Reaching Home: Stories & Poems by Members of the World Trade Center Survivors' Network

REACHING HOME Stories and poems by members of the World Trade Center Survivors’ Network

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REACHING HOME Spring 2005 Stories and poems by members of the World Trade Center Survivors’ Network

NY Writers Coalition Press

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Copryright © 2005 NY Writers Coalition Inc. Upon publication, copyright to individual works returns to the authors.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Editor/Layout: Aaron Zimmerman Copy Editor: Shaina Feinberg Photos: Richard Zimbler Reaching Home contains writing by members of creative writing workshops conducted by NY Writers Coalition Inc. for members of the World Trade Center Survivors’ Network. All photos were taken on September 11, 2004.

NY Writers Coalition Inc. is a not-for-profit organization that creates opportunities for formerly voiceless New Yorkers to be heard through the art of writing. For more information about NY Writers Coalition Inc.: NY Writers Coalition Inc. 80 Hanson Place, #603 Brooklyn, NY 11217 (718) 398-2883 info@nywriterscoalition.org www.nywriterscoalition.org The World Trade Center Survivors’ Network is a community of interest brought together by the September 11, 2001 attacks on the World Trade Center. The Survivors’ Network provides its members a forum for personal contact among survivors as a means to empower them to both deal with the circumstances of the aftermath of the attacks and to find renewed purpose in that aftermath. For more information about the World Trade Center Survivors’ Network: World Trade Center Survivors’ Network c/o September Space 520 8th Avenue, 11th Floor New York, NY 10018 contact@survivorsnet.org http://survivorsnet.org

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Introduction One of the first things I noticed in the days immediately after September 11, 2001 was that everyone had a story that they had to tell. There were usually some common elements: where they were at the time of the attacks, what they saw, how they got home, who they knew that was missing or that had survived, and the horror and sadness they felt. As I listened to others, and told my own story, something that I’d already known in some part of me became more and more clear. Everyone has a story, and telling that story is a basic human need.

It is common these days to say that September 11 changed our lives forever. Too often, that statement has been used to justify all sorts of actions and feelings that have nothing to do with what happened that day. As often as we all are told to never forget what happened, it’s just as often that the important stories of the survivors of the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks — victims and witnesses whose lives were truly and profoundly changed forever — are dismissed or ignored. They are told to move on or get over it, not out of a sense of healing, but because our society is eager to forget

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the fear, confusion, sadness and vulnerability.

But by trying to get rid of these difficult and seemingly unpleasant stories, we lose something huge in the process. We lose touch with the incredible capacity of humans to heal, connect with each other, ask questions, and search for meaning.

We shove aside the myriad of questions about what it means to be alive in the face of tragedy and terror.

For the remarkable members of the World Trade Center Survivors’ Network, forgetting these questions is not really an option. They have important stories to tell, not just about 9/11 and its aftermath, but about all aspects of life. I have been lucky to get to hear and read these stories in the workshops I’ve led with these talented men and women. After the rupture of the 9/11 attacks, these survivors have found a home with each other. They have warmly welcomed me in, to do what we all need and love to do: hear each other’s stories.

With this book, you’re invited in too. I am sure you’ll be enriched by the visit.

—Aaron Zimmerman, May, 2005

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CALLING THE CHILDREN: SEPTEMBER 11, 2004 LISA FENGER That morning, after a moment of silence, the calling for the children began. Into the morning air, one by one for hours, mothers and fathers stood where their children had vanished and called for them by name. They called into the sky and down into the pit, they searched the heavens, their hearts, the depths of the dust of the earth, and not finding them, they cast flowers onto the silent pools in their despair. Where do dead children live?

On that day, and daily, I stand with them in grief.

My own children are missing. They are not in the heavens, the earth, the depths of my body. They are only in my heart, they are nameless; I cannot conceive of them. Where shall I search? I have no flowers still fragile with life to place in the pools of my memory. Where do unborn children live?

