A REMINDER – by William Fredrick Cooper
Written September 25, 2001
I want to reveal to all that yesterday my legal travels took me downtown, to Wall Street, about three blocks from the fallen towers. Walking from Manhattan's Supreme Court, I noticed the Blimpie's on Park Row where my breakfast was interrupted was covered with dirt and debris. Went in Bondy's Record Store next door to inquire about the new Michael Jackson single ‘You Rock My World’ , and despondency was all over the owners' face. After sharing a look that revealed his lack of business, all my lips could say is “Hang In There, man." Hopefully, he found solace in my words of compassion.
Gotta Keep Moving, I said.
While walking down Broadway in the rain, the sight of barren, soot-adorned stores were shell-shocking. One store that stood out in memory was a Modell's by John Street. The windows were blasted out and the items on display were a filthy gray, covered by ruins from the collapse. Fulton and Cortland Streets as well as Maiden Lane provide a clear view of the wreckage. Have you ever seen one of those old movies where troops invade a city gutted by the ravages of war? How about TIME or LIFE Magazine pictures of captured cities? That's what Church Street looks like.
People are walking the streets with surgical masks. You wanna know why? The awful stench of death and fire is so nauseatingly unforgettable. Gazing incredulously, people were either taking pictures with camcorders or vomiting in the streets. That there was no medium between the extremes was stupefying. Viewing the fenced-off damage from across Broadway, I felt over 3,000 bodies calling out to me, begging for a single breath of life. Anger surged through me as I wondered the whereabouts of the mastermind who created this catastrophe. Don't let me find him: I'LL RIP HIS HEART OUT THE WAY HE DID TO THOSE GRIEVING FAMILIES HOPING FOR MIRACLES.
They're still digging; the fireman and search groups, that is. A week and a half later, they're still praying to find at least one survivor amongst the rubble. To date, there have only been FIVE. FIVE. FIVE!!!!! Hoping against the inevitable, all the families of the missing want is closure, one of New York's Bravest told me. They can't even find that. I heard a sobering illustration from a police officer. Bodies of the leapers didn't hit the ground flat, they exploded on impact. Between that tragic out and the thousands crushed and burned beyond recognition, dental records and DNA tests (Records, I don't know.) are necessary to match body parts. BODY PARTS. After conducting my business, I went to a lounge area in a nearby skyscraper and sat for an hour, trying to make sense of it all. All I kept thinking is: These people didn't ask to die. Neither will the innocent people abroad, or the young lives we’re about to lose fighting for a country still squabbling internally.
This week, I have to say goodbye to Frederick Curry's wife. A week and a half later, I found out the love of this family friend's life was a telemarketer at Cantor Fitzgerald in 2 WTC. He's a strong man, to have gone this long without closure. Now, he must move on.
So will the family of Brian Bilcher, a high school friend turned firefighter. Serving as a bodyguard for my 4'11" runt ass at Susan Wagner High, I see in his later years that his protective status never changed. He was one of the 300 missing firemen. I didn't think his selflessness would end up costing him his life.
Right around the corner from my job, on 47th Street and 8th Avenue, is a fire station adorned by candles, flowers and pictures. Nine families were gutted by the loss of their fathers or husbands. Tears fill my eyes as I write this, but my heart tells me I Gotta Keep Moving on, even if I can't escape the pain.
While it's refreshing to see all this racial unity in the midst of horrific turbulence, in the back of my mind I wonder what will happen after the fighting stops. If there is an America left, how will it be before Black and White finally stand together on even ground? I'm being optimistic here. Don't depress me with the answer to that. Will I continue to be disrespected by foreigners (who have ingested slanted opinions of our people from the media that’s fed to them before their arrival to the land of the…ahem…free?) who refuse to put my change in my hands at newsstand after a purchase? Will women continue to clutch their purses when I enter the elevator of a corporate building despite seeing me dressed in professional attire? It happened today, again. If I'm in jeans trotting down Madison or Fifth Avenue, will I still be considered guilty of wrongdoing, before proven innocent? Will I be able to get a damn cab when in a hurry? Will the Dred Scott ruling still be subtly enforced even though many of my own will have shed blood because of your wars?
