A note to my readers: Thank you for bearing with me as I sporadically hit “publish” on these posts. I will return to regularly scheduled content soon, posting once a week at a new day/time– on Friday mornings. Your patience and support are so very appreciated!
As I write this, I hear a firetruck’s siren blaring in the distance and a bell ringing behind the waaaaaah sound and, oddly, I feel a sense of joy. This distinct siren sound is connected to a sweet slice of Americana novelty and memories of the past – not a crisis.
Every year, on the weekend following Labor Day, my little beach town hosts a Fair to benefit the volunteer fire department. I watched, earlier this week, as the out-of-town fair company somehow constructed a portable ferris wheel in the beach club parking lot, along with other rickety rides I am no longer brave enough to go on. This fair has been a constant in all my years visiting and living on the Jersey Shore. It’s a bittersweet, final send-off to summertime, jam-packed with candy wheels, impossible-to-win carnival games, endless french fries, and the thrill of nausea-inducing rides that look like a lawsuit waiting to happen.
When entering the fair, there is a frenzy of excitement. Bright, colorful lights hit your retinas before you realize which game trailer they are coming from. There’s chatter all around and kids breezing past your kneecaps, running with prizes in tow. There’s always a man screaming about the 50/50 raffle, “get your ticketssss!” his voice projecting over the dozens of sounds. Despite the initial overwhelm, I could rely on the fair’s predictability and the rituals to take comfort in.
At the beginning of the night, I would be handed a $20 bill from my Mom and try to make it last an hour, but the Crazy Cats game with giant stuffed animals cost $5 for three throws, and I was never very coordinated. Aunts and Uncles would slip my cousins and me one-dollar bills to enable our unwise spending, all in the name of fun. On bracelet night (the night you pay one fee for unlimited rides), we would go on as many rides as possible, from the teacups to the tilt-a-whirl. When we were little our parents would stand by, cheering us on but as we got older we got braver and they couldn’t bear to watch us voluntarily chain ourselves into a metal wall and spin in circles a dozen times on the Round Up.
With every year came new rides and games, swapping out the Tilt-A-Whirl for The Zipper and Fun Houses that were never very fun. One thing that always remained constant is my favorite “ride.” One that wasn’t even included it bracelet night. For three bucks you could go on the town’s 1948 Mack firetruck and take a leisurely jaunt about town after dark, squished between a dozen or so kids and their grownups. I would reel in anticipation of which streets we would go down, passing by houses of friends and family and waving to pedestrians, embracing the breeze blowing through my hair as the diesel smell seeped into my nostrils. Even with the siren blaring, I always felt a sense of ease and gratitude. I knew how lucky I was to be at this small-town fair, savoring every last drop of summertime in this safe place I know and love.
It’s a hearty dose of Americana. Fairs like this one are steeped in a culture that is oh-so-American. From the American flags hoisted high, little ones atop their parents shoulders, the sea of blue jeans, the plastic mugs of warm light beer, long lines for fried food, and of course, the live band playing Bruce Springsteen’s song “Glory Days”. It’s an embodiment of freedom, at least for a few nights.
Inevitably, this fair brings back memories of my Dad and the days before his death. I spent the last night of the last fair with him, curled up in his lap under a beach towel, hiding from the boom of the fireworks, thoroughly convinced they wouldn’t fall into the ocean like all the grown-ups were assuring me. As I shared in a Substack last month, August brings back waves of grief for me, and September does too. I can’t escape the reminders of September 11th looming, but I do my best to lean into this picture-perfect slice of Americana. Holding onto the momentary joy and pride of living in this country. I deeply wish to linger in this feeling, but news headlines of another school shooting quickly dissipate that pride and replace it with heartbreak and rage. How can we still be living in a country with so much violence and terror?
My love for this country is complicated. When my Dad was killed on September 11, 2001, I was in Kindergarten, and immediately, nationwide fear was combatted with Patriotism. American flags were purchased at a record rate, and my class of five-year-olds planted red, white, and blue pansies in the courtyard outside my classroom. An act of kindness to honor all those who lost their lives in the 9/11 terrorist attacks, including my Dad and another little boy’s Dad who attended my elementary school.