When the outward calling for the children was complete, I staggered upwards to the surface and into the sanctuary of a church. There the priest told of the horror when the slaughter of children began. In his hand, he held oil born of the olives of Spain where also the murder of children took place. “Come� he said, and lines formed silently to be anointed.

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In a time beyond time I stood, my hands in his, my eyes in his, my soul vanished in the pit. “What do you desire?” he asked. “To be okay,” I answered, having no name for the vast unfathomable emptiness swirling around me and in me and through me, the mother who did not mother me, the father who did not protect me, the children dead in this place, the parents who cry for them, the mother I will never be, the children wasting inside me, the child I was wasted at the hands of my parents, the wrongness so terrible that there is no name, only a prayer that it be made right. “I want to be okay.”

Gently, he asked my name, the name that teachers have torn from me, the name my parents do not say in my presence or absence, the name praying for the return of its soul so that all will be made well. “Lord,” the priest whispered for only my ears and God’s, “here is Lisa, your daughter,” and through the silence and time, across the pit and the air of the heavens and the dust of the earth, past the fading of flowers and unfilled pools, to wherever lost souls live, I heard the cry and the call: “Lisa, my child, where are you?” And I lifted my head and was marked with oil and was found.

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THIS TIME OF YEAR ELIA ZEDEĂ‘O This is the time of year when leaves are falling from the trees. It is the time of year, when I sit quietly in gentle contemplation of my surroundings. It is the time of year when I can learn to take my place in life, to accept changes, and relinquish my attachment to all things.

Have you ever noticed how leaves fall from a tree?

They do not truly fall. They seem to choose to leave the tree as if by free will. Some come down quickly, eager to touch the ground. Others are rocked by the wind. Wind and leaves embrace in dance. They join in full cooperation, each one fulfilling its own destiny.

Every single leaf on a tree is born with full awareness of the wind. Leaves know the wind will guide them to the earth, where they will be reborn come springtime. The earth in turn, waits quietly, patiently for two whole seasons, knowing that her children will find their way home one day.

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I AM FROM PETER MILLER I am from New York’s World Trade Center, the belching cloud of ashes and dust.

Expelled like a thing that scurries. I am from the ruins with all my parts intact.

Living to move on and get on, despite the images of Armagedon and that special smell.

I am From-mer, traveling all over the world on $5 a day.

I am fromage with very special smells.

I am frommenting wine weaving through barrels and bottles to your tables.

I am from some other place pretending to fit in. It’s easy once you get the hang of it.

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WHAT MATTERS, THEN? TANIA HEAD I see your face, look in your eyes, And I see it.

I listen to your words, And I see it.

I look at the way you keep your hands close to you, And I see it.

I see it everywhere, I cannot shut it down.

It happens here, in Russia, in Egypt, in Gaza.

It's ever present.

It's taking over.

It's winning, I'm losing.

I can't stop it. I don't know how.

I'm angry, I hate it.

It's in me, I want it out.

It's in the boy from Russia who I saw on TV. I saw it.

It's here, it's there, it's everywhere.

It's in my head, it's in my skin, it's in me.

I swallowed it and it won't leave me.

I want to take it off, I want a pair of hands that can reach deep in me and remove it.

Remove it from me, from those children, from this earth.

Take it away, but to where?

Paradise? We can't take it there because it's there too.

Paradise is no longer a place for lovers, it's a place 11

for martyrs.

I need to find a person who can do it.

A person who can stop it.

A person who has the power.

A person who saw it and is not blinded like I am.

It's an epidemic.

It's spreading and there's no cure.

It changes people.

It makes us weak, angry and guilty.

Once you see it, you cease to exist.

You saw it, I saw it.

Who's left?

Soon there'll be no one left.

Run, run, before it's too late.

Hide in the caves, Shield yourself from this overtaking.

Tape, plastic, masks, Whatever it takes.

Hide your children, Build walls around cities that separate families.

Close borders, Take fingerprints at airports, Divide people by their skin color, Look at their names and take them off planes.

Isolate yourself.

And in the end, What matters, then?

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FORTY-FIVE SCARS ELIA ZEDEĂ‘O Forty-Five Scars . . .

