Atomox
Eleventh
9/11 Memorial, Financial District, Manhattan. October 26th, 2014.
Never forget?
As if that were a possibility.
I was not in New York that day. I can never understand what my girlfriend felt every day she looked at the skyline for the past 13 years. Nor can I understand what she felt today, how much of a tautology that phrase must be:
Never forget.
For what reason do we need this museum? I'm sure those, like myself, who did not live in New York, must be drawn to this thing, this event. This thing which made us all united for a few months, and gives us a place to recount: "I was at work when I heard the news..."
For those of us foreign to New York, this museum is a memory of unity, a memory of flags. A time when everyone was a little nicer, when strangers felt a little bit of ease talking to one another. How quickly that faded.
What about New Yorkers? Is it akin to a shrine in memory of a rape? Something slightly less?
Perhaps it is different. I'll never be able to understand. All I know is the sickness my girlfriend felt as she wandered through these dark catacombs, the words slowly rising to her lips:
"What am I doing here?"
Eleventh
9/11 Memorial, Financial District, Manhattan. October 26th, 2014.
Never forget?
As if that were a possibility.
I was not in New York that day. I can never understand what my girlfriend felt every day she looked at the skyline for the past 13 years. Nor can I understand what she felt today, how much of a tautology that phrase must be:
Never forget.
For what reason do we need this museum? I'm sure those, like myself, who did not live in New York, must be drawn to this thing, this event. This thing which made us all united for a few months, and gives us a place to recount: "I was at work when I heard the news..."
For those of us foreign to New York, this museum is a memory of unity, a memory of flags. A time when everyone was a little nicer, when strangers felt a little bit of ease talking to one another. How quickly that faded.
What about New Yorkers? Is it akin to a shrine in memory of a rape? Something slightly less?
Perhaps it is different. I'll never be able to understand. All I know is the sickness my girlfriend felt as she wandered through these dark catacombs, the words slowly rising to her lips:
"What am I doing here?"