Blog 20 - Which Essay to Revise

I will revise Essay 3 - New Memories

My focus is to show how familiar, safe, and connected I felt to lower Manhattan prior to the terrorist attacks of 9/11 and how after the attacks I am still connected only for different reasons and the place is also becoming familiar and safe again.

I will develop the point that prior to 9/11 I was connected to lower Manhattan through my work life and that after 9/11 the connection is with my family.

I will revise by elaborating on my descriptions to let the reader picture and experience what I am showing them. I will add description to let the reader know if the scene is before or after 9/11.

Blog 19b - Essay 4, Draft 1

[Title needed]

I don’t always get excited when the mail comes, but that was not the case today when I received the DVD from Netflix entitled Celtic Woman: A New Journey. I love Irish music, and I’ve seen Celtic Women concerts on public television. These women don’t just sing with their voices , they sing with their souls. Listening to them is a spiritual experience.

Take Celtic Woman Chloe Agnew for instance. She sings “Panis Angelicus” so beautifully it sounds heavenly. Without even knowing the translation, I can tell she is singing to God. People marvel at her voice, but I marvel at her spirituality. How does one get there? How does that level of spiritual intimacy exude through someone’s voice? The English translation follows:

Bread of Angels,
made the bread of men;
The Bread of heaven
puts an end to all symbols:
A thing wonderful!
The Lord becomes our food:
poor, a servant, and humble.
We beseech Thee,
Godhead One in Three
That Thou wilt visit us,
as we worship Thee,
lead us through Thy ways,
We who wish to reach the light
in which Thou dwellest.
Amen

This hymn contemplates becoming one with Jesus when we receive Holy Communion. It says that at that time, Jesus becomes our spiritual nourishment. It says that Jesus gave us the Gift of the Holy Eucharist so that He may always be with us. This hymn then prays to Jesus for our salvation so that we may dwell with Him in the afterlife as well. It is very intimate. The words were written in Latin by St. Thomas Aquinas and have been hymned to many different melodies.

The words and their meaning help, but there is something else present when she sings.
* * *
I am in seventh grade and doing my homework. The door bell rings, and my mother calls for someone to answer it. Two of my brothers come running from different directions. They let in an A&P delivery boy with a box on his shoulder with a turkey and every fixing you could imagine. My mother looked longingly at the food and explained that she did not order it and could not pay for it. By this time, all the kids had gathered around curious. We were not expecting to have turkey on Thanksgiving, or even a meal. In fact, we had not had supper that evening. The delivery boy put the box down on the kitchen table and explained it was paid for by charity. My mother apologized for not having money for a tip. Actually, she had no money for anything. This was the Thanksgiving I remember when I was in seventh grade.

Just earlier in that evening, my two youngest brothers, ages four and five, came to where I was doing my homework. They asked me if I wanted hotdogs or hamburgers. I looked at them confused. Then I realized they would make me a make-believe meal. I said one of each. They proceeded to take imaginary pots and pans and made me an imaginary supper. They had had something light for supper themselves (we ate from the youngest up until the food ran out). That is when I realized that they knew there was nothing left for me and that they cared. I told them their meal was delicious and thanked them very much. They left me smiling.

Two days later, we had thanksgiving dinner with the donated meal. I remember how quiet it was when we were eating. We all seemed to be in shock. I remember how spiritually connected I felt knowing that people cared.
* * *
I was in my early 30’s when I realized I had the spiritual connection I quested and in fact had had it all along. I just didn’t know what to expect. I thought it would mean that I would be a better person - or good. When I let myself and others down, I believed I didn’t have that connection. I didn’t realize like I do now that the connection is a reliance on God for help and guidance, and not on myself to do everything on my own. I am not being tested and graded on how “good“ I am. I am relying on God to get me through life.

