After the Attacks: A 9/11 Memorial

On September 12, 2001 I sat with the other doctors in my office and waited for my first patient’s chart. The Twin Towers had stood across the street from my family home of 15 years, when we were the first inhabitants in New York’s new neighborhood of Battery Park City. We entered those towers everyday by walking through the lobby of the Vista Hotel, and past the CNN broadcast station. They housed the subway station and the Path Trains, our gateway to the rest of the world. After I had announced my first pregnancy, my parents hung up the phone, walked across the street, and celebrated in Windows on the World. It had been years since I lived in New York. But, I felt skinned and gutted, as if I were right there for the attack on my neighborhood, the corner of Liberty and West Streets.

I waited restlessly for that chart, begging for the distraction of my young patients’ problems. I saw that Ahmed Hasan was on my list of appointments. His mother and aunt brought their children to La Clinica Para Los Ninos, the pediatric practice where I worked. It sits in an impoverished neighborhood and serves a mostly Mexican immigrant population. I had treated this Palestinian Muslim family occasionally over the years. In our small southwestern city, less than 2% are Jewish, so it isn’t surprising that I am the only Jewish person working in this clinic. The number of Arabs in our town is even smaller, and Palestinians smaller still. The night before, I had heard reports that Palestinians had cheered the news of the attack on “my neighborhood” and the death of thousands. I remembered that one of the Hasan babies had been given the name of a famous terrorist. I was in no mood to contend with such people. Years ago in an ER, I had once treated a child whose father sat next to her with a swastika tattooed on his cheek. This felt worse.

When it was their turn, I steeled myself, picked up the chart, and entered the exam room. Ahmed’s mother, an attractive young woman in her 20’s sat across from me dressed in jeans and a casual sweater, her hair held back in barrettes. She looked like any American mom. As she explained the history of his rash in her heavy Arabic accent, I tuned out the world around us and focused on this simple problem. As the visit was ending, my doctoring done, I could not leave well enough alone.

I asked Mrs. Hasan if she had family in New York City. “A cousin,” she replied. I told her my sister had seen the planes crash, and I used to live in that neighborhood. Then she pounded her fists on her thighs and started to chant, “It’s too much. It’s too much.” Tears and mascara streamed down her face. Riding my stool on wheels, I slid toward her. We put our arms around each other and sobbed. Again the world outside slipped away.

When we composed ourselves she asked me the dreaded question I had heard so many times. “What are you?” “I’m Jewish.” She countered with incredulity, “I know you are, but you are so nice to me and my family.” Her sister-in-law, Rahima, older, and always in a head covering had warned her about me, “She’s a Jew.” “I didn’t believe Rahima because you are so nice to us. But then I knew it was true because of the way you say my son’s name. My brother is also named Ahmed. In Jerusalem his boss was Jewish. You say it the same.” I had lived in Israel 15 years before and speak Hebrew fluently. Apparently, I pronouce the name with an Israeli accent. I was flabbergasted by her disclosure of angst about me. “How is Ahmed, your brother?” I managed. “Things are very bad there and he is in jail. His family has no money for food.”

A week after the attacks I gathered for the Jewish New Year at my synagogue, in search of spiritual relief from the anxiety and chaos. The familiar rhythms of the chants and the swaying men in prayer shawls transported me back to my childhood in New York. The Rabbi reminded us to “Never Forget!” the tortured death of our own Martyrs, the Inquisition, Pogroms, Holocaust, and murders by the PLO. Now, 30 years later and 2000 miles away, in response to our national suffering, a different Rabbi spoke again of “them” and what had been done to “us”. I thought of Mrs. Hasan crying, “It’s too much!” and of my speech tinged with the accent of her oppressors. For me, the line distinguishing “them” from “us” was already evaporating.

In the years since, I have made more room for ambivalence. When Israel invaded Gaza in 2008, I understood the reason. Yet, it was no balm to my distress. As I read about the conflict daily, I came upon a photo on the New York Times website. A little Palestinian girl who perished was half buried by debris, with only her arm and part of her head visible. She wore a red sweater and I thought immediately of Schindler’s List, and the little Jewish girl who perishes in her red sweater.

