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September 11, 2004
Tangible, Crumbling
I save things. In my adulthood (all of those six or so years), I’ve worked hard to curb the habit, primarily because it is not conducive to the living space of a New York City apartment…and with a little fear of crazy hoarder person mixed in. I knew a hoarder once, but that is a slightly grosser story for another time.
As a child, I would sit with my mother and sift through her and my late grandmother’s news clippings—the New York Times from Kennedy’s assassination, several Life Magazines, a Newsday from the Challenger explosion. The newspapers awed me. Yellowed, scented of musty ink, these papers held a history that was tangible. They had existed nearly immediately after the incidents had occurred. By touching them, smelling them, I was interacting with the past in a way that could never be replicated by mimeographs, photocopies, or the internet.
On September 12, bereft of television or clear radio reception, I set out onto York Street in search of a paper. A marauding band of Upper East Side New York Times seekers nearly knocked me out in a fight for the last newsstand copy. I won. Inside my small apartment was a growing pile of New York Times, Daily News, and New York Posts. I couldn’t bring myself to read any of them, but something inside me drove their purchase; I would literally wait for the delivery trucks to arrive each morning, folding the newspapers carefully under my arm as I scurried home, then stacking them on the kitchen table.
Three weeks later, I moved. I folded the papers—the tabloids in half, broadsheets in thirds, and placed them in a Campers shoebox. I intended to put them in a scrapbook, however as time passed the box became more of a permanent home. They were joined by whole papers from the six-month, first, and second anniversary, as well as clippings from various early anti-war protests, our declaration of war with Iraq, the original September 11 issue of the New Yorker (published before 9/11) and the Spiegleman’s 9/11 cover. When I opened the lid last week to add RNC reports and The Republicans section of the New York Times, I discovered that the box was completely full. I put it back under the bed and left the newer clippings on the kitchen table.
I woke on Friday to a pain in my chest so intense that at first I thought there was something wrong with my heart. Swinging my feet onto the floor and sitting up, I realized that I could not breathe. I was having a panic attack.
I found myself on my hands and knees, pulling out the small Campers box. I lifted the newspapers out, unfolding each. Shaking, I almost heard myself cry out Oh god, they’re ripping and crumbling. After two years and three hundred and sixty-three days, my tangible memories—the tabloids and broadpages-- were falling apart at their double and tri-folds. I sat on the floor sobbing and feeling ridiculous—crying over musty, yellowed paper.
Those tangible memories, those inked evidence of occurrence, once so permanent, so real—they were crumbling beneath the pressure of my hands. I paused, smoothing them with my thumbs, gently rubbing them like a child with a security blanket. Perhaps these newspapers weren’t as everlasting as the evolving memory, those visceral images burned into my psyche, eternal, yet changing as I’ve moved throughout time, hurting, healing. .
Taking a deep breath, I laid each out on the bed, this time stacking them properly, without folding. I stood up, staring at the pile, calmed. Wrapping them neatly in small, flat piles, I slid each under my mattress. Then I put on my running clothes and took off into the morning darkness of Brooklyn.
I promised myself that I would not write a September 11 post, but here I am. This year’s anniversary has hit me much harder than the previous two. For some reason, distance has brought me heightened pain. Perhaps, when memories are no longer with you at every breath, their resurgence hurts even more.
As I was sobbing and photographing my newspapers, both cats sat nervously in the bedroom doorway. At one point, as Irving sat on my lap and licked my face with his post-ass-cleaning tongue, Olive climbed into the Campers box. If you ever wonder why I am a crazy cat lady, take into consideration my above piece…then look at these pictures. Sometimes they just know exactly what to do.
Posted by callalillie at September 11, 2004 2:03 AM | Introspect
, September 11th
that's awful about the papers, but short of laminating every single page what else can you do?
that first pic of olive is totally awesome. she's all eyes!
Posted by: ChrisG at September 11, 2004 12:42 PM
Yeah, I think the aging papers were more of an outlet for emotions than anything else. I think you can get those plastic preservers for old newspapers, though. I should probably look into that.
Olive is very bug eyed. It's cute, but I hope she grows into them. If she doesn't, I'll just have something else to make fun of her for.
Posted by: corie at September 11, 2004 12:46 PM
don't really know what to say here. I want to give you some consoling words, but I don't know if I have them, or if I would even beleive them. With memory, there is never enough stuff.
I have been trying so hard to rebuild my dad in his things. I ransacked his house and took the most obscure of objects: colored pencils, three pronged ruler, a bottle of aftershave, rolled coins, his breifcase, random photos, book ends -- it's not enough. I can look at him, smell him, handle the things that he did with finesse, but it is not him. That time has passed.
I do believe that sentiment grows stronger with age. The more distant the past, the nicer and better it seems, or worse depending on your perspective.
Corie, keep what makes you happy and dump what makes you sad. It's not like you are going to forget and you likely won't miss it. Losing what hurts no matter how far behind doesn't make you less you or weak. I believe it makes you stonger.
Easier said then done though. I keep the aftershave on the coffee table, right next to Rufort's urn. I am not ready to forget that I have them.
Posted by: Jason at September 11, 2004 4:53 PM
Thanks for your words, Jay, they're beautiul.
Posted by: corie at September 12, 2004 9:57 AM
I got through the weekend by absolutely ignoring the fact it was Sept. 11th. Then on the walk to the train this morning there was a military funeral taking place at the cathedral near the train station. Don't even know who it was, but I just started crying.
Posted by: Cynthia at September 13, 2004 4:38 PM
This 9-11 was the most tension free one I ever had since 9-11-2001. Very calm and peaceful and actually enjoyed the day.
People deal with grief differently, but honestly I think that at some point you need to move on. As hard as that might be and as difficult as that might seem. At this point, grief will only hurt you more.
I think if you can take any message from those newspapers crumbling is that not many things last in this world. And sometimes things are of the moment. 9-11-2001 was of that moment. The tragic shockwaves of that horrible day lasted for weeks and months and years. But like any shockwave that dissipates, the grief lessens and you learn to move on.
Crumbling newspapers are normal. Newspapers are not meant to last. And that's not a bad thing. It simply means time marches on, and new things--good and bad--happen.
Life goes on. And I hope you can appreciate that your cute cat carelessly frolicing around is a message that sometimes you just need to let go of the things that push you down.
Hope next 9-11 is less tense for you and anyone else you know.
Posted by: Dazzle2112 at September 14, 2004 12:55 PM
