born at the wrong time?

When I was younger, I used to wish I had grown up in the 1960s instead of growing up in the 1970s. My brothers, 6 and 9 years older than me, turned me onto the Beatles and the Stones and, to some degree, the Who. My 2 female cousins, 9 and 11 years older, gave me hand-me-down tie-dye shirts and fringed leather belts and worn bell-bottom jeans adorned with patches of peace signs and rainbows. I had a black-light poster on my bedroom wall with the words "Make Love Not War" in the shape of a peace sign. I'm sure I didn't know the true meaning of that phrase; I just thought it meant people should be nice to each other and not go to war.

I was 7 or 8 years old and I wanted to be a hippie. My brothers and my cousins thought it was cute -- or maybe annoying -- but I was serious. Hippies listened to that cool music and wore those great clothes. If I were 10 years older I'd be a good hippie, I just knew it. I'd grow my hair long and iron it straight and wear a headband, maybe with a daisy tucked behind my ear. I'd sit in the middle of Central Park and recite poetry and smoke pot and go behind a bush and exercise my right to free love, and maybe I'd take a hit of acid and dance naked in the rain on the Great Lawn. I'd give a cop the peace sign just to piss him off. I'd go to rallies and yell things like "Stop police brutality!"

Yeah, those demonstrations. I wanted to be a part of that too, something bigger than myself. I wanted to be an activist, to make a difference, to protest against the war and racism and segregation, and fight for feminism and reproductive freedom, even though I really didn't know exactly what all those things were. I just knew people were speaking out against injustices, questioning the authority of our government. It would have been so cool to be right in the middle of that, maybe even get arrested.

As I got older I realized that although those demonstrations brought about great change that made things better for this country, it wasn't fun or cool. It was a fascinating and pivotal and important time, but it wasn't an easy ride. So many ideas borne out of love for this country and a yearning for peace and equality turned to anger and hate and escalated to all-out violence. Good intentions got twisted and the results were bullets and fire bombs. People died. This wasn't supposed to happen, this cruel irony of peace turning to violence.

We The People challenged the establishment out of what we believed was necessity. We risked dividing our country for what we thought would be a greater good. But it was a long time before the divisiveness was healed. Some of it still isn't. It's easy for me to say now, nearly 40 years later, that it was worth it, because even though I was alive, I didn't really live through it. I didn't experience it. And for a long time that made me sad.

Now I may get to experience some of the tumult I missed the first time around, and it's terrifying. We're becoming a nation divided. There is anger and fear and ignorance at every turn. It's been there, under the surface, maybe still from the '60s, maybe even from before that, but it's different now. This time it's being fueled, not stifled, by our government. And it's getting out of control.

There is a powerful man breeding ignorance and divisiveness, instilling fear in this nation -- fear that is unfounded, fear that he knows is unfounded -- in a desperate quest for even more power. Elected officials are riling crowds and creating a great divide that we are all sure to fall into if something doesn't change. They've condoned by their silence the ignorance and hatred and potentially explosive violence that could very well be the end result of these subtly sown seeds of fear. It seems to be gaining a life of its own, and only now is this powerful man making a weak attempt to ease his conscience and avoid the moral accountability if someone ends up dead because of it. Would that also be for the greater good?

It's hard to believe what I'm seeing and hearing. It's truly surreal. And truly frightening. Because as much as we would love to cling to the belief that "That couldn't happen again," it could, and it might. If it hasn't already. We're not as far removed from that divisiveness as we'd like to think.

Right now, the campaign itself is on the back burner for me. So is the fact that in 20 years I might retire to a nice double-wide cardboard box, covered in newspapers for warmth and eating ouf of a Dumpster. Because that's 20 years from now. Today is what worries me.

For a long time I was sad that I missed the radical '60s. But here I am. It's 2008. I am 42 years old. I am sitting my living room alone, crying, afraid that I might actually get to witness fear and frustration turn to social unrest and then into outright violence. I really don't want to be a hippie.

"Never forget"? How can we?

I see it on T-shirts and bumper stickers at least 3-4 times a week. The shirts are dark blue and there's usually an image of some kind of badge, no doubt to make people think they are authorized by the fire department or police department, and not made by some fly-by-night scumbag who printed them in his basement to make a quick buck off a national tragedy. The date is always huge, with the eleven replaced by an image of the towers, like some cutesy marketing tie-in.

When my alarm clock goes off at 7:14 every weekday morning, I usually hear a snippet from a top 40 song, or the morning zoo DJ doing a phone scam or traffic report. This morning the first words I heard were, "...when the towers came down." I hit the snooze immediately and 9 minutes later I heard the strains of what sounded like a country ballad with the words "survive" and "guilty" and I again turned it off before I could hear more. Looks like I won't be listening to streaming music at my desk until at least 10:00, when the morbid "festivities" are over. I looked out the window and felt grateful that it was cloudy and looked like it might rain; there will be no chance for anyone to say, "It was a bright, sunny September day, just like today."

For the last week the local news stations have been pushing their "live coverage starting at 8 a.m." The ringing of the bells at 8:45 and 9:03, the reading of the names, speeches by local and national politicians, by friends and families. The candles and banners all part of a maudlin, drawn-out "tribute." The media descends on this scene and devours it, making it even more of a circus, a creepy live-action version of "Dirty Laundry." Get the widow on the set. The survivors come together to mourn and cry and relive that day over and over until it becomes sick game of one-upmanship: "I heard about it first." "I saw them come down." "I heard that body hit Father Judge." Then next week they'll all go back to fighting about a memorial and park and a museum and what shows "respect" and what doesn't, what the victims are "entitled" to, and whose family gets their name in the paper this time, as if he who screams the loudest was affected the most.

