9/11. Never forget. How could we, it happens every year? Yet the incident in question, the terrorist attack on the world trade centre and the pentagon almost 12 years ago to this day, still haunts the cultural mindscape of America, their very own Dia de Muertos. As traumatic as going on a family day out and watching your father be savagely beaten by a vagrant, the West was shocked to a standstill all those years ago. Can we help but feel anything other than guilt as we wake up each morning wondering if there would be any news as big as a terrorist attack on symbolic buildings in America? And for all those people that died in the towers, and all the people that received fatal doses of carcinogenic dust, and all the people that died in the ongoing wars, I can't help but feel as if somehow I cannot fully comprehend the nature of the attack and it's butterfly effect into the new century. Every generation has a defining moment on which morals can be projected in some way. From the Axis and Ally war from 39-44 to the counter-culture movement and Vietnam battles of the sixties, the World Trade Centre attack is the monolith of destruction needed for this generations anguish. Yet what is it's opposite? Good and evil, peace and war, terrorism and? I hit the streets to find out.
It is a patriotic day in Los Angeles. Everywhere you go the president delivers memorial speeches through high definition televisions, trucks drive past honking the star spangled banner. I see an entire family decked out in stars and stripes, marching down the road with dour grins on their faces as they wave miniature flags in pudgy white fists. A fat drunk sits outside a bar constantly shouting 'America! America!' until he is hoarse. Attractive girls look up to the sky with tears in their eyes, the touching moment caught by amateur photographers eager to document their questionable sadness. Others act normally as if the memorial day somehow doesn't affect them, yet I can read in the minuscule movements of their bodies that they will go home later and ask each other 'Where were you twelve years ago?'. I take a taxi to Longbeach.
My driver's a heavy set ex-pugilist with a baseball cap on back to front, his white t-shirt sticks to his back with a mixture of sweat and cheap aftershave.
“We will not negotiate with terrorists.” I say, doing an impression of George W. Bush.
“What was that pal?”
“We can not misunderestimate the entire power of the Iraqi people.” I continue my shpiel.
“Oh yeah, Bush.” he says.
“What do you think about the murder of Osama Bin Laden?” I ask, breaking character for a moment.
“Murder? I'm glad they killed the towel head.”
“Yeah, they should just nuke the entire middle east, right? I mean, why not?”
“Exactly pal. America is number one.” he says. I start to laugh and set fire to the seat next to me before clambering out of the window. I'm unsure where I am exactly, but can see the Pacific isn't too far away so begin to walk, admiring the pageantry all around me. Stars and stripes, eagles, the world trade centre, even a few religious icons all flutter in the wind. Car horns continue to honk away now and then, a citywide brass band to play the dirge for the deaths which occurred last decade. The sun is too warm, the noises too loud, the toxic street smells too pungent. I swallow vomit and duck into a bar, hoping for some semblance of peace.
The mood in the bar is jovial, people making toasts regularly whilst the news plays on television screens dotted around. John Kerry continues to make his plea for an invasion of Syria. I hand the barman a ten dollar bill and buy a drink for the woman standing next to me.
“What is the opposite of terrorism?” I ask her.
“Freedom?”
“Freedom includes the freedom to commit terror.”
“But terror like, squashes freedom.”
“You know they treat arachnophobics by showing them spiders? Through becoming desensitised to their own feelings of dread, they become free.”
“What?”
“Have you seen Monkey Shines: An Experiment In Fear?”
“No.”
“Well it doesn't matter then.” I say, raising my drink. “Oh say can you see, by the dawn's early light...” I begin to sing. Gradually more and more people join me in singing the anthem. People out on the street stop what they're doing and all face some unseen point, singing. Workers stop what they're doing and put a hand over their heart. An old man stands by his grandson and both sing. A soldier in a distant country sings quietly to himself. The song finally finishes and I leave, the bitter taste of other people's tears sting my mouth like bile.
I am stood at the beach, gazing at the waves. I am wearing more clothes than anyone else on the beach, the sweat drips off me in rivers and stains the sand black around my feet. What was it about America, particularly Los Angeles and New York, that people got so emotional about? I expected it from Americans, yet the terrorist attacks themselves were quite American in scope. When fighting Americans one should be careful not to become American themselves. I wondered what the Truthers were doing today. Probably sifting through imagined rubble, rewatching youtube videos, jacking off into each other's faces. It was funny how much they believed in the power of their country.
“9/11 was faked!” I shout at a man flying a kite. “And the government was responsible for everything that has ever happened to this country. The world trade centre was rigged with twenty parcels of C4. The pentagon was attacked by an experimental rocket launched from the pentagon. The government are recording everything I am thinking and broadcasting it through commercials.” I babble. Nobody turned around. Nobody cared. I built two towers out of sand and threw paper aeroplanes at them until they collapsed.
“Hey buddy, show a little respect.” says a passer-by.
“Chillax bro. Is this any less respectful than war?” I say, spitting a blob of phlegm down at my feet. It is marbled with blood. A shivering wisp of a man emerges from the sand.
“I'm not disputing that, but you are just as bad as those people. The victims of any violence are still victims regardless of any action that takes place afterwards, it doesn't matter if you view those actions as justified, tasteless, cruel or necessary. Why not treat them with the respect they deserve?”
“I'm not making fun of the victims, rather the reaction.” I say, making another paper aeroplane.
“But who are you to say if a reaction is good or bad? Who are you to-” he begins. I throw the paper aeroplane as hard as I can at his head, puncturing his eyeball.
“All there is is blackness.” I say, before walking back towards the city.
