Monday, April 20, 2009

It May Not be PC, But I'm All For It


What does it say about me that after more than seven years (years!) I'm still so pissed off about September 11th that when I heard the planners of the attack were waterboarded a ridiculous number of times all I could think was, "Well, they were still alive, so it obviously wasn't enough", whereas when I heard that 21 horses from Venezuela’s Lechuza Caracas polo team died within one 18 hour stretch due to some as-yet unknown cause I cried for those poor beasts?

And to add insult, the liberal media hacks writing about the repeated waterboarding have the absolute gall to call into question the effectiveness of said waterboarding?!?! Do they really not get that answers so weren’t the point? That anyone who thinks so is woefully na├»ve? The point, my friends, was payback. Turture. An eye for an eye. Duh. I’m pretty sure the assholes being waterboarded gave up the goods fairly early on in their captivity. The rest was just frosting. I picture soldiers and operatives eagerly lining up and signing up for the privilege of torturing (and re-torturing) those depraved bastards in ways they wouldn’t even think of harming a bug, let alone an actual human being.

Lest we forget, almost three thousand people died as a result of the attacks, mostly civilians which, in the jargon of terror, made them “innocents”. Those who didn't fall under the umbrella of “innocent” were men and women doing their job, which, really, is some sort of calling, don’t you think? I’m talking about the police officers, EMT’s, soldiers, and firefighters who collectively died while trying to restore safety and sanity to an unimaginable situation. And let’s not forget the volunteers. All of them who just had to step up because that was who they were and they couldn’t even comprehend the thought of running away when all hell broke lose around them and they couldn’t tell which way was up.

I imagine, for my generation at least, that morning must be similar to what my parents and grandparents went through on both November 22, 1963 and December 7, 1941. I, working from home (and not watching television), received a call from a colleague, who seemed inordinately concerned with my wellbeing. I remember that I laughingly assured him I wasn’t ill, was merely working from home to get ahead of the project we were on. He asked if I was watching television, and in a micron I had the smartass thought that no, when I work from home I actually work from home, duh. But then he said to turn it on. And I asked what channel. And he said it didn’t matter. I don’t remember, but I think I was terrified exactly right then. So I turned on the television just in time to watch the second plane bury itself halfway into the side of one of the towers.

At first I didn’t know what it was. But then I did. And it was horrible. I watched all the same footage as the rest of you, so I’ll not go into it here. But I feel it necessary to explain that I felt hate. I’m a big fan of live-and-let-live, what-comes-around-goes-around, and don’t let-karma-bite-you-on-the-ass-on-the-way-out … but for these tools? I want the U.S. military to embody payback. Until said tools are all screaming in agony on their deathbeds, which, with any luck, will be made of liquid fire.

I lived in Northern NJ for six years in the late 90’s, then in RI for a year, and then moved out here to MO in 2000. Both NJ and MO were far from home for me. At least when I was in NJ I could make the 4-5 hour drive back home to New England on weekends for some family time. Here in MO I go back home twice a year and have Mom and (sometimes) Dad come out here once a year. For a homebody like me, that’s not really enough, but I no longer have more than a decade into a company with the perquisite five weeks and two days vacation that I used to (now I’ve almost three years with the company and two measly weeks vacation … mer). So cellular contact it is.

Believe me when I tell you that the friendships I have formed in both NJ and MO are important to me. While I did not know directly any of the murder victims from that unspeakable day, I had a friend who lost his wife. They hadn’t been married long, maybe three years, and had met one another well out of their young adulthood. This was the perfect match. He was so very in love with her that we, his work colleagues, ate it up. It was a real life happy ending that was both breathtaking and humbling to behold. And gave us all the thrilling thought that it could happen to us. Meeting and getting to know her, then marrying her, brought him to life. This was a truly happy man, who’s every prayer had been answered.

After the first plane hit she called him from the other tower, to let him know she was okay, and the safety officer on her floor was bringing her down the stairs (she had lost her glasses and could not see, and had hurt her ankle). They lost the connection (most likely as the second plane hit), and he never heard from her again. Absolutely no trace of her was ever recovered. It was as though she’d never existed.

The reason I still carry this tiny burning ember of hate is because it took this poor lost soul four years and seven months to literally drink himself to death. He tried so hard to join her sooner, but his damn body, unlike his shattered heart, just would not quit. In those years he lost everything else he had once held dear: his job, his friends, his step-son, his family. All was torn asunder for one reason or other, and it was easy to say (and many frustrated former friends did) that he brought it on himself. Why couldn’t he just pull himself up by his bootstraps and get on with life? Well, why should he have? And who were they to wonder? What gave them the right?

Those of us who had relocated to MO prior to 2001 felt as though we had somehow failed him. Maybe if we had still been in NJ we could have helped. But we weren’t there, and he wasn’t here, and then the company laid him off (because the corporate powers-that-be sucked shit; I’m glad they were taken over by a competitor … assholes.). Everyone lost touch; he didn't want to be found. Then we found out his final all-consuming wish had been granted; he had died. Destitute, diseased, and forgotten ... finally he could reunite with his love.

So, these fucking douchbag terrorists killed thousands of people in one fell stroke, but how many more have died in the years since that can also be laid at their cloven hooves? How many mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, sisters, brothers, lovers, and friends have faded away to nothing?

I hope the waterboarders kill them, all, then resuscitate the lifeless corpses of those bastards and start all over again. I hope the soulless ghouls beg for mercy and cry for forgiveness. I don’t have it in me, at least not yet, but maybe some day. Could happen, who knows? But for now when I read articles damning former President Bush for all that is wrong in the world today I wonder, where the hell were you on September 11, 2001? Clamouring for him to do something, do something, don’t let them get away with this, that's where. Begging him to lead us, tell us what to do, make it better. Well, put your money where your mouth is and own your decision. And if you can’t, if you just have to be a hypocrite about it? Shut the fuck up.

2 comments:

The Common Man said...

Angry girl

la isla d'lisa said...

Sometimes ... and certainly about this.

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