Those that would have us remember
the act of terrorism most notable
often begin by asking where we were
when it all went down.
I was in school. High school,
in Greenbelt, Maryland.
The televisions that we were
not allowed to watch
were turned on and class,
I cannot remember which,
was cut short,
but not before
the public address announcements
asking for student A
asking for student B
asking for students C through H
became so numerous
there was no way
to carry on instruction.
I kept thinking
they were lucky
to get out early
until the televisions were turned on and
I understood why they were leaving.
I put my headphones on and powered up
my disc-man with electronic skip protection
and listened to Mono's "Penguin Freud".
She sang to me
about how people try to see
through other's worlds and sang of its
fruitlessness because, in the knowledge of
the peering, it can all be made to seem fine.
I got out of my plastic chair and
sat under my desk, like the nuclear
war and tornado drills taught me,
years removed,
from elementary school on Staten Island,
like instinct taught me,
months ahead,
from the sniper and his father and
the agonizing days standing exposed at bus stops
until they were caught.
I waited
foolishly
for my name to be called.
That was when the thing was cemented
in my mind. No one is coming to get you.
No one is going to save you. You are
not worth a single day of lost pay
to your own flesh and blood, and I resolved
to never rely on a savior again.
The day was a day of hardening and when
I am implored to remember
that is what I remember
most clearly.
the act of terrorism most notable
often begin by asking where we were
when it all went down.
I was in school. High school,
in Greenbelt, Maryland.
The televisions that we were
not allowed to watch
were turned on and class,
I cannot remember which,
was cut short,
but not before
the public address announcements
asking for student A
asking for student B
asking for students C through H
became so numerous
there was no way
to carry on instruction.
I kept thinking
they were lucky
to get out early
until the televisions were turned on and
I understood why they were leaving.
I put my headphones on and powered up
my disc-man with electronic skip protection
and listened to Mono's "Penguin Freud".
She sang to me
about how people try to see
through other's worlds and sang of its
fruitlessness because, in the knowledge of
the peering, it can all be made to seem fine.
I got out of my plastic chair and
sat under my desk, like the nuclear
war and tornado drills taught me,
years removed,
from elementary school on Staten Island,
like instinct taught me,
months ahead,
from the sniper and his father and
the agonizing days standing exposed at bus stops
until they were caught.
I waited
foolishly
for my name to be called.
That was when the thing was cemented
in my mind. No one is coming to get you.
No one is going to save you. You are
not worth a single day of lost pay
to your own flesh and blood, and I resolved
to never rely on a savior again.
The day was a day of hardening and when
I am implored to remember
that is what I remember
most clearly.
