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Tuesday, 16 September 2003 |
On a recent warm August night, I joined that group of waiting people. I was taking the 2:00 am van to Great Meadow Maximum Security Correctional Facility in Comstock, New York to visit my friend, George Baba Eng, or Baba, as his friends affectionately call him. He's been incarcerated for twenty-seven years now for killing a drug dealer who had pulled a gun on Baba's wife. The public defender assigned to his case hadn't bothered to mount much of a defense since Baba was poor, Black and drug addicted at the time. He wound up with twenty-five years to life.
I first "met" Baba, in the summer of 2002 at the Millions for Reparations Rally in Washington, DC when long-time activist and Reparationist, Sundiata Sadiq, showed me a copy of the insightful article Baba had written on reparations and the need for "Restorative Justice." As the Communications Director for the organization Caucasians United for Reparations and Emancipation, I was greatly interested in how this incarcerated brother saw the subject.
Baba's writing impressed me so much that I wrote an article about him. Then I began corresponding with him, mostly through his very close friend, Karima Amin, an African storyteller who performs in venues all over the country, including behind the walls.
In early August Karima wrote me that it would mean a lot to Baba if I visited him. That was all I needed to be told. I'd wanted to visit him for quite a while but never had the gumption to carve out a space in my busy schedule and just do it.
Once I decided to go, I was really excited. Even so, I found that as I made the actual preparations, I had pre-visit heebie-jeebies about practically everything from "What if the bus breaks down and I get stranded?" to "What if I have banned items on me and they don't let me in?" and most of all, knowing that the visit would last about five hours, "What if Baba and I run out of things to talk about?"
Thinking back to those fears now makes me almost laugh because they all proved so completely unfounded, especially the last. But through it all, Karima patiently answered my every question and gave me constant reassurance.
THE OTHER VISITORS
As about seventy of us waited on the corner for our buses and vans to pull up, I was hoping that during the four and a half hour trip to Comstock and the ensuing wait at the prison I'd get a chance to talk to several of my fellow travelers and learn something about them and the persons they were visiting.
My first conversation was with a very pretty young woman going to Washington Correctional Facility, also in Comstock. She told me that this was her first visit to her uncle. He had shot but not killed someone who had assaulted him first in a case of mistaken identities. The man had not even pressed charges, but her uncle was given a year and a half for illegal possession of a weapon and an additional year and a half for assault.
There was a very dignified Black woman executive who was likely in her mid-thirties. She was visiting a friend she's known since childhood. He'd been convicted on the testimony of only one eyewitness. Even though he had done some bad things earlier in life, he swears he is innocent of this crime, and she believes him. She and others are trying to get him an appeal, but it's heavy going and she has little faith in the system.
I spoke with a very lively woman from the Bronx, probably in her early forties, whose husband has been incarcerated for twenty-seven years. They've been married for thirteen of those years. He had been the best friend of her first husband who had been shot and killed. In their mutual grief over his death, they bonded so deeply that they eventually decided to marry.
Another quiet-spoken young woman was visiting the father of her fourteen-month-old daughter, an adorable little girl who was curious about everything. He's serving six months in the Security Housing Unit (SHU) for supposedly sassing a guard, (a correction officer or CO). For that reason he's not allowed out in the big room with everyone else but has to receive visitors in a claustrophobic little room off to the side. From it they can hear the sounds of the main room, which just accents their desolating sense of isolation.
Another mother was there to see her teenage son who was only seventeen when he went in. She told me that he did commit the crime and deserved to be punished, but she is extremely concerned about the effect of his being in an adult facility at such a young age. He's scheduled for release next year, and she just hopes that he comes out without irreparably damage.
There was also a very elegant grandmother who spoke only Spanish. She comes frequently to visit her son, who should be released in December. This time she brought her youngest grandson, who appeared to be in his early twenties, for his first visit to his father in the four years he's been incarcerated.
Another woman told me that she and her four-year-old daughter had been scheduled to leave for their first conjugal visit with her husband on the night of the blackout, but with the subways out of service, they couldn't get to the bus. She had tried to reschedule for the following weekend, but the prison wouldn't allow that. The next availability was in October.
She was disappointed, but her daughter was devastated. The little girl has no memories of her father because she was only three months old when he went in. She had been beside herself with excitement about meeting him and spending the night together under the same roof, so it was quite a blow.