One for every year of my life Skin hardens where the healing takes place Life shortens when the wound festers Bandages hide the unsightly Time erases the pain Tears wash away the human stain One scar can last forever

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GOD GERRY BOGACZ God burst in Through the windows Nestled in the minds Of His faithful Whose lips whispered Pious pleas As their hands Wrought anger From the sky God sought out The unbelieving Through the actions Of His servants Unleashing hatred For salvation Promises of paradise After death After carnage God tensed in An airline seat Amid frantic thoughts A heart racing Prayers and pleadings In final minutes Asking that The cup might pass A victim nonetheless 14

God stood trapped In heat and smoke As other victims Invoked His names And leapt into Vast emptiness As a desperate choice Between burning Or a final fall God was on The winding stairs In panicked minds Of those who fled And thought of others Amid their escape And climbed With those Who offered help God was What humans Made of Him On a gruesome day Bent to Their purposes And needs Soldier Solace He was all of us

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FUDGE! TERRY NORTON In my house, Great Grandma's Fudge has been the hallmark of the Christmas season. Take your millions of lights and moving Santa lawns and lines of shoppers the day after Thanksgiving. We knew Christmas had truly arrived when Mom pulled out her huge iron pot and put in four ounces of shaven unsweetened chocolate, two cups of sugar and one cup of milk and began to bring it to a slow rolling boil.

By this time of year in Connecticut, it was cold and snow covered the ground. We were driven inside to suffer through endless weekend football games. Then the sweet smell of the confection would reach us in the living room and pull us to the source. The smell of Christmas was calling.

Mom would gently stir the bubbling concoction and every once in a while, drip some into a cup of cold water. She would twirl the glass and poke the brown mass in the bottom. I never knew what she was looking for - some magic moment that I was not yet privy to. After what seemed an eternity of stirring, dripping and sloshing, she would announce, "It's ready. Get the plate."

The plate, the special plate used only for cooling the fudge. It is a huge moritaki platter that traveled from Japan and back twice, once to Germany and all over the country during Dad's 16

military career. The fudge plate, sacred and honored for its role in this holy holiday. Ever so carefully, Mom would pour the thick chocolate goo from arm's height to the pot then over a wooden spoon onto the plate. It spread out slowly in a shiny smooth circle.

Now we waited. Mom would poke the substance in the plate several times before calling, "It's ready." She poured a teaspoon of Vanilla Extract on top of the soft shell of chocolate. The Fudge now became a family project. With a wooden spoon, we each took turns stirring the mass to mix in air and bring it to a dry but malleable consistency. Soon, Dad would have to hold the plate while the stirrer used both hands and all his or her body weight to move it through the thickening mass. All during the process, the trick was to get some of the fudge on your hand or finger so you had to lick it off. That was very important, because you were not allowed to put your hands anywhere near your mouth for the next step.

Sleeves up, hands shining clean we dug into the dough and began kneading and molding it. Mom would lay out rolls of wax paper as we worked the clay to form logs. Sometimes, the moisture in your hands would turn it all back into a liquidy mess. That meant it had not cooked long enough, and we had to start over.

Each log was rolled about 1" in diameter and 6" 17

long. We laid them on the wax paper, and Mom rolled them up. The first log she would always cut up and lay out. When all the fudge was made, there would be the succulent tidbits waiting for us to wrap our taste buds around. Ambrosia. We sighed as the rich confectionary began melting in our mouths. Christmas had truly arrived.

These days, Mom doesn't make the fudge. She has arthritis and no one to stir it or hold the plate when it gets thick. I am the official fudge maker. I learned what magic sign Mom looked for that told her the fudge was ready. My son can hold the plate while I stir, and we can switch. I cut up the first log, I roll them in the wax paper. I then wrap them in tin foil, wrapping paper, mailing paper and send them to my brothers' families. Christmas has arrived, when Great Grandma's fudge is on the table.

Time to put up the tree.

