Stanley Crouch (who I LOVE) has a beautiful piece in the NY Daily News, about what, exactly, it feels like to be a New Yorker these days. He hits it right on the nose. For the most part, the anxiety he speaks of is subterranean, barely spoken of, rarely mentioned. New Yorkers, like everybody else on the planet who lives in a place where something awful has happened (an earthquake, a suicide bombing, a plane crash) move on, walk past the hole in the ground, say a prayer, make our remembrances, but continue on with life. We go out to dinner. We go to the movies. We laugh with friends. We smile at kids in the park. However, you never forget. Ever. Not a day goes by when what once happened here doesn’t cross your mind in some way or another. It is not something we are obsessing over, holding onto, being paranoid about, or melodramatic about. No. And screw YOU to those who say so.
It is basically that … something happened here. We all saw it. Most of us lost people that day. Or at least knew people who were in those buildings on September 11, and who will never be the same again, because of what they experienced and what they saw. Nobody emerged from that day untouched.
And — too — and this is where the anxiety comes form — we all are waiting.
Waiting for it to happen again.
