I wrote this last year and it was published on the gathering's site for a while.
I went to a dentist for the first time in over a decade. Yeah, I avoided dentists for more than ten years; I know I’m terrible, I don’t really want to hear about it. As I was sitting in the chair waiting to meet my new dentist, I overheard him as he was going over my X-rays with his assistant. Either they were completely oblivious to the fact that I could hear every word they said, sitting three feet away from them as I was, or else they just didn’t care. The assistant said in a tone of voice that managed to convey both horror and awe, as she looked at my x-rays, “It’s kind of unbelievable, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” the dentist agreed, “looks like we’ll have to amputate his mouth.”
Of course, the dentist didn’t actually say that last part. But as he looked over my vital statistics, he couldn’t resist commenting.
“Ominous birthday, eh?”
My birthday is September 11th. Has been since 1974. Over the last year as I’ve had opportunity to show ID or mention my date of birth, people tend to express sympathy. One girl looked stricken, as if she thought I was playing some kind of twisted and tasteless joke on her by associating my birthday with that infamous day. When I assured her I was being honest, she said something like, “Oh, that sucks to have such a crappy birthday.”
But I disagree. I’ve always liked September 11th for a birthday, it used to be a nice, anonymous day, not too close to any major holidays or anything. Of course, it’s not quite so inconspicuous anymore, and that’s okay. It gives me a connection, however tenuous, to the victims of the attacks. It’s not much, I know.
The night before the attacks, on September 10th, I was celebrating my birthday with my family and my friend Travis, whose birthday happens to be three days after mine. Travis and I were planning a trip to New York City to visit our friend Jon who had moved there. We talked about doing all the touristy stuff, like seeing the Statue of Liberty, getting mugged, and going to the top of the Twin Towers.
The next morning I was at home when my sister called. “Happy birthday,” she said, mournfully.
“What’s the matter?” I had no idea what was happening yet. She filled me in, and I spent the rest of the day watching CNN in horror, just like you.
I eventually made it down to New York, without Travis, unfortunately. Everyone there had been a part of the most terrible event of our generation. I had only watched it on television. As I rode the subways, I would think about how everyone I was with had survived a catastrophe, and were like veterans. I met a member of the Fire Department, and clumsily conveyed my admiration for him and his brothers. But I was an outsider.
One Saturday afternoon I was exploring Manhattan a bit, walking along the waterfront in a beautiful park. There were people everywhere, rollerblading, biking, playing volleyball, enjoying the day. Lost in some pleasant reverie, I turned a corner and came across a big barricade. Ground Zero.
People always ask me if I visited Ground Zero when I was in New York. And then they ask me what it was like. I never know what to say. Just a couple of days before I arrived, they had finished the cleanup of all the debris, so that all that was left was a vast, empty lot, with damaged buildings all around. If you didn’t know any better, you might think you had stumbled across a construction zone for a parking lot or something. But since I did know better, I felt like I had invaded a sacred place, somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be. So I paid my respects in my own quiet way, and left.
So yeah, from now on my birthday will have an ominous tinge to it. But every September 11th, as I celebrate another year of life, I can join the rest of us in remembering and honoring those whose right to enjoy the same was taken away so suddenly.
The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, but wiser people so full of doubts.
- Bertrand Russell
For every complex question, there’s a simple answer. And it’s wrong.
- H. L. Mencken