All of the children I saw seemed delighted to be coming to visit their fathers, even though many of them were too young to really understand where they were and what was what. In the van, for instance, there was a little boy about sixteen months old who kept saying happily as he bounced up and down with joy, "Go see daddy! Go see daddy!"
Throughout the entire roundtrip - and I'm talking close to eighteen hours - I was struck by how well behaved the children were. There were no whining infants or children throwing tantrums. Only once did I hear a baby get upset about something and cry loudly for about thirty seconds. The anticipation and emotions of the trip were felt even by the little ones.
IN THE WAITING ROOM
Through the dawning day we drove on, and shortly before 7:00 am we arrived at Great Meadow Correctional Facility. We disembarked and lined up outside the prison in the chilly morning air, along with others who'd come by car. Whereas everyone in the vans except me had been Black or Latino/a, several of them were white.
Soon we were admitted into the visitor's waiting room. As we filed in past the desk, we were each given a form requiring basic information about the person we were visiting and ourselves. First-time visitors got a second form as well. After filling them out, we brought them back to the guard, who examined them and our two pieces of photo ID.
Karima had told me that the reason we weren't admitted into the visiting room until 9:00 am was because they have a change over of the guards first. Therefore, I took a seat where I could get a good look at who was entering and exiting. I watched as white guard after white guard passed by in both directions, each with the job of wielding power over the inmates of color who mainly comprise the prison population. I saw exactly one Black guard come in and none go out.
On the van coming up, a woman had explained to me that most of them dress for comfort for the long trip, but bring everything they need to really dress up after they get there. Then they leave all their traveling stuff in a locker in the visitors' room.
Therefore, when I opened the door to the ladies' room, I was met by the pleasing sights and sounds of women happily engaged in the act of transforming themselves. The mood was festive as scarves came off heads, curlers were removed from hair and make-up was applied. The women graciously stepped aside to make room for each other in front of the two small mirrors. They took turns going into the booth to don their nice outfits and to change their children's clothes. The whole thing reminded me of the girl's bathroom in high school, only nicer because there was such a spirit of camaraderie and cooperation.
And let me tell you, when the ladies stepped out, they were lookin' good! I could hardly recognize several of my travel companions who had turned into some foxy ladies.
Then, we waited. While we did, we were able to enjoy the coffee, juice and diverse breakfast snacks that a woman named Rebecca, who volunteers with a Christian organization, had so kindly set out for us.
ENTERING THE VISITING AREA
At 9 am sharp, they began letting us in, one by one. When they called out the name of the person we were visiting, we went up to the counter, took off our shoes and set them on top for examination along with the other meager things we were allowed to bring in: not much more than our IDs, house keys and money for the vending machines. We couldn't have anything like a lipstick and certainly not a mirror or anything else that could possibly be turned into a weapon.
If a woman had on an underwire bra, she had to remove it in the ladies room, put it into a small brown paper bag and place it on the counter as well. It was only after she'd gone all the way through to the visiting area that she was allowed to put it back on in the rest room.
When the name George Baba Eng was called, I took off my shoes, earrings and watch and placed them on the counter with my wallet. I went through the metal detector just fine. Then they stamped the back of my hand with an iridescent blue ink that only showed up under a special light, gave me back one of the forms I'd filled out, and slid open the first set of bars for me to walk through. After they had shut behind me, I was sent out a door and across a small courtyard to another building where the guards buzzed me in. From there, I was let through another set of bars and into the visiting area.
I entered the visitors' room and handed over my form to one of the guards at the desk. He asked me if I planned to leave money for the inmate - I said no because I hadn't even known such a thing was possible - and he pointed out exactly what seat I was to take at one of the three long tables running the length of the room. There were no glass partitions above the tables, but there were wooden panels underneath to prohibit contact of any kind below. As I saw later, all the visitors sit on one side of the tables with their backs to the guards, while the incarcerated men all sit on the other, facing the guards.
As instructed by Karima, I then went into the vending machine room to buy all the items for Baba's and my lunch and the tickets for the Polaroid photos that we could have taken together. She had told me what he liked best to eat and also to be sure to get the photo tickets right away before they were gone.