I found this out when I dropped in on my friend. She was a born again Christian and I wanted to grill her again on how to get close to God. There were times when she would spend a lot of time explaining things to me. This time, however, she just said, “No one searches this much for God who hasn’t been called.” I left and as I drove away, I realized God was with me all along. I had what I wanted. I just needed to trust. I just needed to know that my prayers were heard and that there was nothing to worry about. Now anytime I become afraid, I just remind myself that God is in charge, and I relax and that that is a spiritual connection.
* * *
Today, I pop the Celtic Woman DVD in my player and listen to some of the most beautiful spiritual music I have ever heard. I realize I may also allow others to assist me with life. This spiritual music helps me deal with, enhance my spiritual connection and even get somewhere with this assignment.

Blog 19 - Main Focus for Essay No. 4

My main focus is my spiritual connection and my journey to achieve it.
I want to make the following points:
1. I quested for enhanced spirituality throughout my life
2. It is probably what everyone is seeking
3. Various ways to get it
a) Church
b) Bible
c) Prayer
d) Meditation
e) Love
4. Mistaken ways to get it
a) Any indulgence (drugs, alcohol, gambling, etc.)
b) Materialism - American dream
5. Spiritual scenes:
a) Receiving the DVD Celtic Woman: A New Journey from Netflix
b) Thanksgiving dinner from charity when I was in seventh grade
c) “No one searches this way who hasn’t been called.”
* * *
I don’t always get excited when the mail comes, but that was not the case today when I received the DVD from Netflix entitled Celtic Woman: A New Journey. I love this concert. I’ve seen it multiple times on public television, and I’ve watched various clips on YouTube. These women don’t just sing with their voices , they sing with their souls. Listening to them is a spiritual experience.
Take Celtic Woman Chloe Agnew for instance. She sings “Panis Angelicus” so beautifully it sounds heavenly. Without even knowing the translation, I can tell she is singing to God. People marvel at her voice, but I marvel at her spirituality. How does one get there? How does that level of spiritual intimacy exude through someone’s voice? The English translation follows. Basically, it is about receiving Holy Communion.

Bread of Angels,
made the bread of men;
The Bread of heaven
puts an end to all symbols:
A thing wonderful!
The Lord becomes our food:
poor, a servant, and humble.
We beseech Thee,
Godhead One in Three
That Thou wilt visit us,
as we worship Thee,
lead us through Thy ways,
We who wish to reach the light
in which Thou dwellest.
Amen
* * *
The door bell rings, and my mother calls for someone to answer it. Two of my brothers come running from different directions. They let in an A&P delivery boy with a box on his shoulder with a turkey and every fixing you could imagine. My mother looked longingly at the food and explained that she did not order it and could not pay for it. By this time, all the kids had gathered around curious. We were not expecting to have turkey on Thanksgiving, or even a meal. In fact, we had not had supper that evening. The delivery boy put the box down on the kitchen table and explained it was paid for by charity. My mother apologized for not having money for a tip. Actually, she had no money for anything. This was the Thanksgiving I remember when I was in seventh grade.

Just earlier in that evening, my two youngest brothers, ages four and five, came to where I was doing my homework. They asked me if I wanted hotdogs or hamburgers. I looked at them confused. Then I realized they would make me a make-believe meal. I said one of each. They proceeded to take imaginary pots and pans and made me an imaginary supper. They had had something light for supper themselves (we ate from the youngest up until the food ran out). That is when I realized that they knew there was nothing left for me and that they cared. I told them their meal was delicious and thanked them very much. They left me smiling.
Two days later, we had thanksgiving dinner. I remember how quiet it was while we were eating. We all seemed to be in shock. My father always said, “There is nothing like food when you’re hungry,” although he didn’t say it this time. I remember how spiritually connected I felt knowing that people cared.
* * *
I remember when I realized I had the spiritual connection I quested and in fact had had it all along. I just didn’t know what to expect. I thought it would mean that I would be a better person - or good. When I let myself and others down, I believed I didn’t have that connection. I didn’t realize like I do now that the connection means that I rely on God for help and guidance, and that I don’t try to do everything on my own. I am not always being tested and graded. I am just living and relying on God to get me through. God can do for my what I cannot do for myself.
I found this out when I was in my mid-30’s and I dropped in on my friend. She was a born again Christian and I wanted to grill her again on how to get close to God. There were times when she would spend a lot of time explaining things to me. This time, however, she just said, “No one searches this much for God who hasn’t been called.” I left and as I drove away, I realized God was with me all along. I just needed to trust. I just needed to know that all my prayers were heard and that there was nothing to worry about. Now anytime I become afraid, I just remind myself that God is in charge, and I relax.

