directed myself to the nearest ATM thinking it might be practical to have extra cash on hand. Apparently I was not the only one thinking in this way. The line was at least two blocks long to use the typically unused machines in the vestibule of the bank on the corner. My wait in the line was long. I was standing there when I first heard the fighter jet boom overhead. It shook my body to the core and I stood there alone, tears running down my face. The woman behind me rubbed my back as she tightly held her young daughter’s hand. No one said a word, the silence was eerie, horrible, suffocating. My city that was always buzzing, was now at a loss for words.

Another jet. Another gasp for breath. This would go one for hours, until my brain was able to block out the noise.

For at least 45 minutes I stood in that line for money, and miraculously, I was able to get $200 of emergency cash when it was my turn. Relieved that I had money, I walked over to the Duane Reade on the next block to buy bottled water. In the chaos of the day, some of the news outlets were telling people to buy water. No one knew if the attacks were over and we had to be somewhat prepared for anything because at this point, not a single person could have seen this beautiful day turning out so ugly, and no one wanted to speculate on what was to come next.

The aisles of the Duane Reade were trashed. Everything was strewn on the floors. Only a few water bottles remained and they were rolling around on the floor. The coolers were practically empty and the store clerk, a small Filipino woman, looked disheveled, exhausted, and scared.  I gave her one of the twenty dollar bills I had just taken out of the ATM , got my change, and walked out of the store with my 3 gallon bottles of water I had picked up off of the floor without ever saying a word.

Once back home, I continued my routine of refreshing my email every few seconds. As news spread to more family and friends that KDBF was on Flight 11, emails and voicemails poured into my little apartment. My instant messaging was crazy- talking to my best friend who was stranded in Las Vegas, talking to officemates offering to help me get out of the city when it was possible, talking to a friend who was waiting to hear from his brother that worked downtown.

My family kept every email. We have thousands of emails from all over the world- we kept them for the future. So we didn’t forget the kindness of the world. We kept them for KDBF’s kids.

The friend who was waiting for his brother, his apartment was at 28^th St, and I’d been there a few times to hang out with other friends from time to time. He said I could come over if I needed to be somewhere with people since I was all alone and grieving and he was gathered with friends waiting for his brother to hopefully arrive. I had to go physically see people I knew.

I stepped out of my apartment again. A man covered in black dust was walking barefoot down the street. He was tightly clutching a briefcase, had a dark colored suit on, but it was ripped on the side of the thigh and turned a lighter shade from the soot, his feet were bare and bloodied, and he had dried blood streaks on his face. He stared straight ahead and just walked, zombie-like, with a very quick pace. I could not take my eyes off of him. There was a ball in my throat and the chill in my spine was like nothing I’d felt before. It hit me again, we were under attack, iconic buildings were gone, thousands, maybe tens of thousands, were dead. KDBF was gone. Hurry, hurry, find a cab.

It was no surprise that there was not a cab to be found in the city of a million cabs – but, as if God was actually looking out for just me, out of nowhere, there was an empty cab, and I jumped in. A kind old man was driving, he looked like George Carlin’s grandfather. His eyes were so honest, and he appeared disillusioned and drained. I told him my destination and as he handed me a long steamed red rose, he said, “there will be no charge today. I am trying to get everyone to their loved ones.” God bless. I told him about KDBF. I had to tell someone. He cried. He got me to my friend’s apartment. I tried to give him two twenty dollar bills, but he refused. I told him it was to cover gas, he still refused.

Later that night, after spending time with my friend and his friends (and with great relief, his brother had arrived and was leaving for Long Island when I walked into the apartment), I walked home. 10PM and the city was dead.

Then the jets became noticeable again. I’ve never been so shaken, defeated, lost.

At home, I was back in my office chair. Back to reading emails, instant messaging, and reading articles. A strange game became watching the scroll of the names of the victims at the bottom of the TV screen. Each time they came to the listing of KDBF’s flight, I just held my breath hoping his name was not there. It always was.

****

On the eve of 9/11, eleven years later, I can’t believe where I am. No longer alone, I have three perfect children, an extraordinary husband, beautiful friends, and my extended family is so awe-inspiring.

The long, long, way my family has come from that day is simply overwhelming. KDBF’s gorgeous and talented sons (turns out his wife was newly pregnant when he took that flight. She had delivered the news to him on September 9^th) are growing up happy and loved. They have a little brother and a father who has adopted them. His sisters are raising kids he’d be so proud of- he would have been a hilarious uncle. My aunt and uncle have grown emotionally and worked though a parent’s worst nightmare beautifully. And my cousins, all of them, we all have our own stories of that day. There are times when some of us will share our stories with each other and get emotional, however, most of the time, we will simply send a quick text or an email as a reminder of how freakin' handsome and ubiquitous Karleton was. Doing this reminds us all, we’re never alone, and it never fails to bring a smile to my face. Handsome and ubiquitous. Damn, that he was, that he was. 

