September 11th came and went, and I didn’t give it more than a cursory thought. It’s been 16 years, and so much of my life—and the world—has changed that the events of that day seem like ancient history. Don’t get me wrong; I remember 9/11. In fact, if I force them, the memories can be quite intense. The color of the smoke, the ash spilling from lower Manhattan into the New York Bay, the footprints left in ash at the site, the persistent smell of glass, concrete, steel, and flesh burning as fires churned for days. Time and distance, however, make it all feel like someone else’s life.

Isn’t that what healing is about, though? The hurt is still there, as is the scar, but it’s not nearly as fresh. It’s sore and achy, but not the same stabbing pain it once was. The day is something I think about in passing, as opposed to a constant and running fear. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

For the first eight or nine anniversaries, I would listen to the reading of the names of the victims. I’d watch documentaries that would always start by showing how normal the day had begun. I'd even look at the theories on how 9/11 was an inside job. Reliving all of that, processing it, absorbing it, used to feel like some patriotic duty. It was almost like knowing the names of the dead would allow me access to the pain of the families and I could share in it, dilute it, and ease the burden of grief somewhat. I know that sounds silly, but everyone who lived in New York on September 11, 2001, who was still there on the 12th has dealt with some form of survivor’s remorse.

When I used to live in New York, the events of 9/11 were unifying. It was shared trauma. People’s memories of before the attack, during, and the aftermath was vivid, direct, and a mix of heartbreaking, terrifying, and relieving. The city was changed—both broken and bonded—in a way that few American cities can understand (Boston and Oklahoma City immediately spring to mind). About nine years ago, I moved to Bellingham, Washington, a city that’s as far removed from New York as you can get while remaining on the continent. Bellingham is a smaller community that I’m used to, and its population is an odd mix of transient students and cradle-to-grave citizens. Everyone kind of knows everyone else, through much fewer degrees of separation. I found their reaction to the anniversary to be fascinating. The reverence is still there, as is the sympathy and the empathy, but story sharing for comfort is replaced by a morbid curiosity held in check by a degree of politeness. And being across the continent from New York, the experience for the citizens of this town are much less visceral. They still remember 9/11, but the distance and the three-hour time difference renders the event as this abstract thing. It’s the same way I registered the Boston Marathon bombing, or the Federal Building in Oklahoma City, or even the shooting at Columbine High School. Then, same as with 9/11, the loss of life was felt, but I was privately glad no one I knew was there.

No matter where I move, I will remember what happened that day. I can’t allow the fact that I no longer live in New York render this as some abstract thing that a different person witnessed a lifetime ago. The stories must be told, the names must be remembered; it’s either that, or watch as September 11 becomes just another holiday where we get a day off, stuff is peddled on sale, and the day is cheapened to the point it becomes just another warm September day.

#2017 #NewYorkCity #911