Though there were so many of us crammed into this tiny room in long lines for the machines, I was amazed by the good nature and fellow feeling. Never did I feel it more than when I got my first turn at a machine. As I struggled with each purchase to get the machine to accept my money, I was embarrassed because I felt so inept and like I was taking forever! Yet, no one showed the slightest sign of impatience or irritation with me, but offered suggestions and tried to help.
VISITING BABA
In between my raids on the various vending machines, I kept looking to see if Baba had been brought down yet because I wanted to be there when he walked in. Just as I carried in my last haul, I looked over and there he was, coming through the inmates' entrance. I recognized him immediately from his photo.
We came to our assigned places, leaned over the table and gave each other a big hug. Then we sat down and immediately dove right into deep discussion with no preliminary small talk.
Looking straight into each other's eyes, Baba and I talked non-stop for four and a half hours. We discussed all kinds of things, both personal and impersonal. For instance, I asked him how he sees the Bible with its condoning of such things as slavery and the oppression of women, and he gave me his answer, placing it in the context not only of the history of Christianity, but of Judaism and Islam.
We talked about politics, racism, the reparations movement, and about our very selves. When I asked, he told me in detail about the commission of his crime. He never tried to lessen one iota the awfulness of what he had done in taking the life of another human being. His searing, everlasting remorse for it was evident.
We also talked about dance (I used to be a dance teacher) and about gardening, another love of mine.
Just as in his letters, I found Baba to be warm, sincere, open, intelligent, scholarly and kind - the sort of person it's a real joy to spend time with under any circumstances. I felt so at ease with him, completely at liberty to be myself and free to bring up any subject under the sun.
I already had tremendous respect for Baba before I came, but every good thing I thought of him was confirmed and multiplied during our visit. I am positive that he is a changed man who not only deserves to rejoin society, but a man desperately needed in the community. He is both a warning and an inspiration to young men who may be headed down the wrong track and need support and positive direction. I am sure that interaction with him could turn many of their lives around so they don't end up spending years behind the walls like he has. That is why, when he goes before the parole board in December, with all my heart I hope and pray, as do so many others, that they grant him a parole.
THE ATMOSPHERE IN THE ROOM ITSELF
Around noon I went back to the vending machine room to microwave our lunch. When called, Baba and I also went to the area off to the side where, under the watchful eye of a guard, an inmate took our photos. Each time, before sitting back down, I looked around the room, trying to gauge the general atmosphere among the approximately sixty inmates with their visitors.
What I saw was such an intense interaction between people that it's hard to describe. While there were a few people playing cards, practically everyone was locked in deepest conversation. Most were looking straight into each other's eyes, and many were holding hands.
Usually in a room with so many people, groups form for casual conversation. Here, however, even though we were sandwiched between the persons next to us in about three feet of space, we each focused on the person across from us as though we were in complete privacy.
The sound level was so loud you had to strain to hear your partner; yet, there was something wonderful about the din. You could tell that this wasn't casual conversation, but fervent communication, people trying to establish a deep connection with each other. You could literally feel these men's hunger for a taste of the world beyond the walls, brought to them by someone who recognized their humanity.
Children sprawled on the tables and even perched on the inmates' laps, all looking as though they were having the time of their lives. One little boy sat astride his father's shoulders while he leaned forward, talking to his wife.
Shortly after I first sat down, a man entered, whose appearance I found a little scary. He took a seat not too far away, and I soon forgot about him. When I was looking around the room, though, I noticed him again. He was leaning across the table with a very tender expression on his face as he gazed lovingly into the face of his woman visitor. Very gently, he stroked her hand. She had tears in her eyes. Recalling my first superficial response - and yes, I have to say it, racist reaction - I felt so critical of myself and vowed to learn from it.
Altogether, being in that visiting room and witnessing the indomitable spirit of those present was a tremendously compelling and educational experience. When you looked around, you were aware that if you knew the story of any one of these inmates and his visitor it would break your heart. And you knew, too, that all of them, taken together, would comprise a massive weight of unbearable pain. Yet, here was this remarkable affirmation of humanity taking place and a sense of real joy snatched from so much tragedy.
LEAVING
At 1:45 pm we were given the warning signal that there were only 15 minutes remaining. I was shocked that the time had flown by so fast; I felt I could easily have stayed and talked with Baba for at least another four hours.
