9/11, Twenty Years Later: Remembering That Day

Today marks twenty years. It's the day when everyone old enough to do so recalls where they were, and what they were doing when they heard or saw the news. It's my generation's Kennedy assassination. Or Pearl Harbor Day. 

 Only worse. 

 Nearly 3,000 people's lives were snuffed out that morning. An iconic building, erected during my lifetime, gone. 

 Sean -- a young man now in his late 30's, I suppose, and who I still see on Facebook -- will forever be linked in my memory with the tragedy. He was the first one to make me aware of it when he arrived to my 8:30 "A Slot" class just over 15 minutes late. This was not unusual for Sean; in fact, it was a running joke, and he would often arrive with fantastical, ridiculous stores about zombie crackheads, or freak, pop-up tornadoes that delayed his subway ride from Brooklyn. (Sometimes, unbeknownst to him, if his story was creative enough, I'd mark him "present" rather than "tardy.")

This morning, however, Sean's expression was very different as he stepped through the classroom door. We all saw it, my students and I. 

 "You okay?" I asked him. 

 "I think I just saw a plane fly into the Twin Towers." 

He looked baffled, like he wasn't sure if he was awake or still asleep, in a strange dream, in which he happened to glimpse down Sixth Avenue at the exact moment the world changed forever. 

 I don't recall exactly how I learned what was actually happening. The school office had tuned to the news coverage, and when I came to realize that the magnitude of the "plane crash" was much worse that what I'd pictured -- a Cessna or some other small craft bouncing off one of the towers -- my impulse was to be calm, to model calm for my students, so that they themselves could feel calm (and safe), as well. I had them form a line (this was in the days before everyone had a cell phone) so that they could use my classroom phone to call their families to let them know they were okay. 

We had moved our school up to West 30th Street only a year or two earlier. Our former location, at 51 Chambers Street, a few short blocks northeast of the towers, now looked like an eerie moonscape, covered with a coat of ash. We surely would have been evacuated to who-knows-where. 

 We eventually had an early dismissal, and, as I walked up to the Herald Square F-Train station, I was struck by the silence that filled this normally cacophonous part of town. Other than the occasional emergency vehicle, no motor traffic was allowed, so the usual groan and hiss of engines revving and braking, not to mention the ubiquitous honking of impatient horns, was surreally absent. People, too, were silent, as if we'd had the collective wind knocked out of us. I walked, slow-footed, to the train, which was re-routed to the D-Train tracks, taking us across the Manhattan Bridge. 

When we emerged from the tunnel, we all craned for a glimpse of the enormous plume of black smoke that billowed up from the space where the World Trade Center had stood for nearly 30 years. 

 "It's true," I heard a young woman say, fighting back her tears. "They really did it." 

 The smell of death and burning materials of all types hung in the air for days afterward. Thankfully, I did not lose anyone close to me on that day, although I certainly know many people who did. First responders spent days in unending double-shifts, desperately searching, first for survivors, then remains. I can only imagine what that experience did to them. 

 A week or so after the attacks, my now-wife, then-girlfriend and I sat on a bench on the Brooklyn Heights promenade, silently looking across the harbor, at the smoke that still hung over the site. The skyline was forever changed. I thought it looked as if someone had punched New York square in the face, knocking out its two front teeth. 

I didn't share that thought with Jeanette, because it was too sad to fathom. Instead, we just sat there in the silence, trying to imagine what our future, as a couple, as a country, as a planet, held in store for us.

In Memoriam: Carol Runyan Fuchs, Trickster Extraordinaire

My mother, Carol, painted by my aunt, Gabrielle Fuchs

 My mother, Carol Runyan Fuchs, would have turned 90 years old today. I've spent so many years without her now (over 30) that it's difficult even to conjure her in my memory, let alone imagine her at that age.

Actually, that's not true. It's not that hard to see her in my mind's eye. She's usually laughing; she was a trickster, after all. One evening, my college buddies were visiting our house on Scott Lane, and we were all sitting in the living room, chatting and having a beer. Out of nowhere, my roommate, Greg King, stood up and pointed toward the French doors that led out onto a screened porch, muttering something like "What the fuck?"