We were all affected. The entire country. Some more than others, obviously. In these parts everybody has a story of where they were, who they lost, who got out, who would have been there but called in sick or missed their train. And we shared them with anyone who would listen. It was therapeutic in the beginning. It helped us on the path to start healing. But now we're stuck. I don't know if it's the whole country; my perception is skewed by being right in the middle of it. But as a community, at least, seven years later we are definitely stuck.

Giuliani saved this city. He was a hero and a champion. I can't imagine how anyone else could have done a better job in that freakish aftermath. But he's stuck too. Worse, he's keeping the country stuck, and afraid, and angry, and it's all for selfish motivations. Rudy did great things for this city before and after the tragedy, but his time has passed. Bloomberg is living in the now: It's time to move on.

I don't want to forget. We shouldn't forget. And honestly, how could we? Even if there is never another memorial service, never another newscast replaying those horrific images. We simply won't forget. And we don't need T-shirts to tell us.

I coulda been a contender

Well, maybe not then, but definitely now. So I guess I should say I could be a contender. If I wanted to be. But I won't be. I've past my prime for a major title and the window for opportunity is permanently closed, and that's OK. All is how it should be. Whether I was in shape all along and didn't realize or I developed the skills and footwork along the way, it doesn't matter. It's just nice to know I have it in me now. For a minute I thought of it as wasted talent, but it just means I saved my strength and I'll still be standing later on. I don't need to be inside the ring. I'll be ready in the corner with water and smelling salts, and it's enough to know I'll be able to help someone else go the distance.

all wet

Am I drowning in debt or drowning in ignorance? And if I'm saved from one, will even it matter as the other fills my lungs, my body, every last cell and suffocates me from the inside?

dog paddle

I can't keep up. And you've never asked me to. And I know you would never expect me to. And I know that I can't. So I quietly accept it and just try to be gracious. For the most part I'm actually glad you're so far ahead. It means I don't have to swim as far or as fast, and that you're clearing the way for both of us. I'm tired of being the one who had to do all the work while everyone else just floated on their backs and enjoyed the scenery. And for now I know it's OK to kinda swim in your path, follow behind. But I'm starting to flail a bit. Not a lot, but it's getting harder to keep up.

If I start to really struggle I know I'll still be OK. No one will let me drown. I have a hard time asking for help, but I know I'm smart enough to ask for a hand when I need it and not get sucked down by a riptide. The life guards will be more than happy to throw me a line. And I know I'll be invited into your life boat, and eventually we'll drift on over to that little island where we'll relax on the beach, sitting under a palm tree, watching the waves crash up on the sand -- but I also know that won't be for a little while. I can see the island but it's not as close as it sometimes seems. So while I'm out here swimming on my own, for now, I want to be able to keep my head above water. I may have to take a break and tread for a minute or two, and I'm fine with that. I know you'll always keep me in your sights and not leave me behind.

It's not always easy swimming on my own. But I'm kicking as hard as I can.

osmosis

I haven't been through the same pain, grief, and loss as some. I've had my share of different kinds, and I've come through (I realize now) stronger and better able to cope with the next crisis. And I've had my experiences with short-term "appreciation" after a tragedy. You think, "If I get through this, I will never be petty or small again. I'll be grateful for the little things and remember every day how short life is." Like when people in New York were so pleasant and courteous and patient with each other in the fall of 2001. Reaching out to strangers, smiling, letting people in front of them at the entrance to the Holland Tunnel. It was like a whole new city. Until it wasn't anymore.

But now I feel gratitude and an appreciation for life and the little things in a way that I've never felt before. Not in a big grandiose way, after some disturbing event, where I'm compelled to move to the opposite end of the spectrum in an effort to neutralize the pain. Not that I have to shout it in the streets and analyze it in my head until it doesn't mean anything anymore. But I find myself smiling in places and situations that seem ... unusual. Being quietly grateful from my gut for something that's pretty trivial on the surface. Like sitting in a movie theater. Or husking corn. Or grocery shopping. It's really not the places, now that I think about it, but the people in those places. I am more thankful for a short-term plane ride or a trip to the mall than I ever thought I could be.

Nothing specific has happened to cause this shift. Just being around people who are grateful, who have known great loss and can still appreciate everything in their lives, has somehow instilled in me a new gratitude. It's a long-term effect from constant exposure to the ultimate in appreciation for what you have, not despair over what you don't.

And I like it. I like that fluttery feeling in my chest when I catch myself realizing how lucky I am. I like the odd look from strangers who catch me smiling unconsciously for no apparent reason. Most of all, I like that I like my life. It's a nice change of pace.

...like a hole in the head

That's how much 14th Street needs another video/electronics store. Yet another place to buy fell-off-the-back-of-a-truck DVD players and "rebuilt" iPod knock-offs for cheap that will last until about a week after the store goes out of business. Another place that sells bootleg movies up front and adult movies behind a black curtain in the back corner. Another place with so many "sale" and "buy it now" signs in the window that you can't see inside. Another place that entices the young mothers to spend their welfare checks on the latest and greatest "cool-as-shit" toys before they can waste it on another tattoo or some ghetto-gold earrings or diapers and milk. Yeah, that kid definitely needs a new Wii more than he needs new shoes.