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I USED TO BE, BUT NOW PETER MILLER I used to be a simple rustic farm boy But now, I’m a sophisticated urban businessman.

Life was less complicated then.

I used to walk on dirt roads And ride a bicycle forever.

But now, I’m all about airways and Acelas.

I used to birth lambs And hatch chicks And grow crops.

I used to kill varmints And burn brush.

And shovel manure.

But now I conceive of strategic plans And hatch political intrigue And grow companies And kill the competition And burn the midnight oil And yet, I still shovel a lot of shit!

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REMEMBERING THANKSGIVING LISA FENGER What I remember most about Thanksgiving is this: sitting outside on the chilly cement steps in the darkness, alone in the dark, in the cold. I remember the feeling of not being missed.

Thanksgivings were like that: the little presence you had in the world that you might have acquired by complaining about the lack of heat in the back seat of the car would vanish when you crossed the threshold into your cousin’s house. In the car, you had a voice, even if you knew the heat would never be turned up; it was warm enough in the front and that is all that mattered. In the car, mostly, there was silence, so it was easy to think your own thoughts, to forget you were sitting in a miserable bubble speeding an hour and a half through the fields to a place you did not want to be but had no choice. You had your own place to sit in the car, and your own silence, and if you dared, an insignificant hopeless opinion about the world around you. The air was cold. Thanksgivings were always cold.

At first, you’d bring your flute, imagining shining eyes of relatives upon you and applause for making it through “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and “Red River Valley.” But the room would empty as you played, any room would become empty no matter where you set up the silver music stand.

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Your cousin plays the violin, and well, according to rumor. She is in an orchestra somewhere. No one has ever heard her play. You would like to ask her to play just for you, but even then you sense she is barely holding back a torrent of hurt; you sense that this might cause an irreparable crack in the dam. And so you put away your flute and never bring it again. The next year, no one asks if you still play.

The adults sit in the basement at folding tables and you are not welcome to go down there. If they hear your feet on the stairs, you will be faced, when you reach the bottom, with thousands of hostile eyes. And silence, that closed-down silence that tells you they are waiting for you to leave. Sometimes you are afraid to go down to eat; you are always the last one down the stairs and the rolls are getting cold. You feel in your heart that if someone would just say grace then the butter would still melt, even on the rolls, but people discuss this and with the discussing, the food gets colder, and someone, then everyone, simply starts eating. You go upstairs before dessert.

The TV is on in the den upstairs and every year you are surprised to see your cousin’s husband watching war. He loves war, especially World War II. He has dozens of books on the shelves across from the TV, all with swastikas on the back.

He has models of tanks for the desert and tanks for tearing ruts across the European countryside. You 21

think perhaps he might wish to be a Nazi; his feet and legs look like they wear tall shiny boots with heels that click together when you throw your arm out in a salute. He owns a dog, an enormous German shepherd named Schultz. You are afraid of this man and also his dog.

It is the dog that sends you outside, finally, out into the freezing air without a coat. You are tremendously allergic to dogs and by now your nose is running without stopping and is getting chapped, and you sneeze ten times in a row every few minutes, and your lungs are squeezed for air.

So you go outside to the steps to breathe. The cold air will slow the mucus; you will stay outdoors until your last Kleenex is soggy. Sometimes there are stars in the sky, hard points of harsh light, too sharp to be dulled by the suburban night.

Sometimes there is snow on the ground. Always you feel the pull, a sense of spinning so strong that if you moved from the steps, you would be flung to the door of a neighbor, any neighbor, as long as they would notice your red nose and watery eyes and draw you into the golden light you see behind their steamy picture windows. You pretend your eyes are wet because of the allergy. You pretend you are content and warm. You pretend someone wonders where you are and is putting on their coat to join you on the steps. You pretend until the damp tissue numbs your fingers. And then you go back inside.

You are too sick to notice the rest of the evening.

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You might go back outside or you might sit motionless in a corner. Movement makes your nose drip worse so you concentrate on stillness.

You watch people leave but no one else seems to see them go. You wonder if anyone notices they have vanished and think that they do not, until a plate is discovered left behind. Eventually you will also go, mumbling a congested goodbye.

