Just Another Day Until...

Wednesday, September 11, 2013:

 It was a day that changed everything… absolutely everything…. I made no journal entry about it ‘til the next day. It was a day off from cab driving but I did rise early. I had been writing in my journal at 06:29… the usual self-obsessed drivel about romance, heartbreak, and desire…. Then it happened. I turned on the TV for the local morning news and weather…. Images of people stunned played out on the screen after the first tower had been hit. There were shots from handheld cameras by an amateur who caught it spliced in with news folks on the scene already… Hell, it was New York on a Tuesday morning! There was talk… it was an accident? My heart asked, Was it possibly a terrorist attack? I feared it was right away but then: What? Who? Why?…. I flashed on the previous attack a few years before... "the Blind Sheikh". Then the second tower was hit! My heart then knew… there was no doubt... no thought it could be otherwise… it couldn’t be… then the images we all know played out before the nation’s eyes.

            Stunned… like millions of others, I went to the Red Cross to give blood. That night I made my way to the Court House with my candle joining hundreds of other. It was too soon for anger… there was only grief. The podium was occupied by the usual “community organizer” types. It wasn’t long before one of them began bemoaning how American capitalism brought on itself this disaster by exploiting the peoples of the world. The ache in my heart only increased at political opportunists taking advantage of my grief… it took it personal! Dammit, give me time to weep! Give me time to sort out my feelings before I explode! I snuffed my candle and went back home.

            The next night of cab driving I was out hauling the usual party crowd… to the club and bar. They were still out there but all of my passengers were very quiet, polite… even respectful… none of the usual noise. They weren’t out to party as much as they were out to be around friends. Santa Barbara had been, as it still is, a place where huge parties at houses in the hills with hundreds of the young set calling several cabs were the norm… but from that night on for several months these big bashes ceased. Small house parties with intimate friends seemed to be the new trend for a while.

            That night I took three men home: an Iranian and two South Americans. The Iranian made it a point to apologize for the attack… he felt he had to personally make amends for his people to an American. He told me that we are all Americans in our sorrow this day. His pals agreed. His tone was humble and I could tell he was sincere. We felt in our hearts a kinship that I will never forget: the fellowship of the grieving.

           

            I recall that week as one that was a particularly sweet one. My customers were kind… people were solemn… respectful… decent beyond anything I can recall in my cab before or since. We all looked inward for a spell… for a spell before the conspiracy theories and battle cries went out. I would that the emotions of the week after the horror of that attack would be felt at the atrocities that are perpetuated by the spiritually wounded of the world… those infected with the self-assurance that our cause is right and everyone else can go to hell. I would that we could all change into the spirit of forgiveness and atonement expressed by that young Iranian from the dark of the backseat of my cab that night… hearts made tender by the unimaginable…

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