I know I should write about this Osama stuff, but honestly it makes me incredibly uncomfortable. Something just feels horribly wrong about celebrating any sort of death. I mean, I wouldn’t even wish it on Rod Stewart. Much.
September 11th was easily the scariest, most confusing day of my life. But I know I was one of the lucky ones. From my office window in Midtown, I could only see the billows of smoke across the otherwise clear sky. Rocco had taken day work out in Jersey and wasn’t in the city – safe. Even my brother Drew, who was only a few blocks away from the World Trade Center when the planes hit, eventually made it safe and sound to our apartment up in Washington Heights.
I didn’t lose anyone close to me.
But I lost my sense of safety. Elevators make me nervous. I hate being more than ten stories off the ground. I lost my ability to hear a loud boom and think “fireworks” before immediately jumping to “bomb.” Motorcycles make me cower. I can’t watch a movie set in NYC without searching the skyline for the twin towers. I’ll never get used to seeing the National Guard at Port Authority or Grand Central Station. And almost daily I wonder at the horrors my brother must have seen. And I mourn all that he lost, too. And those that lost even more.
But you won’t find me down at Ground Zero celebrating Bin Laden’s death. Execution? Honestly, I don’t even know what to call it.
And please don’t take this as an anti-military rant. I’m incredibly proud of our troops and grateful for their sacrifices. As Rocco keeps pointing out to me, capturing Bin Laden, dead or alive, was one of our nation’s primary goals when we entered Afghanistan. It’s important to our troops and our national pride that we’ve accomplished that goal, that pledge. And for that, I congratulate them and offer my sincerest thanks.
But I feel no relief or sense of retribution. I don’t feel any safer. I just feel sad all over again. And maybe a little frightened about what might happen next.