Thanksgiving is over and the back seat of the car is cold.

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LEAVING CUBA ELIA ZEDEÑO In that respect, we had it easy. At least a whole lot easier than most others.

My parents had relatives in the USA who were able to claim us. This was back in the days when Castro first took over. He said that anyone who did not wish to stay in Cuba could leave. It was actually a great strategy on his part. Most of the people who left were the ones who would resist him most effectively. He played on the emotions of parents who wanted to free their children. The USA agreed on the condition that a U.S. citizen/ relative would claim and take responsibility for us upon our arrival.

We were scheduled to leave Cuba around 1965 but there was a fire at the records office in our town and our papers were lost. My father always suspected the fire was intentional. Communist officials in my town had always insisted on convincing my father to join The Party. My dad is a charismatic individual whom people tend to follow, and communism needed him to recruit others. The day after the fire, a couple of officials showed up at my house to tell my father that since the papers had burned, he had no choice but to join them. They said, “Now you’re not going anywhere.” My father told them that even if he had to stay, he would remain neutral.

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Fortunately, my father was able to get in touch with his nephew again and the papers were refiled.

On Sunday afternoon, April 4, 1971, a soldier stopped his motorcycle in front of my house. I was only 11 years old but I knew exactly what it meant. I held my breath. In fact, we all did. All conversation stopped and I could hear the sound of my own heart beating faster and faster. My mother must have noticed. She quickly whispered in my ear to show no emotions. When you deal with malice, it’s best to remain dispassionate.

The soldier entered our house as if it was his.

Indeed it was, from this point forward. We were given 15 minutes to take a few clothing items for the trip. The soldier began to inspect our household items against his list of previously inventoried items; i.e., the iron, my mother’s sewing machine, the radio, furniture, etc. If anything went missing from his list, we would be refused passage. In fact, any item broken had to be saved for this moment.

Since my father was well known in our town, a few months earlier word was leaked to him that we may be leaving soon. As a result, my parents had a couple of suitcases ready for the trip. When the soldier was done taking inventory, we left our home. A few minutes later, we left our town and everything we knew behind.

I still remember the view of my block from the back of the car. I still feel a knot at my throat 25

when I recall the scene. Saying goodbye is never easy, even when the place you’re leaving behind is hell.

We spent a few days traveling by bus. We arrived near the airport in Varadero (a famous beach resort) Wednesday night, April 7, and spent the night at a motel. Our flight was scheduled for the next day. Early next morning we were taken to the airport.

Communists love drama (tragic drama). People were being turned away at random. Families were being split apart. Communists can and will exert their warped power, no questions dared to be asked, no reasons needed. My family was told there was no plane available for us. Others who were scheduled to fly with us said we should wait at the airport. We waited until the next day.

Finally, by the Grace of God, on Good Friday, April 9, 1971, the Zedeño family of four made it onto an old, raggedy Russian airplane destined to never see Cuba again.

The flight was scary. The airplane huffed and puffed like “the little engine that could.” To top it all off, there was turbulence. My father had to get out of his seat to calm the other passengers who were on the verge of panicking.

Suddenly, in between the clouds, I caught a glimpse of land. It glistened under the sun and spoke to me of miracles, of dreams and fresh 26

beginnings. I saw buildings and what I figured to be a real airport. Once again I held my breath.

My mother must have noticed. She squeezed my hand. She squeezed so tight my fingers went numb, not that it bothered me, for I was already enthralled in the prospect of “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”

The remaining portion of the original staircase that hundreds of survivors used to evacuate the Towers on September 11, 2001. For more information about the Survivors’ Network’s efforts to save the Survivors’ Staircase and how you can help, please visit www.survivorsnet.org.