Every anniversary of our nation’s tragedy, I revisit the images of the Twin Towers, the beacon of my old neighborhood. I see the sun glint off the sleek edges of steel, the myriad windows, and the souls inside. They stand, first majestic and whole, then burning. They collapse and are gone. We are left to navigate our way in the wake. How long will we indulge the simple truth of our pain before we rise above the ashes and embrace a more complex reality?

Victims often become perpetrators. On September 12, 2001, I saw that it is possible to acknowledge our own suffering and simultaneously recognize our role in the victimization of others. Nine years later, America appears even more bigoted and tribal than during the immediate aftermath of the attacks. We’ve become a country that protests mosques and cultural centers. A church in Florida has planned a Koran-burning event.

On September 11^th we were injured as a nation. Our collective healing can only happen when individuals choose to let go of the anger and fear, vestiges of the attack. Let us transcend our baser emotions, act with moral purpose, and recover as a nation. Let our humanity be the monument of our remembrance.

Snake Rehab

Last night I woke up on the sofa. My cheek was stuck to the leather, the TV was blaring and my snake was gone. I did a quick scan of the room. In the light of the fish tank I was relieved to see that my cats were not here. There was no sign of a fight, no blood, no fur. I checked the time. An hour had passed. Even a mellow ball python could go far in 60 minutes.

When we got Babe, he was a newborn, just several inches long. I’d been reading books about baseball players with my kids. We’d just finished a book about Babe Ruth when we picked out our python at the pet shop. Alan, the reptile guru, probed his cloaca and pronounced him a male. Babe’s got a beautiful pattern on his smooth leathery hide. He’s just what a natural Ball looks like, the kind that slither around the African wilds. He is light brown and gray with with dark brown designs that look like the shapes inside a lava lamp. His belly is cream colored and turns a light pink right before he sheds. Babe is docile and friendly, as long as his head isn’t touched. In that situation he recoils and then tries to hide himself by curling up into a tight ball. He’s a sweetie.

When we got him he was so little he ate tiny baby rats. I’d drop the little mammal into a shoe box and then put Babe in. He didn’t like to strike when I was watching. So I’d close the lid. A few seconds later I’d hear him scuttle against the cardboard, and then a peep from the rat as Babe would squeeze around him. A couple of hours later I’d open the box and Babe would be nestled in a corner with a little bulge in his mid section. I’d feed him weekly. He was shedding and growing. By day he’d rest in a ball under his green plastic “hide”. At night, before I went to bed I’d watch him in the glow of the red heat lamp as he would “stand up” lengthwise and try to escape his tank.

When he got older and bigger I had to switch to frozen prey because rats can attack and blind a snake. Babe went on a hunger strike. I tried to switch back to live prey, but there was a shortage of supply in our community. Babe would have to adjust. Unfortunately, he didn’t. I kept finding those rats still in the feeding box the next morning. I felt bad throwing them away because it meant they’d died in vain. I tried a live mouse, and he ignored it. I read on the internet that ball pythons will sometimes go into a type of hibernation during the winter and stop eating. But Babe continued his abstinence into spring, then summer. I was worried.

The vet pointed out that Babe’s spine had become prominent. He’d lost muscle mass. I felt guilty that he was wasting away under my care. Danny, the vet, gave me a plan to stimulate Babe and his appetite. I had to soak him in warm water, everyday, to bring him out of hibernation. After a week, I was to try feeding him a live fuzzy - a tiny baby mouse, named for his burgeoning fuzzy fur. I was skeptical, but willing.

I took Babe’s rehab very seriously. Every evening I filled the bathroom sink with warm water and put Babe in. He loved it and would just relax down there, his head submerged. He’d seal off each nostril with a single tiny air bubble. After about 15 minutes of stroking and studying his hide, I carefully lifted my starving snake out of the sink and patted him dry with a hand towel. Then I’d untuck my shirt, put him against my warm belly, and tuck my shirt back in to secure him. Even after his warm bath, he still felt cool against my skin. Like a pregnant mother, I’d put my hand on my protuberance as I walked. I brought him to the den, and we’d sit together while I watched TV for an hour. He’d just snuggle there, while I let my body warm his cold blood.

