Tomorrow morning I'm supposed to go back to work. Last Friday I was told
the office would open on Tuesday. Today I got a call from one of the
managers telling me the office will open tomorrow and they were calling
everyone to see who could come in.
My regular hours are 8-4 Monday and Tuesday. The manager said I didn't
have to get there until around 9. Gee, thanks. I don't want to go. I
don't want to be on the subway during rush hour. Buses aren't going that
far south and cabs still can't get below Canal Street, so the subway is
the only option. I don't like being afraid like this and don't like that
we're all supposed to be willing to be on the front line, show "them"
how tough we are. I hate this. I told him I wasn't sure. I was mentally
prepared to go in Tuesday. Wasn't sure about Monday, and he didn't push
it, just said ok.
This morning I went to mass at the church on the corner, the big one
that's 150 years old with lots of yellow marble inside. Huge place and
yet very warm at the same time. I used to spend a lot of time there,
designing their bulletins and music programs (and getting paid decently
for it when I, like many others here in NY, didn't have a job in the
early 90s), helping with the baptisms, serving as a lector, singing for
a while in the huge parish community choir and thereby getting some very
cheap singing lessons in addition to the thrill of being among 100 or so
people who, together, were making swirly otherworldly sounds... so I
used to spend a lot of time there. And always with an awareness of the
Church's imperfections, always. And always with an attempt to see what's
good about such a community. Many times it wasn't easy or comfortable
and it was far from soothing.
I haven't been much in the last few years. The last time was at
Eastertime and then I was edgy about it, got there late, didn't
recognize many people anymore, didn't stay afterward to welcome the new
Catholics. Today I went to the 11:00 a.m. mass, the Solemn Mass, which
was never my favorite "style" of service; even on celebration days, it
felt pompously serious, and annoying because of that. Seemed
appropriate for today though. Probably close to 2,000 people can fit
into that church and it was packed this morning. It felt right to be
there, among so many stunned and saddened people, going through a ritual
together, trying to transcend the misery of this week.
I was way in the back. In the pew directly in front of me was a man and
a woman, and the woman was holding a red-haired boy, maybe 6-8 months
old, so that he could look over her shoulder. He stared at me
relentlessly, in that way only babies can, just staring without any
embarrassment. Staring staring staring. I looked away thinking he would
too. Nope, that didn't work. Still staring. I smiled a little bit. Then
he got shy and looked away and then looked back and stared some more. So
I stared at him too and we started smiling at each other, which felt so
good because I haven't done much of that since Tuesday, and then he
smiled enough to show his four little top teeth, and then a big grin and
sticking out his tongue like babies do, and, well, I didn't go that far
in our playing but I was tempted. Next thing would have been giggling
uncontrollably. Agents of healing sometimes come in the smallest and
most unexpected packages.
There's a time during every mass when two or three people from the
congregation take the wine and wafers from the back of the church to the
priest standing in front of the altar. Today eight firefighters from our
local house took the offering up the aisle, and when returning to their
seats people stood as they passed and started applauding. It was the
strangest sound, so loud, like a huge wave, and it lasted a very very
long time. There were no other sounds, no shouts, no talking, no moving
around sounds, just waves of applause. As heartfelt a thank you as I've
ever heard a crowd give. It's estimated now that 350 firefighters are
known or presumed dead. That's more men lost than in the entire history
of the fire department in this city.
There's a memorial service being planned by our last two mayors, Mayor
Koch and Mayor Dinkins. It's to be held next Sunday in Central Park and
a million people are expected to be there. I plan to be one of them.
People here have been unusually gentle with each other, speaking
quietly, moving rather slowly, lots of people still red-eyed. Taking our
time in the crowded little grocery store. Not being annoyed about much
because, really, some things aren't very important any more, not for now
anyway. Little things are shared. At the record store yesterday I was
looking for a cd someone had recommended and was in the way of the guy
looking through the Jimi Hendrix cds. He finally softly said "take your
time"; I told him what I was trying to find and we looked together.
So, tomorrow is another work day here in this big, bold, beaten up and
still beautiful city. Please, wish me luck. It's not a place to take
anything for granted anymore.
Debra Shea