There, hovering beyond our own reflections in the paned glass, was an eerie, spectral-white, floating, featureless face, with a blank, almost sad expression.

"Mom!" I yelled, once I realized she was wearing the ceramic mask she herself had sculpted some years ago. When she came inside, she was laughing so hard she was snorting. I don't recall who the other young men in the room were (Jem Aswad? Ruben Howard? Ken Weinstein?), but Greg and I were both good and rattled by her little prank.

I also have memories of her sitting close to a lamp, reading. She read a lot. She appreciated good literature; our bookshelves were full, though titles and authors elude me now. I have memories of dozing on the couch, my head in her lap, as she ran her fingers absently through my hair, massaging my scalp as she read. I'd steal glances up at her, as she took sips of her drink, or blew smoke from her Tareytons out of her nostrils. 

Those gin and tonics and cigarettes are ubiquitous when I remember my mother, and are, I'm sure, a big part of why she left us so young. I wonder: what if she had realized at age 30 or so (as I myself had done) that life could be better without cigarettes? I have no idea whether that, along with a more moderate, less habitual, alcohol intake might have kept the pancreatic cancer that claimed her at bay. At least for awhile, perhaps?

There's no way to know the answer to that one, obviously. And to be honest, the likelihood of a 30-year-old smoker choosing to quit in early 1960s America, when professional athletes were still hawking tobacco on TV ads, was unlikely at best. I mean I'm sure it happened, but my mom loved her Tareytons and Gordon's gin to the very end.

I don't know what sort of 90 year old she would have been, had she lived this long. I believe she would have delighted in her daughters-in-law, Heidi and Jeanette. And she certainly would have adored her grandkids, Hannah, Diego, and Jackson. (It's one of my few great regrets in life that she never had the chance to know them.)

I'd like to believe she'd still have that mischievous glint in her eye -- that even at 90 she'd be busy plotting her next prank.

In the Peat by Dan Fuchs

 

"In the Peat," appearing in TeachAfar Blog.

Love in the Time of Corona: Update Fifteen: Jeanette Reyes-Fuchs, Playing Her Part at the IsoFac

 One of the more interesting changes in the life of our family -- one I realize I've not really mentioned up to now -- is that my wife Jeanette took a second job nearly a year ago as a call screener for the City of Austin's Covid Response effort.  She goes in every weekday, immediately after getting out of her day job for Austin ISD, and works from 5 pm to 10 pm, and Saturdays from 12 to 8.  She works at a hotel which has been repurposed as an Isolation Facility (IsoFac) for people who need to isolate due to Coronavirus.  

She takes calls from people, in both English and Spanish, and determines whether or not they're eligible to stay at the facility.  If they are, she makes sure they have transportation and are aware of all the processes, protocols, and procedures they'll need to follow during their period of isolation.

Now knowing Jeanette as I do, I never had any doubt that she would do the job well.  She is one of the hardest workers I've ever known.  Like her father before her, she takes work very seriously, never doing a job halfway.  As she always says, "Los vagos trabajan doble," a popular Spanish saying which loosely translates to "Lazy bums work twice as hard."  

Now that we've been stranded in our home, thanks to the Winter Storm of 2021, the IsoFac is patching calls over to her cell phone.  As a result, I'm witnessing her good work first-hand.

"And you are Covid-positive?"

"Anyone else?"

"And how old are you?"

"And your daughter is also positive?"

These are what the "typical" calls have sounded like.  Now, in the midst of this freeze, and the subsequent collapse of our utilities, things have changed.

"How long have you been without heat?"

"And you've been sitting in your car for how long?"

"And the baby is with you in the car?"

"Are you experiencing any symptoms at the moment."

She remains the consummate professional, well trained, skilled at helping people stay calm in dire situations.

During a break between calls, she sits at our dining room table in front of her laptop, and watches a fitness video on her phone.  

"You okay?" I ask, realizing that despite having it better than most of the people who call her, these conversations must take their toll.

She smiles at me.  

She looks tired.

I've never been prouder of her than I am right now.