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STARS TANIA HEAD I'm sitting here trying to figure out what I can say to you that will make a difference at this time and the only thing I can think of are stars. It is ironic that I would think of stars at this incredibly difficult time but stars have always been a symbol in my life. It started when I was a little kid and I would stare up at them through the dark of the night and dream about what my life was going to be like. I used to wish the clocks would tick faster so those dreams would realize soon enough. And now, now my only desire is to turn back the clocks. If only I could. Stars have become symbols of the unattainable. We even call those who have succeeded in their professional lives, stars or mega-stars. We all want to reach for the stars, knowing that only a few selected by NASA will actually get to travel to space and even they will never really reach the stars. They will get the privilege to look at them closer than we ever will, but that's about it. The rest of us are condemned to failure by our own standards. We will spend the rest of our lives reaching for the stars, without really knowing what those "stars" really are. Are we referring to something materialistic like a pictureperfect house with a white picket fence filled with beautiful children, or are we referring to something closer to the spiritual side?

I spent 28 years reaching for the stars and not once did I actually see one. The problem was that they 28

kept getting further and further away from me.

When I thought I had reached one star, then a new one would appear in the horizon. When I finally reached that one, a new one would start shinning and so on. And it seemed the faster I reached for the stars, the further they were and the more stars appeared in my horizon. It was as if they were multiplying and suddenly I would be faced with my own universe of stars, adding to the confusion.

It has always fascinated me why we are supposed to reach up when we aim to touch the stars. As if things down here weren't complicated enough, and not everyone actually believes there is something or someone up there. One of these days someone will sue someone for the up there part of the story. This reaching up seems to be connected to happiness. In fact, book stores are full of books that tell us we can choose to reach up and touch the stars, meaning that happiness is a choice. I always wonder if these so-called self-help authors are high on LSD when they write these novels. Since when are Venus and Mars attracted to each other? There's even a book called "Finding your Own North Star." That one always gets me. If I'm supposed to find my own star, why is there someone else writing about it??

And this North Star, is it like the mother of all stars?? The ultimate price?? If that's the case, then does winning the lotto qualify???

There is a point in our lives where our childhood dreams of touching the stars give way to reality.

We realize that our dreams of being a super model 29

or becoming a famous athlete, well, it's never going to happen. That's when you decide to make the best out of what you have. For a tiny moment there we all achieve complete happiness. At that rare instant we accept ourselves for who we are and we are satisfied. The little voice inside us reassures us that despite not being Cindy Crawford or Michael Jordan, we will manage and things will turn out OK. But then that instant is over. We move on to the next thing and onto despair. Suddenly life is no longer about what you have, it becomes about what you don't have and that my friend, sets us off into our search for the stars. Suddenly, reaching for the stars becomes a need, something we must all do. If we don't, it seems we simply either don't care or are not ambitious enough.

This empty search leads us to become falling stars.

We let anger, hate or simply pure despair and discontent invade us. We lose our ability to see color and life becomes a dull white and black.

We have all been there at some point in our lives.

Some of us manage to recuperate our sight. The fog lifts and colors return bright and crisp. Others aren't so lucky. Their lives become about black and white, and if they are lucky, about some shades of gray in between. That's the first symptom. Then comes the tunnel vision and soon enough, life as they knew it ceases to exist. It becomes about revenge, about hurting others for the simple reason that their life is more colorful. A falling star 30

reminds me as well of a human heart. They are supposed to be small, bold solid objects that enter earth's atmosphere as they travel through space.

These meteors can enter our atmosphere with a velocity that ranges from ten to seventy km/sc and they can plunge into the atmosphere as well at the same speed. Consequently, the friction that is created is great enough to cause the meteor to begin burning up. Our hearts also are small, bold solid objects that enter earth's atmosphere when we are born and travel through space as we begin our journey of life. Our heart rate increases when we discover new things or when we plunge into difficult times and it lights up when we fall in love or find happiness. A meteor shower occurs when hundreds of stars fall simultaneously and that's what happened to us on September 11th, 2001.

