Annie Cuomo

Ten years ago I had been a high school sophomore for just under a week. It was a morning like any other, wet head, sneakers, granola bar. I was in a Spanish class with a severe, pretty, young teacher who made me nervous. Spanish made me nervous.

But it was a morning like any other morning. In fact, it was entirely insignificant. Even when we heard earlier in the day that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center, it didn’t register that it was more than an accident. Then a second plane hit and things started to seem strange. But even then, hearing from a classmate that another plane struck just seemed wrong. It was probably a misunderstanding, they had heard a new detail about the crash and assumed there was a second plane. No worries.

It wasn’t until the pretty, severe Spanish teacher turned the television on in lieu of teaching that morning that the true magnitude of the event hit me. The news stations kept showing footage of those first fateful minutes and I can’t remember if it was before or after the collapse. I can’t remember seeing it until much, much later. What I do remember is people waving from their office windows, hanging sweaters out to get noticed. And jumping.

It was when I saw the jumpers that the whole idea of “terror” hit me. I was horrified at the sight of it. And I laughed.

My emotions weren’t my own anymore. They were muddied and my mind was blank. I laughed because, even at fifteen when my whole world revolved around Emotions, there was no appropriate expression for the feelings I felt. My pretty, severe, Spanish teacher heard my nervous laugh and called me out on it. Yelled at me. I can’t blame her now but at the time I was completely unable to articulate my feelings. I feared for my father working in Queens at the time, wondering how far the Terror would go, wondering if the LIRR would be running and if he would come home that night. He did. Around Christmas that year our family visited Ground Zero to see my uncle working the Port Authority. A seemingly endless white wall was erected and covered in posters and memorials. Row after row of ‘have you seen me?’, “missing you’, or “Daddy, I’ve arrived”. It was gut wrenching.

And then ten years went by.

I graduated high school and eventually, college. They cleaned up Ground Zero and were planning a grand memorial there. Newsday published refreshed biographies of those that were lost and dedicated a chunk of their website to a directory for bios and photo albums. At the same time, I started my summer job where one of my main projects was compiling information about our local memorial. This included compiling the names, biographies, photos, professions and connection to our community for the 90 souls we had etched in stone.

This included weeks of me and 3 co-workers reading eulogy after eulogy to one another. The first week was the hardest. We started on Monday morning, compiled the names and began to Google and read. We were zombies by Friday, locked in a cave of memories that didn’t belong to us; Stuck in time, it was September 11th everyday in July.

As we traded stories, some tear-jerking, some shockingly brief,  we wondered aloud about the validity of a eulogy. Picking out the very best of someone to honor their memory despite the faults they may have prominently displayed in their lifetime. We mused about our own, became aware of our mortalities and morbidly wished to not be remembered by how we fastidiously organized our socks.

It seems horrible to even admit that we shared these thoughts amidst the heavy research of a national tragedy and the lives it took. It feels terrible to admit it now.

I realized through this project that we use humor as a defense mechanism. We use it to shield ourselves from confusion, anger, heartache. It isn’t disrespectful and we shouldn’t feel guilty. Have you ever been to a wake where you didn’t smile through the tears? I think over the years the aftermath of war, talk of politics and conspiracies made some of us forget the raw emotions of those first few months. I relived them this summer.

Those are 90 names I will remember forever. 90 people whose lives I have glimpsed through snapshots. 90 people I will think of when I see brothers who dedicate their lives to the same public service, when co-workers build a decade long friendship, when my future husband kisses me and our imaginary children goodbye before leaving for work. I will remember these names and the passions they had for their families and careers. For their spontaneity and charisma, for their bravery and self-sacrifice, for the fastidious way they organized their socks. I will never forget.