Blog 18 - Description of a Familiar Place

The carpet and drapes are heavy. The throw pillows are arranged. Plants hang from the window. The sunshine raises the room’s temperature and permeates the room.

The sun warms the easy chair with the sleeping cat. His white nose, paws and tail are hidden. He blends into the black chair. His breathing is barely discernable. He stretches out writhing sensuously in the warm sunshine. His white markings are now visible but not his closed eyes.

A truck’s horn blows through the closed window. He sits up like a lion. His green eyes focus. He is fully dressed, every hair in place, his tuxedo straight. He looks around. Noting nothing of interest, he curls back down and continues his nap.

Blog 17 - Essay 3, Draft 1

Essay 3, Draft 1

New Memories

It is inevitable. I must see for myself. Not to know what happened. I can watch that on the news. But to see what is left of a place where I had once felt so comfortable.

I leave the subway and already everything feels different. I smell the burning. It is not the usual building fire smell. It is more electrical although that is not it exactly. I take a minute to orient myself not having the usual landmark. I walk south. I pass a firehouse with a memorial. No one I know. I pass a store selling memorabilia. I am really not in the mood. I look it over and am assured that it is respectful.

* * *

I get off the escalator, step aside and smile. If I stopped in front of it, I would get bumped. People rush past, sure where they are going and heading directly there. I linger. “Coffee and roll please,” I say when it is my turn. I get a table, which there are plenty of at that time of day. People may take time to purchase, but not to sit. I sit comfortably near the escalator - a good look-out post. I imagine myself as Ernest Hemingway at a European café. Maybe I will meet someone I know and have an interesting conversation about bullfighting.

* * *

I come to a chain fence. Cranes tower overhead. The crowd is silent. Everyone stares. I hear sniffles. No one knows what do, what to think, what to say. Jovial teenagers come from the subway, and then fall silent.

I walk to my right. I need to be alone. I recognize little. Then I see the water. At least that looks the same. A nearby building looks untouched. Streets are gone. A police officer directs me to the memorial they show on the news and points out a tribute to the rescue workers. I walk over. I wish I had brought more tissues.

* * *

I go upstairs because I start at 9:00. I get off on the 5th floor, walk down a hall, and go inside. “Hi!” Jeff says with his usual smile. No wonder I love coming here. I take my seat and we start to gab. I make an effort to start work and look over my desk while we talk. Mail is not here yet. The boss is not here yet either. The phones are silent. I pour myself a cup of coffee that Jeff made and look out at the Lady with the Torch glistening in the sun. I sit down and we chat further.

* * *

I see my cousin’s name among the missing. I touch it. I am glad they spelled it correctly. I appreciate the acknowledgement. It is an assurance that they know to look for him although we have already held the memorial service. I sit down and watch others look over the names. I reuse a tissue.

* * *

“Did I show you my $30,000 finger?” Jeff asks. Of course, with that he gets my attention. I stop typing and look at his hands. “This one!” he says. “It is really my toe.” I wonder if he is putting me on although his finger did look like a toe. I asked him what he is talking about. He tells the story of how his finger got severed and it was replaced with a toe. The surgery cost $30,000, his father constantly reminds him.

* * *

I leave the tribute and from a distance see the memorial they show on the news. There are posters with pictures, just pictures or just photographs. There are flowers, written poetry and an assortment of personal items. There are requests for the missing with phone numbers for information. There are written memorials. Again, I hear muffled sniffles. I see my sister. I look again. Yes, it is my sister.