At the end of the week I brought home a fuzzy for Babe. That night, when he was good and alert, I gave him his bath. I was too nervous to snuggle, so I went straight for the meal. I put Babe and his fuzzy in a clear plastic feeding box and then placed the box in his tank under the heat lamp. Babe was over 3 feet by now, and despite his emaciation, the fuzzy looked ridiculously small for him. In deference to Babe’s private eating preferences, I turned out the light and closed the door behind me. An hour later I checked back. The two of them were still there, minding their own business.

The next morning the fuzzy was gone! Babe was curled up resting in his box. I lifted him out and placed him back in his tank under his heat lamp. He slithered into his hide and disappeared. I couldn’t wait to try something a little bigger next week. Danny cautioned me to go slowly. So, despite my impatience, I kept Babe on fuzzies for a month.

Babe’s been doing great and doesn’t need his baths anymore. He eats a full grown mouse a week. He’s shed twice and has beefed up a bit. When I got ready to feed him yesterday, I decided to give him a bath, just for fun. I patted Babe dry and secured him against my belly. I brought him down to the den to watch some TV. I laid myself on the sofa and gently rearranged him, still warming him against my belly. Babe slithered his head out and brought his proximal third around my arm. We stretched out together and snuggled. I drifted off, intertwined with my cold blooded buddy.

When I awoke and saw Babe was gone, I nearly panicked. If my cats didn’t get him, he might survive to escape and be gone forever. I checked under the sofa, behind the club chair, behind the TV and the fish tank. I crawled around the den on hands and knees with my head at snake eye level. Nothing. Frantically, I pulled the pillows off the sofa, then the cushions. There he was, wedged into a crevice in the sofa frame, camouflaged against the brown leather. Relieved, I tried to retrieve him. He stiffened and wouldn’t yield. “Come on, Babe,” I begged. Then he softened and let me lift him. I carried him upstairs to his tank. I put him in the feeding box with his very cute, waiting meal. I closed the lid, closed the tank, and placed the heat lamp over the box. “Go for it, Babe,” I wished. Standing at the light switch, I turned to look once more. Right before my eyes, looking healthy and snaky, he struck at the mouse. In a flash he grabbed it and coiled himself around it. It peeped. Satisfied and proud, I turned out the light, shut the door behind me, and went down to the den to reassemble the sofa.

Driving Through Freeport

I have never wanted to be Mel Gibson until now. Whoopi says he is not a racist. God, I wish that were me. It’s too late for me to ever be that pure. I grew up just after Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated, in one of the most racially segregated parts of the country. Nobody talked about racism in Merrick, New York. We just were.

Of course, I was a child, busy with child-like things. I never thought much about the dark-skinned people who lived just over the hill, in Freeport. My people weren’t too concerned with them either. We were worried about ourselves – Jews in an Anti-Semitic world. As far as I knew, the larger political issues that affected my folks were reckoning with the Holocaust, the ongoing wars to destroy Israel, and the feeling that we were outsiders in our own country.

It never occurred to me to question why my town was all “White” and just footsteps away, over that hill, everyone was “Black”. We only went there to buy new shoes. I had get a special type of shoe that could be found at Stride-Rite stores. The nearest one was over that hill, in Freeport. My mom was a new and nervous driver. There was no way she was taking us farther than necessary.

It was almost a straight shot from our home into Freeport. My mom kept both hands on the steering wheel of our maroon Buick Le Sabre, at precisely 10 and 2 o’clock. With her posture a little too upright and eyes focused ahead, she brought us down Merrick Road toward that hill. We passed the familiar landmarks of my childhood: the duck pond, my school, McDonald’s, and Reggie’s Nursery. On warm days, my sister and I put the windows down and let the wind blow through our hair. On the left, a flock of seagulls were visible circling the sky over the growing garbage dump, which still remained hidden behind the trees. Just ahead, the hill took up the whole of our windshield.

Physically, it is not a big hill, but it does obliterate the view on both sides. Just past the on ramp to Meadow Brook Parkway and the rest of the world, the car engine revved to overcome the grade and the power locks clicked down securely. “Close your windows.” Did I ever ask why?

We would descend into Freeport where everything seemed different.

