A Walk Through Manhattan’s Unofficial 9/11 Memorials

Manhattan — Melat Kiros is a fool. She might also become my representative to the people’s branch, in the House of Madison, despite her opinion that the United States made the enormity of September 11, 2001, “inevitable.” Sins of our Denver. Remember: Islamist theocrats might have had something more to do with those airliners’ final descent. No, she imagines terrorism as elementary mechanics, action–reaction, as if free will is free only for some; unaffordable outside North America. Is this bad faith or bad English? Melat was stateside by then, only four years old. We’ve all thought stupid thoughts when we were young, but she and I no longer have that excuse. Remember, remember: Susan Sontag, fully adult in 2001, thought al-Qaeda jihadis were so brave that she wrote in the New Yorker about it. That’s bad faith as well as bad taste. They held unarmed passengers at box-cutter-point, ma’am; it’s not as though they “drank death like wine at Austerlitz.” Delusion and courage are cousins often mistaken for each other. I need a drink. Would you like a drink? I need a drink.

Finally: a proper pour of Guinness. The little harp plays the song of rest after a Homeric homecoming. (What? We flew basic economy.) It’s extra stout. Wine-dark, see? Foam dome; the whole thing. Behind the bar works a beat alchemist who knows the rite: the right — or half-right, 45-degree — angle between glass and tap, the 119.5-second settle after the first measure, then the finishing ounces. A wizard of oz. My eyes rise to offer a nod of appreciation. Instead they meet PC POWELL: name tag and Union Jack stapled to the bar soffit. The police constable has chosen a crowded spot next to rangers, marines, and medics; firemen from Tahoe, Tijuana, Tallinn. From Cedar Rapids and Stockholm, Gran Canaria and Little Chute. From Aurora in Colorado, Melat’s hometown. We’re in a civilian wilderness, but military badges and emergency crews’ insignia have overgrown the walls, the ceiling; every surface that doesn’t make contact with footwear or glassware. I check to confirm that our seats haven’t been similarly claimed. Sit up straight, shoulders back. This is a site of pilgrimage.

About the Author

Vahaken Mouradian

Vahaken Mouradian is the literary editor of National Review.

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Manhattan — Melat Kiros is a fool. She might also become my representative to the people’s branch, in the House of Madison, despite her opinion that the United States made the enormity of September 11, 2001, “inevitable.” Sins of our Denver. Remember: Islamist theocrats might have had something more to do with those airliners’ final descent. No, she imagines terrorism as elementary mechanics, action–reaction, as if free will is free only for some; unaffordable outside North America. Is this bad faith or bad English? Melat was stateside by then, only four years old. We’ve all thought stupid thoughts when we were young, but she and I no longer have that excuse. Remember, remember: Susan Sontag, fully adult in 2001, thought al-Qaeda jihadis were so brave that she wrote in the New Yorker about it. That’s bad faith as well as bad taste. They held unarmed passengers at box-cutter-point, ma’am; it’s not as though they “drank death like wine at Austerlitz.” Delusion and courage are cousins often mistaken for each other. I need a drink. Would you like a drink? I need a drink.

Finally: a proper pour of Guinness. The little harp plays the song of rest after a Homeric homecoming. (What? We flew basic economy.) It’s extra stout. Wine-dark, see? Foam dome; the whole thing. Behind the bar works a beat alchemist who knows the rite: the right — or half-right, 45-degree — angle between glass and tap, the 119.5-second settle after the first measure, then the finishing ounces. A wizard of oz. My eyes rise to offer a nod of appreciation. Instead they meet PC POWELL: name tag and Union Jack stapled to the bar soffit. The police constable has chosen a crowded spot next to rangers, marines, and medics; firemen from Tahoe, Tijuana, Tallinn. From Cedar Rapids and Stockholm, Gran Canaria and Little Chute. From Aurora in Colorado, Melat’s hometown. We’re in a civilian wilderness, but military badges and emergency crews’ insignia have overgrown the walls, the ceiling; every surface that doesn’t make contact with footwear or glassware. I check to confirm that our seats haven’t been similarly claimed. Sit up straight, shoulders back. This is a site of pilgrimage.