The big disappointment

Governor Pataki finally said it: The International Freedom Center will not be part of the 9/11 memorial site.

Debra Burlingame, leader of the opposition to the IFC and author of the article "The Great Ground Zero Heist," published in The Wall Street Journal on June 9, was one of the many who expected him to say that. Her brother piloted the plane that crashed into the Pentagon on September 11, 2001.

Now, I quote the New York Times. “"I congratulate Governor Pataki," Ms. Burlingame said, "for recognizing that the International Freedom Center was an obstacle not simply for the families, the first responders and all those who were personally affected by the events of Sept. 11, but for all Americans who will be coming to the World Trade Center memorial to hear the story of 9/11 and that story only.

“"And I believe that story will be able to convey all the core values that Governor Pataki so eloquently enunciated again in his statement," she said, adding that "9/11 is not only a story of loss, it's an uplifting story of decency triumphing over depravity."”

Who else expected Pataki to bar the IFC? In this one I’m guessing, but I will go for a lot of democrats, not the Hillary kind but yes the ones in lowercase. People who believe in democracy all over the world. Thousands of them, who expected this to become another example of the bully American way of handling politics and morale: If we’re not looking good, we might as well not be in the picture. Or, even better, we’ll take the camera and strip search the photographer.

Without him even being aware of it, they have taken Daniel Libeskind’s project and torn it apart. The Master Site Plan has been strip searched because someone didn’t look good in that picture.

But there were another few who actually did not expect Pataki to go this way. The timing was perfect and we were all watching. I am part of that group, the great naïve I’ll call it, who thought that the United States would rise to the occasion this time.

The big disappointment, I will now call it.

Because no matter what kind of “obstacle” Ms. Burlingame thinks the IFC is, she is flat wrong when she says the families of the people who shouldn’t have died that day are “all those who were personally affected by the events of Sept. 11”.

For her own good, Ms. Burlingame is completely wrong; because 9/11 did not just happen in America. It affected millions of people watching the towers fall and the Pentagon on fire, people all over the world who heard about heroes fighting back inside other airplanes and refusing to be used as ammunition.

It was a lesson of bravery and humbleness that spread all over the planet and reminded the world that Americans are, well, people.

And American leaders reminded the world, when they were looking for members of their coalition against evil, that the attack on the World Trade Center was not an attack to America but to the free world.

Ms. Burlingame lost a brother under terrible circumstances while mine, who had a meeting in floor 102 of one of the Towers at 11 a.m. on September 11, 2001, has lived to tell the story. He obviously never made it to the building.

But that doesn’t make him, or me, less of a victim. The attack to the World Trade Center hit in the core of a lot of people’s values and beliefs. Values and beliefs which have been attacked many times in history and, yes, sometimes by the United States.

The New York Times has this description of the IFC: "The Freedom Center, picked for the memorial site by the Lower Manhattan Development Corporation, was envisioned as a living memorial in which the story of Sept. 11, 2001, would be told in the context of the worldwide struggle for freedom through the ages."

The IFC was a chance to give the events of 9/11 a context they deserve to have. A chance to see them as part of the everlasting fight of mankind against itself and a chance for people to remember, full of hope, that no matter how powerful the enemy, freedom and liberty tend to prevail.

That is the reason why somebody like me, coming from a country with a lot of things to criticize from the US government –which are not part of this discussion- cares about the death of Mr. Burlingame. Because his life and every single one of the nearly three thousand people –not only Americans- who died that day deserve to be remembered as part of the prevalent presence of freedom in this world. Not as “the story of 9/11 and that story only.”

Ejercicio 3

El Escritor escribe y habla con todo el mundo. La mesera fue a college en Nueva York y tiene ascendencia británica, pero es del Caribe. (De Jamaica?)

El Escritor arma conversación con una pareja que está tratando desesperada e inútilmente que su gran danés se siente bajo la mesa. No alcanzo a oír de qué hablan.

El Escritor es amigo de otro escritor que además es agente de artistas. El escritor/agente y el artista se acercan a la mesa del Escritor. Todos sonríen. La conversación no llega a ninguna parte y el escritor/agente le dice al Escritor que tiene que pasar por el taller del artista porque tiene cosas muy buenas. Todos se despiden.

El Escritor se da cuenta de que los miro y tomo notas y piensa –y acierta- que estoy escribiendo sobre él. No parece gustarle aunque él ha estado haciendo lo mismo con la mesera, la pareja y quién sabe quién más.

El Escritor se vuelve Fotógrafo y saca una cámara con un zoom innecesariamente grande. Está sentado a menos de 10 metros y me apunta con el zoom. Yo no sonrío.

Suena el teléfono y es ella. Por su voz, parece que tiene ganas de verme. No puedo ir ahora.

Vuelve la mesera jamaiquina y les dice a las españolas que se acaban de sentar a mi lado que las meseras no salen a atender a la gente. Parece que sólo salen a decir que no salen. O bueno, que sí salen pero más tarde.

Una de las españolas se para y vuelve al rato con dos cervezas. La jamaiquina vuelve seis minutos después, con un sándwich. Las meseras sí salen, pero a traer comida.

Las española que se quedó en la mesa tiene botas de cuero hasta la rodilla y la otra tiene flip-flops. El clima es más para flip-flops.