Jeanette Reyes-Fuchs, 2020

Love in the Time of Corona: Update Fourteen - Valentine's Day 2021

The two of us, pre-Corona, out on a date

 We've been married for 6,960 days.  Happy Valentine's Day to my lovely bride.  I've made it clear in previous writings many times how I feel about this holiday -- that it's a shameless cash grab by the Chocolatier-Florist-Greeting Card-Industrial Complex, and yadda-yadda, blah-blah-blah.

The fact is -- and I've probably written about this, too -- that what I feel about Valentine's Day is completely beside the point.  This so-called "holiday" is decidedly not about me at all.

And that is fine.  As it should be.  I enjoy making my lovely bride feel loved.  Plan to do it for many years to come.  That being said, I woke up this morning and thought, "Shit.  I need to head over to Walmart and grab a card and some flowers."  Unfortunately, our unusually cold winter continues, thanks, apparently, to something called the "Polar Vortex" (sounds like a Nick Cage movie).  So when my tires started sliding on the icy roads, I decided not to tempt fate.  I turned around before even leaving the neighborhood, and re-parked the car in the driveway.

Then, the googling began -- "Free printable Valentine's Day card for spouse."  (Yes, honey, if you're reading this, I did say "free."  It's not a comment on your worth to me; it's about saving for that Tuscany trip we've been talking about.)

I found a card I liked that allows you to calculate the number of days you've been together -- thus the 6,960 for us -- and printed it up.  I then found some strawberries in the fridge, carved them into hearts, placed them on a nice white plate, and brought those items to her, along with her morning coffee.  She was so touched by the gesture she posted a photo with the comment, "It's all in the details. Thank you honey."

First of all, let me say that it was, quite literally, the least I could do.  Imma slide my soap box back over here, and stand up on it for a hot minute.

For those of us who do NOT make six or seven figures every year (and I understand and appreciate I have it better than many), these holidays, lovely though they are, bring an element of dread.  They activate that judgmental scold, that inner voice that asks the question, "Are you good enough? Your Facebook friend from high school is taking his wife to Mallorca for Valentine's Day, and you printed out a free card.  Look at you."  Or "Your next-door neighbor bought her kid a brand new car for his birthday.  What did you get yours for his?  Do you even remember?  What kind of parent are you?"

I know, I know.  "Buck up, Buttercup," right?  This is America.  This is the world as we know it.  As we've made it.  Still.  Makes you think, doesn't it?

Happy Valentine's Day to all!

A simple gesture to show my love

Wiseguys, Puppy Dogs, and Babies: A Movie Memory

This morning, as I worked on my daily journal writing, I noticed I was dropping more "F-bombs" than usual, due to what I've decided to call the Scorsese Effect.  I showed my sixteen-year-old son Jackson "Goodfellas" last night.  He was more than ready for it.  We'd watched "The Departed," as part of a Jack Nicholson series, so I decided to branch off into a Scorsese series, since he enjoyed that one so much.

He loved it, of course.  This may be me responding to that nagging, puritanical voice inside my head asking how I could show my teenage child such a graphic film, but I think "Goodfellas" is more of a deterrent to a life of crime than many people realize.  Henry's journey is a harrowing one, after all.  I doubt there are many young viewers -- though I'm sure there are a few -- who leave this movie thinking, "I wanna be a gangster."  You definitely understand, and empathize with why Henry gets into that life, but you also see that it turns him into a "schlub" in the end, wreaking death and destruction along the way.

Joe Pesci as Tommy DeVito in Martin Scorsese's 1990 picture "Goodfellas" 

I've got my own memory of the first time I went to see "Goodfellas."  I took my dad and stepmother Judy to the cinema on Central Avenue in Hartsdale  if my failing memory serves in this instance.  (According to my brother it's an Alamo Drafthouse now.)  My father and I had bonded through our love of both Mafia stories, -- thanks to "The Godfather," and "Godfather II," specifically -- and of Scorsese.  Dad was a huge fan of both "Taxi Driver" and "King of Comedy." 

"He's so good at capturing 'lonely monsters,'" was what he said about Marty.

