In Remembrance

Today I'm wearing my little American flag pin (and a matching belly button ring, but I digress...). Not because I'm particularly patriotic, but because a friend gave it to me not long after 9/11 and I've worn it every year since.

It's not that I need a reminder, because I still remember that day, and those that followed it, very vividly. I remember getting into my truck on my way to a class that I was taking and punching the radio station presets looking for music. I changed stations as I drove, quickly at first, then more slowly, going from being annoyed to puzzled to horrified to blocking traffic. And then the second tower fell, and I pulled onto a side street and called my then-husband. "Is this real?" I asked, changing stations quickly once again in the hopes that someone might say it wasn't.

I remember parking in the mud and walking to class, certain that it would be canceled. Surely the whole world must be stopping... But not here, and I sat through class making a list of all of the people that I wanted to track down from wherever I had lost touch with them. At the end of class one of the other students was talking about a relative that he'd managed to contact, and the horror of what he'd been told. The girl sitting behind me had no idea what he was talking about, and I had to explain to her that the world had changed forever while she was putting on her makeup.

I remember sending emails and making calls, then waiting to see if they'd let me give blood (still didn't weigh enough). A man kept persistently asking if his blood would go to New York, as if the people here who might need it weren't deserving enough. The nurse patiently explained, repeatedly, that she could not personally put his blood on a plane and send it to New York because there were no planes flying at the moment, but she would put it to good use somewhere.

In the days that followed, I spent a lot of time online, talked to my high school boyfriend, and helped pack trucks of supplies that went to New York. I remember thinking how quiet it was in Memphis (home of FedEx) when planes didn't fly, and how inexplicably emotional it was, standing in line to get into my favorite bar, to watch a plane fly low overhead with a deafening roar. And I remember the punch-to-the-gut-like-feeling when I found out that I had lost a college classmate.

Bob wasn't someone that I knew very well, but I had met him at summer-before-freshman -year "getting-to-know-you" events because we both lived in the Philly 'burbs. He was someone I remembered instantly by both name and face (and I'm notoriously bad at not being able to put faces with names), someone I remembered as being quiet and friendly and maybe just as slightly overwhelmed as I was.

I went to New York with a firefighter friend that December, the first time for both of us. We stayed away from downtown by unspoken agreement. It was over a year later before I went to Ground Zero, walked along the fences, looked for Bob's name and others that I remembered hearing or reading. I tried to figure out where I had once bought tickets at TKTS or emerged from the PATH train trying to look like I knew where I was going. I wished that I'd given in to the temptation to stop and stare upward and be awestruck instead of worrying so much that someone might think that I was lost.

Back in Philly last November, I decided to do just that: to stop and stare and openly read my tourist map to find things I'd never seen in the city that I claim as home (though after yesterday I'm fixin' to disown the football team). I found my way to the new Constitution Center and, after a long afternoon touring the permanent exhibits, to 9/11: A Nation Remembers. A hundred photographs by Jonathan Hyman depicted memorials of every shape, size, and material: from honorary street signs to custom Harleys. In his photos, colorful murals covered walls and elaborate tattoos covered bodies of friends and relatives. And in one photo, Bob's name and face surprised me with that punch-in-the-gut-feeling once again.

If I had read the caption before looking at the photo, had known that the mural it showed came from a wall in Philly, I would have been prepared, would have known what I was looking for, as I did that day at Ground Zero. Even walking through the exhibit that day, I'd hoped to see a name that I recognized, to make a connection. But somehow I wasn't at all prepared when it happened.

I was thinking about writing this post yesterday afternoon (if I did as much actual writing as I do thinking about writing, this blog wouldn't look nearly as neglected) when I got a text message from a friend. The gist of the message was "At some point in your life you see who really matters. Send this message to those people. I just did." And now I am, too.

The Un-Civil War

My mother sent me this humorous gem this morning, which promises to
"clearly explain" the difference between the North and the South.
Since I've become such an expert on the topic in the last seven years,
I figured I should add my two cents.

The North has Bloomingdale's, the South has Dollar General. Yes, but
smart people everywhere shop at Target.

The North has coffee houses, the South has Waffle Houses. And don't let
their bragging fool you, the only "best" thing about Waffle House coffee
is that it's hot and relatively fresh at 3 a.m.