I wish I were home, where my ancestors roam.
Written September 25, 2001
I want to reveal to all that yesterday my legal travels took me downtown, to Wall Street, about three blocks from the fallen towers. Walking from Manhattan's Supreme Court, I noticed the Blimpie's on Park Row where my breakfast was interrupted was covered with dirt and debris. Went in Bondy's Record Store next door to inquire about the new Michael Jackson single ‘You Rock My World’ , and despondency was all over the owners' face. After sharing a look that revealed his lack of business, all my lips could say is “Hang In There, man." Hopefully, he found solace in my words of compassion.
Gotta Keep Moving, I said.
While walking down Broadway in the rain, the sight of barren, soot-adorned stores were shell-shocking. One store that stood out in memory was a Modell's by John Street. The windows were blasted out and the items on display were a filthy gray, covered by ruins from the collapse. Fulton and Cortland Streets as well as Maiden Lane provide a clear view of the wreckage. Have you ever seen one of those old movies where troops invade a city gutted by the ravages of war? How about TIME or LIFE Magazine pictures of captured cities? That's what Church Street looks like.
People are walking the streets with surgical masks. You wanna know why? The awful stench of death and fire is so nauseatingly unforgettable. Gazing incredulously, people were either taking pictures with camcorders or vomiting in the streets. That there was no medium between the extremes was stupefying. Viewing the fenced-off damage from across Broadway, I felt over 3,000 bodies calling out to me, begging for a single breath of life. Anger surged through me as I wondered the whereabouts of the mastermind who created this catastrophe. Don't let me find him: I'LL RIP HIS HEART OUT THE WAY HE DID TO THOSE GRIEVING FAMILIES HOPING FOR MIRACLES.
They're still digging; the fireman and search groups, that is. A week and a half later, they're still praying to find at least one survivor amongst the rubble. To date, there have only been FIVE. FIVE. FIVE!!!!! Hoping against the inevitable, all the families of the missing want is closure, one of New York's Bravest told me. They can't even find that. I heard a sobering illustration from a police officer. Bodies of the leapers didn't hit the ground flat, they exploded on impact. Between that tragic out and the thousands crushed and burned beyond recognition, dental records and DNA tests (Records, I don't know.) are necessary to match body parts. BODY PARTS. After conducting my business, I went to a lounge area in a nearby skyscraper and sat for an hour, trying to make sense of it all. All I kept thinking is: These people didn't ask to die. Neither will the innocent people abroad, or the young lives we’re about to lose fighting for a country still squabbling internally.
This week, I have to say goodbye to Frederick Curry's wife. A week and a half later, I found out the love of this family friend's life was a telemarketer at Cantor Fitzgerald in 2 WTC. He's a strong man, to have gone this long without closure. Now, he must move on.
So will the family of Brian Bilcher, a high school friend turned firefighter. Serving as a bodyguard for my 4'11" runt ass at Susan Wagner High, I see in his later years that his protective status never changed. He was one of the 300 missing firemen. I didn't think his selflessness would end up costing him his life.
Right around the corner from my job, on 47th Street and 8th Avenue, is a fire station adorned by candles, flowers and pictures. Nine families were gutted by the loss of their fathers or husbands. Tears fill my eyes as I write this, but my heart tells me I Gotta Keep Moving on, even if I can't escape the pain.
While it's refreshing to see all this racial unity in the midst of horrific turbulence, in the back of my mind I wonder what will happen after the fighting stops. If there is an America left, how will it be before Black and White finally stand together on even ground? I'm being optimistic here. Don't depress me with the answer to that. Will I continue to be disrespected by foreigners (who have ingested slanted opinions of our people from the media that’s fed to them before their arrival to the land of the…ahem…free?) who refuse to put my change in my hands at newsstand after a purchase? Will women continue to clutch their purses when I enter the elevator of a corporate building despite seeing me dressed in professional attire? It happened today, again. If I'm in jeans trotting down Madison or Fifth Avenue, will I still be considered guilty of wrongdoing, before proven innocent? Will I be able to get a damn cab when in a hurry? Will the Dred Scott ruling still be subtly enforced even though many of my own will have shed blood because of your wars?
I wish I were home, where my ancestors roam.
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