 

The Third Post

Far too often now I get a terrible sick feeling in my stomach when I watch or read the news. This morning was one of these times when I woke up to that awful, “THIS IS BREAKING NEWS” audio clip on CNN.

As details seem to shake themselves out, and the victims of the theater shooting in Aurora, Colorado today become real people and not just numbers on a news scroll, an intense wave of sadness for these people and what their families will go through in the months and years to come weighs heavily on my mind. With social media being what it is today, I’ve already read a blog detailing the scene written by the brother of one of the young woman who was killed. Jordan Ghawi's Blog Post

Immediately, all I can think is, “oh, please, please, don’t get bogged down in the details.” Details are your sworn enemy. What lies ahead for these families is not really in the second-to-second moments. Dwelling on those horrible, horrible facts could make any person approach insanity, but if that was your loved one in that theater, then you have to try to get out of that place of needing all of the facts as quickly as possible.

Figuring out how to walk forward after such a horrific loss is absolutely the biggest obstacle the living face after losing someone to a tragedy such as the one today in Colorado. This holds especially true when loss due to senseless violence is accompanied by intense media coverage. For a few days, maybe weeks…hell, even months, family, friends, friends of friends, and a multitude of strangers will rally around the survivors, it’s only human kindness that draws people in that direction. They will offer their condolences and tell you they feel your pain; But as those people slowly trickle back into the monotony of their everyday lives, survivors are left to go back to their lives too, only it’s not monotonous anymore. There is nothing ever normal about it again.

It’s most easy to grieve when the crowds are around holding you up- when the news covers your family and you have a brave face, or the talk shows remind you that your pain is justified. It is when you’re finally left alone that will shake your soul. Shit, it’s intense to be alone in the grief. Believe me, the pain, the darkness, it hits most when the silence swallows you up and no one wants to hear about your sadness or fears anymore. You may even get tired of hearing yourself talk about the pain, but keep on talking. Work it out the only way you know how. Write it, sing it, cry it from every Colorado mountaintop. 

We don’t live in a war torn country, but we live among war criminals, of this I have no doubt. Columbine, Virginia Tech, Northern Illinois University, Tuscon…September 11^th. We, as Americans, are so blessed to live where we do. We are blessed that most often perspective and human nature allow us to fall back into our Costco paced, drive-thru window lives. Certainly we do not expect bombs to fall on our heads everyday and we are damn lucky for that fact. But sometimes bombs hit very close to home, and when they do, it’s important not to forget those that live, suffering long past the funerals, news profiles, tree plantings and street dedications.   

The pit in my stomach, that aching, well it’s real. I lived through one of these events, and I saw, heard, smelled, tasted, and touched the details firsthand. It was worse than anyone could imagine it being. I lost a family member too. Even years later, I am so grateful for those people that kept me from falling during the worst time in my life and I try to tell them so all of the time. A support system is key, but also you have to be prepared for the emotional trip of highs and lows, and even lowers of being alone in your grief. And when people throw clichés your way in these times of pain, “life goes on”, “they’re in a better place”, “God has a plan”, respond with dignity and courage because these clichés come from a place of not knowing…and well, not knowing, it’s the only thing you can possibly wish for these people. No one should have to have that pit in their stomach. No one.  

The Second Post

I’ve always held a very strict rule about not posting a status on Facebook about politics or religion.  I just don’t want to offer open forums for status wars between people that I may know (but who know nothing about one other) other than that they have me as a common denominator. 

Unfortunately, I broke that rule yesterday. Not on purpose, mind you, but rather because I thought it was more of a hapless observation, not an official stance. Regardless of what I thought would happen, it ended up starting just what I always wanted to avoid.  Here is what I posted:

Not totally understanding how Kim Kardashian gets 'floured' and the perp gets arrested, but Trayvon Martin is shot to death, unarmed, and that guy walks free. Laws definitely need to be reviewed and updated.

I posted it without really thinking through the implications. And that is much of the problem with Facebook and Twitter…once it’s posted, you can’t take it back. You can delete, but you can’t cancel the fact that you once voiced an opinion, or started a war of words, or confirmed yourself a reality TV watcher. It lives in cyberspace for eternity. And let’s face it, the fact that I know who Trayvon Martin is, is a travesty all its own.  But so is the fact that I know Kim Kardashian’s name. So I digress.