The North has dating services, the South has family reunions. Couldn't
comment; I don't have any relatives in the South to date.

The North has switchblade knives; the South has Lee Press-on Nails. 
Which only goes to prove that Southern females are far more deadly that
than their male counterparts.

The North has double last names; the South has double first names. And
unfortunate hybrid offspring need extra space at the top of the page to
write their names.

The North has Indy car races; The South has stock car races. Not so sure
that this is true any more, given that NASCAR races in New Hampshire and
Michigan and you can't go too much further north than that.

North has Cream of Wheat, the South has grits. And neither one of them is
the least bit appetizing.

The North has green salads, the South has collard greens. One comes with
bacon bits, the other comes with bacon grease.

The North has lobsters, the South has crawfish. McDonald's has yet to offer
a Southern counterpart to the McLobster Roll I had in Massachusetts, but they
do sell sweet tea.

The North has the rust belt; the South has the Bible Belt. The South IS the
Bible Belt. And it gets tighter all the time.

The forwarded email also offered this advice "for northerners moving south":

In the South: If you run your car into a ditch, don't panic. Four men in a four-
wheel drive pickup truck with a tow chain will be along shortly. Don't try to help
them, just stay out of their way. This is what they live for. Unless, of course,
you run off the road in a snowstorm. You're out of luck then, because
everyone is at the grocery store.

Don't be surprised to find movie rentals and bait in the same store. Do not buy
food at this store. In general, it's a bad idea to buy food -- especially sushi --
at any store that sells bait.

Remember, "Y'all" is singular, "all y'all" is plural, and "all y'all's" is plural
possessive. Once you've mastered this, the rest is a piece of cake.

Get used to hearing "You ain't from round here, are ya?" And get used to the idea
that someday you'll be hearing yourself say it to someone, too.

Save all manner of bacon grease. You will be instructed later on how to use it.
See the explanation of green salads vs. collard greens.

Don't be worried at not understanding what people are saying. They can't
understand you either. The first Southern statement to creep into a transplanted
Northerner's vocabulary is the adjective "big'ol," truck or "big'ol" boy. Most
Northerners begin their Southern-influenced dialect this way. All of them are in
denial about it. I actually started with "y'all," followed by "fixin' to." And I
denied heartily until I went back up North and they couldn't understand me,
either.

The proper pronunciation you learned in school no longer applies. Especially if
you learned your proper pronunciation with a non-Southern accent. Re-
exposing yourself to your native tongue can be hazardous. Visiting my mom
and listening to Eagles games on 'YSP tends to bring out my Philly accent
loud and clear, but it's a temporary, and ultimately confusing, effect.

Be advised that "He needed killin'." is a valid defense here. No Twinkies or PMS
required. Although I personally will not need any of the above, because a jury
of my peers -- twelve girls who've dated my boyfriend -- would never convict.

If you hear a Southerner exclaim, "Hey, y'all watch this," you should stay out of
the way. These are likely to be the last words he'll ever say. Just duck and run.
Don't even look back.

If there is the prediction of the slightest chance of even the smallest accumulation
of snow, your presence is required at the local grocery store. It doesn't matter
whether you need anything or not. You just have to go there. And when you get
there, you will find that the shelves are completely barren of toilet paper,
white bread, and bottled water.

Do not be surprised to find that 10-year olds own their own shotguns, they are
proficient marksmen, and their mammas taught them how to aim. They also
have a complete wardrobe of camouflage and fluorescent orange. Camouflage
for girls comes in shades of pink, in case they need to disappear into a vat
of cotton candy.

In the South, we have found that the best way to grow a lush green lawn is to
pour gravel on it and call it a driveway. Maybe that's what my boyfriend
should do with his front yard. Planting grass seed in the dead of summer and
standing out in the 110-degree heat with a garden hose didn't seem to do it.

And remember, if you do settle in the South and bear children, don't think we will
accept them as Southerners. After all, if the cat had kittens in the oven, we
wouldn't call 'em biscuits. Even if their names are Joe-Bob and Lila-Sue.

Like all emails destined to become burdens on the bandwidth of our servers,
this message concluded with instructions: 

Send this to four people that ain't related to you, and I reckon your life will turn
into a country music song 'fore you know it.

My life already is a country music song. It's called T-R-O-U-B-L-E.