The beautiful and thriving life of the world trade center towers was eradicated and replaced with a 16 acre crater, although the damage that resulted spanned globally. The atmosphere, which normally acts as a buffer zone which protects the Earth's surface from impacts, was consumed by hate and violence leaving us exposed and vulnerable, at the mercy of the dark creatures from outer space. This event of stellar magnitude changed everything. Our inner light was extinguished, we ceased to exist as proud members of our galaxies and we became residents of our own black holes. We waited for the Big Bang that would make things right again, but it never happened. We soon realized we would have to make our journey back to the light on our own.

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But, we don't have to be falling stars forever. We didn't choose to become a falling star but we can choose to be bright again. We can choose how bright we want to be and in which direction we want to shine our light to. We can shine our own lives or we can shine other people's lives by sharing our experiences and inspiring them.

Stars are measured by how bright they shine. We may not be very bright now but I'm convinced we will be. We can choose to shine, even brighter than before, and embrace a position of honor in the universe. We can create rainbows of a million colors that will inspire others to abandon their white and black existence and join us in our pursuit for radiance.

We tend to look at the stars for everything we need. We tend to believe the stars will take us to places further than we have ever been, or to places no man has ever gone before. We believe the stars are the place to look for searching and exploring whatever it is we all seek. But it is only when we become falling stars, that we realize the answers we've always searched for are placed gently and neatly in our hearts.

We have let stars be a symbol of the unattainable too long. Although no one of us will ever reach one with our physical hands, we can touch them in other ways.

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Let stars stand for those things that are real and glowing in our lives. Let stars stand for those who are closest to us. Let stars stand for those who need help or are living in poverty, under violence or in hunger. Let stars stand for us, for our hearts, for our desire to live, and grow and overcome. If we do this then we need no longer to look up to the sky to reach the stars because stars are already a part of our lives. We reach for the stars when we reach close by to the shinning lives in the sparkling universe that is our life. When you're ready to shine again, don't look up, look around you. We've all become stars in our own right in an imperfect universe and together we'll bring meaning to our loss, meaning to our tragedy, meaning so the future generations never have to look up in search for answers. We have the answers, we have each other and we will persevere.

With our resilience and strength as a group we will achieve our goals, conquer the highest peeks and cross the widest rivers all the while setting up an example and seeking common ground. Our light will shine through the arches of violence and our hearts will inspire others to join in our quest. The atmosphere will soon again be our invisible shield and terror and fear will be conquered.

Take my hand and know, you have finally reached the stars.

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THE ZIPPER BROKE TERRY NORTON The zipper broke. The door blew open. The seams split. Everything came crashing down on me burying me in a pile of emotional and psychological garbage.

My son had left home to go into the Air Force. That was the real departure - not off to school or camp where he comes home and still depends on Mommy for his existence. This was the big step of his life toward manhood, adulthood, independence.

I left him at the recruiter's office and hurried away before I was bawling too hard to cry. I knew he would be in Basic Training for six weeks - so had I. I knew he would then go on to Technical School - so had I. I didn't know when I would see him again - neither had my parents.

For two weeks I struggled with this new silence in my life. For 18 years, he never shut up. Now I missed it terribly, that constant chatter. For 18 years I had put aside my own inner turmoil in order to be there for my son, to be strong, to calm his fears.

Now I was alone with them. Ghosts that had been drowned out by the day-to-day bustle of trying to exist as a single mother of a growing boy.

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Single parents should never raise children of the opposite sex. I had no idea how to help him understand wet dreams.

But now those ghosts had nothing to keep them at bay. They crept into my life becoming ever louder and demanding of my attention.

"Remember me? I am the abuse of your exhusband. See I was right. You can't do without me. Even my son has abandoned you."

"Remember me? I am the bad business decision you made that sent you into bankruptcy and foreclosure. Now you don't even have a child to help you make your bad decisions."

"Remember me? I am all those abusive boyfriends you had. You should have stayed with one of us. At least you wouldn't be an ugly lonely woman now."

Louder and louder. More and more. Further and further into my past.

"Remember me? I am the day Peanuts died. You lost your only friend that day."

"Remember me? I am all those kids who picked on you. You'll never be loved."

"Remember me? I am the day your daddy died. You will never have any loving support 35

again. You are not worthy."