Yo muerdo mi sándwich y el pollo se escurre por todos lados. Los arándanos se quedan pegados al pan. Creo que me va mejor si le quito la tapa al sándwich.

Efectivamente.

Ya no quiero trabajar más. Llamo de vuelta y ella no contesta. No dejo mensaje.

El Escritor y yo tomamos sorbos de nuestros cafés exactamente al mismo tiempo. A mí me parece divertido pero creo que él se está sintiendo incómodo. Van a ser las cuatro y quiero irme. El Escritor y yo nos paramos al mismo tiempo y caminamos hacia la misma salida. Ahora yo me siento incómodo.

Hay mucho sol y paro a sacar las gafas y un cigarrillo. El Escritor desaparece.

Una foto

Con Lulú (izq.) y Caro frente al venerado edificio del J-School, en Columbia. El de la entrada no es Pulitzer, como alguna vez pensé, sino Jefferson. Por lo del First Ammendment, creo.

I L N Y 2

I almost forget to mention the cover of the last TimeOut.

Mary-Louise Parker staring at the camera, one arm over her belly and the other spread on the floor, which is covered with food wrappers. And the headline:

Stoned in the city
37 Summer activities that are better when you're baked

Gotta run. Summer's almost over.

Things I will hate

Which means I love them, most of them, and I'll stick to them because they're cheap, or because I have to, or whatever reason. Hence, I'll be sick of them in 10 months or less.

Turkey swiss cheese with a little mayo. On a hero. And a large coffe. Black, no sugar.

The J-School elevator (this one I hate already).

Having a roommate.

Being a roommate.

Speaking in English and writing in English and having a small accent that doesn't let them know that when they talk slang I just won't understand.

Williamsburg (my beat).

Snow (I'm thinking ahead).

www.nytimes.com/metro

Bills. All of them.

Being friendsick.

Having crushes (there's no time for that).
FALSE: What I will hate is the no-time part. But I'll work on it.

Viva el mestizaje!

A Briton told me I look Italian. A Mexican said I look from Mexico's farmlands. And a guy from Tel Aviv said I look Israelian. Maybe I'll quit journalism and start modeling for Benetton.

Not.

La primiparada (a perfect day)

Hoy llegué a mi nuevo cuarto. Tiene una vista espectacular sobre el Hudson, a la altura de la 109, y se ve el Washington Bridge por otra de las ventanas. Llevé mis cosas en el carro de mi hermano, aunque no eran muchas. Mientras fui hasta el décimo piso, J. Guerrero me puso un parte. Encima de esto, dejé las llaves adentro del cuarto y me gané la primera vaciada de la gente de seguridad porque me fui antes de que llegaran con el duplicado, a parquear el carro mejor. La vida es bella!!!!

Hace sol y mucho calor. El forecast de la semana dice que vamos a estar por los 30 grados celsuis. Me presenté al decano de estudiantes internacionales. Por armar charla le pregunté por la ropa adecuada para la 'international orientation' que empieza el miércoles. "Where are your socks?" me dijo mientras me miraba de arriba a abajo. Todavïa no sé si estaba mamamdo gallo...

El aire acondicionado de esta biblioteca es nocivo. Me falta la C.

I L N Y

My brother's rottweiler licking my face was enough for a wake up call at 7:30 this morning.

It's past 9 p.m., the sun finally set a while ago, and I just got out of the shower. The drops falling down my face are no longer water. Those evaporated a long time ago. These are coming out of my body. THIS PLACE IS TOO HOT!!!!!!!!! (En este momento marca 26 grados celsius pero "feels like" 27. Claro, por lo que el viento sopla, pero de para adentro.) And I am writing these lines thinking about cold, cold February...

"Dear passengers: if you see any strange behavior or package don't keep it to yourselves. Please inform the MTA authorities or call (call!!!!!!) 1 888 FREAKED."

The London bombings have had their effect in the subway. It is not as I expected, people are not running away from trash cans and lost bubblegum or something like that, but there's this feeling in the air that everybody has their eyes wide open. I was aware of that when I was changing lines today at around 3 p.m: I was moving from the red line to the yellow one when I realized I was missing something in my hand. Not my bag, somebody would've freaked out. And not the chilled Coke, something a little more important. OK, the housing lease, the newly opened checking and savings account numbers, paperwork from the international student's office. All lost inside a train. And I had been in NYC for 14 hours...

My first thought was that there was no problem. I had nothing important in those files. Nah, wrong. Lots of important stuff. So what next? I was thinking about the MTA's lost and found I saw someday in 'People+Arts' (or was it in 'Friends'?), the phone call asking if someone had found a red file, all the time I would spend on this, but then it hit me. What else did I have in my hand? The Coke. Surely I had changed the file for the bottle.

I didn't run into the yellow line but instead I changed direction over the red one and turned back, uptown. I rushed out at 110th, ran three blocks (remember the heat?) and then found the Coke machine. At the top, sitting there like there was nothing else to do, my file was in the same position I left it. The guy from 362 Riverside Drive who wouldn't let me in to take a peak at my future home "because the paper says clearly it is during or after August 1" laughed at me (with me?), told me how lucky I am (I know that) and said things seemed to be starting out quite alright for me.

I agree.