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>Here’s something I never posted on 9/11/03.

>A few days ago I remembered my Kenneth Cole visit (see below) and wondered why I didn’t accept the hug offered to me. Now, a few days later, I found this unpublished post and decided to “put it out there”. Here it is from 9/11/03:

Two years ago today I walked across the 59th Street Bridge with a heart so full of acute emotion, feeling threatened and alone in the midst of thousands of others. I cried hard off and on for many weeks.

A year ago today my big, black movie star sunglasses couldn’t hide my sadness and the sales girl at Kenneth Cole offered me a hug. I refused. “It’s just a bad day,” I muttered. As I had done for many of the weeks leading up to the first anniversary, I cried off and on and ambled through the day and night.

Today my tiny dog had her itsy-bitsy body scrunched up tight next to my sleeping boyfriend. I tip-toed around trying to figure out just what to wear on this beautiful, clear blue day. Everything was just the same as it ever was and seemingly ever will be. But for . . . the train conductor choked through her announcement leading us into a moment of silence; Mike’s face was red and splotchy from crying; Leeza burst into tears at her desk more than once; and even Jack, blustery, rude, incorrigible Jack, was shaken and exhausted from the memorials, and I felt guilty. Guilty for feeling so happy and at peace with my personal world, for loving my job and my boss and my production company and my friends, for hating kids and having no patience for the elderly or mentally-retarded, for not ever doing anything truly charitable, guilty for being so madly in love with a Chihuahua.

When my dad was convicted of attempted murder a year ago, I wrote that what made me most sad was to think that he will grow old and die lonely and alone in jail and nothing good will ever come of his life. No one would know him as he was or care to know him as he is. He will always be fatally flawed in a stranger’s eyes; not worth anyone’s compassion or pity or love; deserving of a dank cell empty of warmth and filled with pain and suffering.

Flawed people died two years ago today. There were alcoholics, drug abusers, liars, cheaters and selfish people, perhaps even a convict or two among them. But they were all victims. Innocent and unsuspecting and their families are deserving of our sympathy for their unwitting sacrifices.

I’ve wished I could swap my dad with Some One who died on September 11, 2001, that was young and vibrant. Some One would be able to hear and speak, be loved unconditionally and would have a future and life worth living. Then, if anyone asked about my dad, they would not hear that he was an alcoholic, druggy, liar, cheat, abuser and selfish convict. Despite all of his flaws, they would only hear that I had sacrificed him unwittingly. He would somehow be worthy of their respect and I wouldn’t reject their sympathy and that Some One would go on and lead his life …

flawed.

Kambri

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