Then one day, I was listening to a member of a group therapy class tell his or her story and the biggest ugliest ghost of all leapt out and grabbed me by the throat.

"Remember me? I raped you. You were raped. You were only 13, but damn you were luscious. You tempted me and I gave in when you decided to renege. 13-year-old girls don't taunt 30-something men like that and get away with it. I am why you are such a worthless mess. You are only good for one thing. Lie down girl and spread your legs."

I tried to argue that it was not true. I had not been raped at 13, but he was insistent and I was immobilized, terrified, disgusted with myself.

How could I have allowed that? Why did I allow that? Please, Daddy, please Mommy, don't ever learn what a disgusting, filthy whore of a daughter you spawned.

What would I tell my son? What would I tell myself?

I was buried in my lurid, failing past. There was no hope, no light, no love, no redemption. I had failed God, my parents, my son and myself. I was scum buried in garbage and that was the best place for crap like me.

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But wait, there was something I remember now. From beyond the pile came a barking, persistent, closer.

"Donner, come," that was MY voice. The barking is at my ear, jaws are snapping at my attacker. He pushes the German Shepherd away.

"Donner, come," my voice commands. Donner is there defending me and making noise and I won't let him leave.

I burst into the light. I had defended myself. My dog defended me. Together, we drove my attacker away because the noise could attract attention.

I am not scum! I am power! I am strength! I command my life! God does NOT make crap and I am living proof!

I can live alone. I miss my son, but I can live with my mental garbage. I can tell it to shut up and go away — that it is all lies.

My son still needs me.

The zipper broke . . ."Mom, can you fix it?"

"Sure Ian. I can fix almost anything. And if I can't fix it, God can."

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MORNING, LATE SUMMER, IN THE CATSKILLS GERRY BOGACZ Morning Late summer In the Catskills An enveloping fog Hugs a mountain stream Framed by stout trees All around The gentle din Of chirping insects The trill of birds And the liquid noise Of the stream A scene playing out Under a steel gray sky The fog hovers Over the rolling waters Touching them As a ghostly gauze Real yet immaterial Allowing glimpses Through its spectral wall The trees are still Respecting the morning As a hint of a breeze Imparts subtle motion To their leaves So slightly 38

So softly While the stream flows Obeying its imperatives Lost in its timeless world There is peace here By the mountain stream The very world meditates Focuses on simply being Defying Our frantic selves Refuting our anxious lives Turning away from Our pain and violence Our fears and concerns Momentarily without meaning For it is morning Late summer In the Catskills

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LONGING A GROUP POEM FROM 9/11 SURVIVORS Longing for an answer One keeps looking Shutting their eyes To answers everywhere Then suddenly The answers are there We open our eyes Butterflies flitting and elusive Leaping and snatching But never quite catching The answers may be before us But we don't always see them Or accept them Even with our eyes open Our questioning continues Unabated We can ask and wonder But we'll never know Our questions seem without answers The bright spot has been Finding each other We can wonder together......

Reach out and help us through Take our hand, pull us through For alone we're just so lost We cannot live on chances The truth we need to find Does this dryness mean 40

That now is truly not The same as then?

That never does mean never After all?

That the quick burst of hope That still explodes every other minute, Hour, day, week Is just a fading memory?

Comfort I found in knowing That whatever questions I ask Have already been asked before And whatever answers I receive Have always been.

I ask not new questions I get not new answers I ask not And receive all Are the questions we ask inadequate Given the answers we seek?

Are the dryness and desolation A reflection Of answers that are beyond us?

But it is a strange comfort That I receive I never wanted to know these questions I never wanted to be given these answers I wanted to remain As I was Ignorant of The raw heart of the world For what are the answers To questions about 41

Lives ended Lives changed In terror and pain?

One lifetime of questions One poem with no end One moment no questions One lifetime of answers revealed What went wrong I don't think we'll ever know The politicians Just put on a show One moment alive Next moment gone Will we ever know WHAT WENT WRONG?

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NY Writers44Coalition Press