Right away we were in a commercial area of shops that could have been Anywhere, USA. Strangely though, I could see mostly “Black” people walking about. They all seemed busy on the way to places. They were dressed plainly, just as my mom, my sister and I were. I would stare at the occasional “White” person, wondering, “what are you doing here?” They didn’t look lost, and they didn’t look afraid. It was all a mystery. I was a foreigner here. I was filled with fear and moved about cautiously, wondering if anyone would turn on us as we tried to make our way into the shop.

The shop was run by “White” people and all the customers I ever saw were white. There were never any incidents. We locked our car doors and kept the windows up until we were over the hill and safely back in Merrick. Mostly, I was excited about my new shoes. I think I did once ask my mom why Freeport was dangerous. I got some vague answer about “Black people being angry at White people.”

My first whiff of my own racism occurred when I was 17. I was working at my dad’s accounting office for the summer. The son of an employee, an African American woman, came in to visit his mom over lunch. He was tall and very well dressed, probably coming from his own summer job. It was our first meeting, in fact, I’d never known of his existence. I discovered we were both entering college that fall. I asked him where, and he told me “Princeton.” I was horrified by my own shock.

What does it mean to say that we are not racist? Surely, a white person who grew up on Long Island in the 60’s and 70’s could not escape it. White kids in segregated towns like mine were steeped in it, we just didn’t know. My town and others like it did not stay “white” by accident. There were concerted political and cultural efforts aimed at sabotaging the Civil Rights advancements of the era, and undermining the quality of life of African Americans. There was rage in Freeport and race riots in the high school while I lived over the hill. It happened in many Long Island towns. Perhaps that’s why my mom locked the doors. I recently met someone White, who grew up in Freeport, while I was living in Merrick. I envied her exposure to Black culture and an integrated environment. She told me those years were horrible. The racial tension was frightening, the violence scared her and she never felt safe in high school. Racism creates a ripple that affects and contaminates us all.

I’ve read some of the history of Long Island and it turned me pale. In the earlier days there were cross burnings and parades by the Klan. During my childhood it was very ugly harassment, financial strategies, hiring policies, and block-busting to maintain segregation and thwart civil rights for Blacks. There was a call for gradualism, the concept of slowly giving Black people rights. Norman Lent, the ever-present Republican State Senator, championed a movement to keep schools in Malverne segregated. He won. During my lifetime, in the “liberal North” a law was passed blocking integration. It was later overturned by the Supreme Court as “unconstitutional”.

Gradualism achieved the goals of its proponents, because, today so many years later, Nassau County is the most racially segregated place in the nation. Whether the people of Merrick and other white towns today are aware or not, the searing wounds of racism there are profound and continue to fester and contaminate in a ripple effect.

When I left Merrick in 1982, the world opened up to me. Most people stay among people like themselves. That hasn’t been my way. I’ve sought out difference and diversity. I got a degree in anthropology, traveled, and learned other languages. I’ve worked most of my professional years in two communities using languages other than English. I live in a place that is, in many ways, the antithesis of the Long Island town where I grew up. Frankly, I do this because it makes my life richer. There is so much humor and wisdom and grace out there. Often, I cross paths with people from cultures that have been traumatized by society or the powers that be. They don’t trust others easily and usually have no interest in me. I try not to take it personally. Occasionally, a curious soul with an open and patient heart is willing to connect on a deeper level. I relish the privilege and though I try to tread lightly, I often feel I am stumbling about awkwardly making all kinds of cultural faux pas.

That shock in my dad’s office humbled me. It was many years ago and I am still a product of my upbringing. I know undoing my own racism will take longer than my lifetime. When I was in medical school I had the great fortune of making a friend for life. She loves me and accepts me for who I am and lets me ask her any ignorant question. I’ve learned so much about how, she, as an African American woman experiences the very same society in a very different way. A few years ago she moved with her husband and two children to Freeport, Long Island. Even though I now live 2000 miles away, I went to visit her. For me, it was an historic trip, across a racist chasm that spanned years. I came from the Merrick side with my own freckle-faced kids in the car. I drove west on Merrick Road, past Mc Donald’s. As the hill came into view, I unlocked the doors and rolled down all the windows. We coasted down into Freeport grinning towards the setting sun, the sky full of color, and the wind blowing our hair into a mess.

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