When we emerged from our two-and-a-half hour experience, I turned to my father and asked what he'd thought.

"Definitely an instant classic," he said.

"Right?" I answered excitedly, shifting my attention to Judy.  She appeared less enthused.

"But..." my dad continued.

"What?" I asked.

"At our age," Judy smiled, "when we go into the video store..."

She trailed off, probably not wanting to be unkind or ruffle my proverbial feathers.  Although I'd known her since age 4 or 5 (we were next-door neighbors for a couple of years) our stepmother-stepson relationship was still new; my mother had passed away only a couple of years earlier.

"We're looking for movies about puppy dogs and babies," my dad added, finishing the thought.  

"Puppy dogs and babies," I said aloud.

Okay.  Food for thought.

Puppy dogs.  And babies.

A puppy dog.  Oh, and a baby.

As I continue to curate the programing for my current Scorsese film festival, I can't immediately think of a picture he's made that features either.  I may do "Gangs of New York" next, or maybe get crazy and re-watch "After Hours."  Not sure how it will hold up, but it's one of my faves.  Or we could go on a DeNiro tangent and look at "Midnight Run," or continue down the Pesci road with "My Cousin Vinny."  Thinking we could use a comedy next.  Not quite puppies and babies, but a good comedy like either of these could help "cleanse the emotional palate" as we move on together in this wonderful endeavor of father-and-son movie watching.

En el Tema de la Fortaleza: Daniel Eladio Reyes (mayo 20, 1941 - enero 01, 2021)

"Eladio" (lapicero y lápiz, de una foto)

Nociones de debilidad y fortaleza. No estoy seguro de por qué la fortaleza y ​​la debilidad han estado en mi mente últimamente, pero tengo la sensación de que hay una serie de factores que hacen que mis pensamientos se orienten en esta dirección.

Mi suegro, Daniel Eladio Reyes de León, era un hombre fuerte, en más de un sentido de la palabra. Un gran trabajador, se dedicó a tareas manuales, ya sea pintar una pared, construir una mesa, cortar malezas y árboles muertos, o incluso tallar esa madera muerta en bates de béisbol para sus nietos, con una perseverancia enfocada en el láser hasta que ese trabajo estuviera hecho. Luego, después de que su esposa o hija le recordaran que comiera y bebiera agua, se repostaría y encontraría una nueva tarea física para atacar. Creo que esos trabajos le proporcionaron un gran placer y, como Hércules y sus doce trabajos, aumentaron sus fuerzas. Eladio no se vio debilitado por todo ese trabajo duro; al contrario, lo que lo debilitaba era la inactividad. No me malinterpretes: estaba muy contento de sentarse en su silla mirando a sus Yankees. Pero ese cansancio contento, que a menudo lo llevaba a estar "dormido al volante", como lo llama mi hermano, remoto en la mano, no era cansancio. Fue pura satisfacción.

"La televisión lo está mirando a el," decía su esposa, Sita, en esos momentos.

Una noche, sentado en el aire libre de la sala de su casa de Santo Domingo, Eladio quiso hablarme de política. En mi memoria que se desvanece, el tema era Donald Trump, aunque pueden haber sido sus quejas sobre la debilidad de Leonel Fernández, expresidente de República Dominicana.

"Mira", dijo, tomando mi antebrazo en su fuerte agarre. No bebió mucho en sus últimos años, pero creo que en ese momento podríamos haber tomado uno o dos vasos de Brugal. "Intenta soltarte."

"Ummm," dije, sin querer, como él dijo, intentar soltarme. Tampoco quería faltarle el respeto al no honrar sus deseos. Así que no hice nada, sonriéndole tontamente, hasta que él se rió con su risa de ojos brillantes y me dejó ir. Me dio unas palmaditas en la rodilla.

"Ay, Dan", dijo. "La fortaleza es muy importante". 

"Si," respondí, frotando la sensación de nuevo en mi antebrazo.

Mi suegro se reclinó en su gran sillón reclinable y cerró los ojos, la imagen de la satisfacción.

Y de la fortaleza.