It felt like, in the aftermath of this tragedy, my Dad’s death was conflated with pride for America. September 11th, 2001, is nationally recognized as “Patriot Day,” dedicated to honoring the lives lost by the terrorist attack. He wasn’t a fireman, first responder, veteran, or the like. He was just an average American going to work. When he entered the World Trade Center that morning, he didn’t sign up to put his life on the line for our country.
Admittedly, he was patriotic. Maybe it’s because he was shipped off to Military school at the ripe age of 8, or more likely, he had a genuine sense of unharmed pride for our country. He only bought American-made cars: Chevys for him and Pontiacs for my Mom. When my parents bought my childhood home, one of the first things he did was install a flagpole.
On the street I grew up on, there’s a protected plot of land known as Washington Campground, an actual campground where George Washington and his troops lived for several months during the Revolutionary War. There are even cannons and cannonballs to prove it. Every year on the Fourth of July, we attended an Independence Day ceremony there. While my four-year-old self would wiggle around in the hot summer sun, my Dad listened intently, reminded by the speakers that historians consider that solemn ground to be where the first official American flag was flown.
The Americana seeped into my young life in more overt ways, too. I remember seeing a rusty sign in our garage that belonged to him. It read, “America. Love it or Leave it.” In my adult years, I have defied that logic and lived in the gray area. You can love something and be critical. I do not take for granted my freedoms while striving for more. I don’t have citizenship elsewhere, so I am trying my best to make our country better in the ways I know how. I vote, I volunteer, and I donate to campaigns of candidates that I wholeheartedly believe will protect the rights of all Americans and work to end senseless violence on our soil and terrorism here and abroad.
Living in that gray area, I somehow conjured up the same bravery I had when on those rickety fair rides to write about my life and share my experience as an American whose life was forever changed in a single Tuesday morning. In my words, I hope to share a story that feels more buoyant than heavy and give a slice of perspective that might otherwise be unknown. It’s my tiny way of honoring Americana in all its forms.
As the twenty-third anniversary of September 11th approaches this Wednesday, I’m thinking of everyone from the 9/11 community, especially my friends and family, who continue to feel this loss as deeply today as they did more than two decades ago. I’m sharing a few resources below if you would like to learn more, read stories, or get involved with various organizations committed to supporting 9/11 families and honoring legacies.
If you’re interested in reading more of my writing on this topic, you can check out two personal essays I had published a few years ago:
I Lost My Dad on 9/11. I’m Still Searching for Who He Was. in NY Magazine’s The Cut
My Father was on the 99th Floor of the South Tower on 9/11. Here are 3 Lessons I’ve Learned in the Two Decades of Healing Since in Maria Shriver’s Sunday Paper
If you’re interested in reading other “9/11 kids” stories of loss, healing, and resilience:
Wednesday Morning Growing Up in Grief by Christine Fiorelli Epstein
Sway by Matthew John Bocchi
Rise from the Ashes by Peyton Lynch
If you’re an educator looking to teach about 9/11:
The 9/11 Memorial Museum has incredible resources, including a 9/11 Anniversary Digital Learning Experience. This year, on the 11th, a live chat will be available from 9 am to 3 pm EDT for students to ask questions and receive answers from museum staff.
If you’d like to donate or get involved with organizations supporting 9/11 families and legacies:
Tuesday’s Children is committed to providing healing and resilience for military families of the fallen and families affected by 9/11, turning pain into purpose while honoring their legacies.
9/11 Memorial Museum hosts an annual walk and 5k, has various volunteer opportunities, and a Never Forget Fund to support their educational programming.
Voices Center for Resilience has a unique legacy of providing long-term support for the 9/11 community while sharing our nearly two decades of expertise to assist those impacted by other tragedies in the United States and abroad. Donations go directly to support services, education, and training.
Thank you for reading this one.
xoxo
Nicole