I call her name. She does not answer. I come closer and call her again. Her eyes are moist. She is surprised to see me, and I her. We look at the memorial together pointing out noteworthy details to each other. Her two friends come over and join us. I show them the firefighters’ memorial and my cousin’s name.

* * *

“You were here last night? When? You left when I did,” I inquire confused.
“I came back later,” Jeff replies.
“What for?”
Jeff moves his eyebrows up and down.
“What do you mean?
“I went out last night, met someone cute, and came back here,” he brags.
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. I am telling you the truth. I needed a place so we came here. I have done that before,” Jeff states assuredly.
I am shocked.
“So what is the World Trade Center like in the middle of the night?” I ask, figuring I will get some little known information about one of the world‘s most famous places.
“Oh. The building is pretty much empty but security knows me. They are used to my comings and goings,” he explains.
Jeff is only a paralegal like I am. I don’t know where he gets the nerve.

* * *

We go to the Village for lunch. We pick a restaurant we have been to before. Everything seems different. It is hard to explain. The server seems distracted. Everyone has that Vietnam look in their eyes. I catch up on news with my sister and friends. We are glad we ran into each other, especially me because I came alone. They drive me to the train station. I guess this is what lower Manhattan will mean to me for a while.

Blog 16 - Proposed focus for Essay No. 3

My proposed focus is to show how memories are tied to physical locals. The object is the World Trade Center. I am including physical descriptions and comparable personal memories before and after the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Specifically, I will discuss when I worked at the World Trade Center and compare it to when I visited shortly after the attacks. I welcome comments from my classmates.

Story begins here:

It was inevitable. I have to see lower Manhattan after the attacks. Not that I need to see the destruction. I could see that on the news. But to see what was left of a place where I had once felt so comfortable.

I leave the subway and already everything feels different. I walk past a firehouse. It displays a memorial. No one I know. I pass a store selling 9/11 terrorist attack memorabilia. I am really not in the mood. I look it over and am assured that it is respectful. I can’t see the towers. They are not there. I walk toward where they had been.

To be continued...

------------

I received a lot of validation for my story from my group members in class. I will tell a story of my visit to lower Manhattan after the terrorist attacks. I will tell the story of walking around the terrorist site and interject stories about what I had experienced in lower Manhattan prior to the attacks. I will discuss how on this visit after the attacks I stopped by a memorial for dead, missing and injured firefighters and how my cousin's name was listed with the missing and how I coincidentally met my sister at the memorial.

Blog 15 - Essay No. 2 (rewritten)

(Note: This serves as the Introduction to a book I am writing.)

Introduction

“I remember the way Butch would do that,” I reminded my mother, grateful for the opportunity to say my brother’s name.

“Oh, we don’t talk about him anymore,” she commanded.

That is the most honest she has ever been. Since then, she denies he ever lived.

* * *

“Look out!” my father hollers, causing me to jump. Butch runs frantically into the room, jumps on the bed, covers his head, bracing for the beating he knows will ensue. This time, my father pummels him to death. Butch was five; I was three.

* * *

Denial protects us. Repressed memories protect us. This is how we survive. It works for awhile. Then it doesn’t. Around thirty, we remember. It is not conscious. The memories just come. We think (hope) they can’t be true, but our fear tells us they are.

This is how it happened with me. I just remembered. I was terrified.

Others still deny. They may be those with personal knowledge who still can’t handle it, or they may be counselors, police officers, child protectors or judges who can’t handle it.

This book is about the process of repressed memories and its reemergence. It is written for everyone. First, it is written for those with childhood trauma who have the resultant repressed and then possible reemerging memories. It is written for their loved ones and counselors, and it is written for police officers, child protectors and judges. It is also written for the interested public. Its purpose is to educate.

I also wrote this book for Butch, my sweet, sweet brother, and for his memory. I dedicate this book to my brother Butch, and to my sister, who just can’t remember.