There are so many things that are odd about this Trayvon Martin case.  Some people are choosing to make it about race (judging from grand jury leaks, it looks like it could actually be more racial than initially suspected); And some are making it about guns (also, in the end, there could be something said about the fact that the shooter admittedly shot and killed another human being and was handed his gun back the same night), but both those supporting the NRA and those for stricter gun laws are raging just the same; And finally some are making it about changing the controversial Stand-Your-Ground laws, which, in my humble opinion, need to be thoroughly reviewed and revised  by individual states ASAP. 

There is no denying that this case is one very tragic event. One that seems to be shaking itself out behind the closed doors of a grand jury. One that involves a man, who may, or may not have had a history of harassing Trayvon on multiple occasions. One that I’m sure, in its conclusion, is much more in-depth and possibly more heartbreaking than the initial presumption of this just being a story about a black teenager randomly walking down the street with his hoodie up, and being killed by a local member of a neighborhood watch group, who happened to be Hispanic.

In the end though, I hope it does bring awareness about the fact that kids are dying every single day. Before I moved to my current home three months ago, I happened to live in an area of the city where I would often hear people guns fired at all hours of the day and night. The bullets could end up through random windows, hit kids reading bedtime stories with their parents or take down people minding their own business walking down the street. This is NOT about the people that follow the gun laws; it is about those that do not.  Two weeks ago, over one weekend in Chicago, 49 people were wounded, 10 were killed. This is my city and this is sad. ( Chicago Tribune Article)

And although my instincts tell me the Trayvon Martin case will end up being very much about racism, I think our big problem shouldn’t be about race, but more about the economics of race. When you talk about economic status and race, it gets pretty touchy. But can we be real? We can’t end a cycle of violence without a reality check of epic proportions. Additionally, let’s not be naïve and say this doesn’t have to do with providing a good education both inside and outside the home as well. Everything goes hand-in-hand.We need better schools, better mentors, better after school programs...we all need to do better.

How is it we can sit back and watch these kids shoot each other? How is it I sat in my home for six years letting my children watch Dora The Explorer on a nice comfy couch, while just outside my doors there were other kids that were the same age learning to hold guns? How was I OK with this? I’ve had the pleasure of working with teens for nine years now, and I’ll tell you, teenagers are amazing. They have such energy, hope, drive, and most importantly they are resilient as hell. The question is, how can we channel that for good? For every kid with a good home, good education, and a good mentor, there must be ten without those necessities. It’s something we should all be ashamed of and we should all be thinking about how we can fix it.

Every story has a back-story, and the Trayvon Martin incident is no exception. Rest assured, there is much more to come, and I’m as interested as the next person in understanding why that child had to be murdered.  Maybe Trayvon’s death will change laws or opinions about guns? Maybe his death will make people aware, once again, that racism continues to be alive and thriving in all corners of this country? But come on Facebook Friends, let’s not let Trayvon Martin’s death go in vain please. Can we at least ‘like’ that?

The First Post

Yesterday was warmer than usual. It got up to 80 degrees and I was sweating. I sweat like a 600 lb man in a sauna even when it's below freezing, so 80 kind of melts me. I decided to try and cool off by sitting on a bench while waiting to pick up my sons at school.  My one-year old, Harper, sat facing me on my lap, when she casually reached her pudgy little hand into my v-neck t-shirt, pulled the stretchy 100% cotton out far enough so she could look straight down, and then said joyfully, "Mama, butt!"

The old man on the bench next to me appeared slightly amused, yet extremely uncomfortable (most likely because he got a full Mardi Gras style shot of my chest without even having to offer beads). Without a doubt, my little girl was referencing my cleavage.

Harper didn't stop there either. I tried to push my shirt back with some words of encouragement, "no, no Harper, don't pull Mama's shirt," but to no avail.

She repeated her sentiments but with more details, while pulling harder on the shirt, "Mama butt!" Then finally letting go of my shirt, she pointed to her own bottom, and said, "Harper butt."  Continuing her butt fact-finding mission , she peered around to look at my backside, and she tapped my hip as she emphatically exclaimed, "more, more, Mama butt!" She was truly joyful that she had figured out her mom has two butts.

I gave a fake smile to the now excruciatingly uncomfortable man sitting next to me and I offered him an olive branch, which came in the form of a distraction to my toddler, "Harper, do you want to go on the swings?" And off we went.

I felt bad for the man sitting there, but I wasn't embarrassed. I can say I was more impressed and proud with her toddler power of association and deduction. Yes!! Cleavage does sometimes look like a butt, especially with a push-up bra. And OK, it's a fact, she does have a butt.  And I have a butt. Seriously, how smart is she? 

I've stressed over starting a blog. For awhile, my excuse was, "but, I don't have a name." Once I decided on a name, my stall tactic was, "but how do I start? It's too hard to write the first post." What better way to start my blog by ending my "buts" with some writing about butts?! Yay for putting this first post behind me.