When the final signal came, I was really sad to leave. I gave Baba the biggest embrace I could as everyone else hugged and kissed goodbye. Then they hustled the inmates out through their exit while we retrieved our sheets of paper and began making our way back through to the waiting room.
Before they let us through each locked door, they checked our blue-stamped hands under the light. Prior to passing through the final barred doorway, we also had to write our signatures again, which they compared with our originals when we first came in.
Those with possessions in lockers retrieved them, and then we all climbed back into our vans.
The ride up had been fairly quiet because it was, after all, the dead of night and most people were trying to get some sleep. But in the van going home, there was a completely different kind of quiet. Even though the driver was playing music, the silence of the visitors was palpable. Everyone, myself included, were struggling with lots of difficult emotions, and we were pretty well hunkered down within ourselves.
Meanwhile, the weather outside was, in stark contrast, wonderfully bright and sunny. It was jarring to realize it was just like any ordinary Saturday afternoon drive in the country as we passed beautiful scenery and even wildlife, including a deer with her fawn.
When we reached Ricky's at about 7:30 pm, we all said a swift goodbye before making off in different directions. Many, no doubt, will see each other again soon on future trips to visit loved ones.
Though there were painful aspects, this trip was one of the deepest and most moving experiences of my life. I wouldn't have missed it for anything. I implore anyone who has ever thought of visiting someone behind bars to go ahead and do it. You will affirm your own humanity as you help affirm someone else's.
Two bus lines serving the New York correctional facilities are Operation Prison Gap, (800) 734-3733 and Double K Transportation, (718) 495-4991.
Donna Lamb can be reached at
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Monday, 15 September 2003 |
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It’s a horrifying and chilling event, yet it’s seemingly straightforward and simple. Airplanes have been commandeered since the invention of multi-place aircraft. The American people, reeling from the attacks of the day, accepted the straightforward. As time passed, and the searing emotions dulled, the questions began to be asked.
Initial reports claimed that five terrorists had taken over the aircraft. Of those five, Saudi Arabian national Hani Hanjor was the only individual that the FBI named as a pilot. But the problem was that Hanjor was an incompetent pilot, as reported by Newsday’s magazine. It was related that, in August 2001, Hanjor showed up at Freeway Airport in Bowie, Md. wanting to rent a Cessna 172. The alleged hijacker produced a FAA pilot license and a logbook showing 600 hours of total flight time. Two instructors took Hanjor up for a short test flight. Unfortunately, he lacked the flying skill to allow him to rent the small single-engine airplane.
The Boeing 757 is a far more difficult plane to fly than is a Cessna, the plane that Hanjor was unable to prove that he was capable of piloting. Yet Hanjor allegedly flew flight 77 into the Pentagon. It was said that Hanjor flew an airplane 2,000 times larger than anything he had ever flown and that he flew it 400 percent faster. Despite his inadequate flying skills, Hanjor was allegedly able to execute a 5-g turn from 7,000 feet, 270 degrees in a very long sweeping turn, level off at just over the power lines, and hit the side of the building dead solid perfect on the first pass. And all of this was done at just under 500 miles per hour. That’s the technical part. The human element is just as compelling. This young pilot is in the heartland of his hated enemy, and he is in an airplane that can be shot out of the sky at any second. He is going to kill himself and his comrades as well as hundreds of other people. He’s been at the controls for more than an hour. If he flinches, the mission fails. This twenty-something didn’t flinch, not even as he faced certain death.
Hanjor’s comrades in the two other hijacked airplanes that hit their marks also didn’t flinch. They each made perfect hits on the twin towers, each pulling about two Gs.
Of course, once they took over the aircraft hundreds of miles from their target, they had to navigate all of the way back to Washington by using some sort of portable global positioning satellite. They would have to maneuver down from thousands of feet over hundreds of miles to nearly ground level as they headed back east. Their mission was to find the Pentagon and then hit it.
Let’s turn our attention to even simpler questions. Five Arab men hijacked flight 77, so why are there no Arabic-names on any of the passenger manifest that I have in my files? This was solved by cross checking the names on the passenger list against those on the memorial list. Short of the five hijackers, they add up. But what names were the hijackers using? They were alleged to be using aliases. But the FBI said that their identities were traced through the credit cards that they used to buy the tickets in their own names. If this were the case, the fake names wouldn’t match the real names on the tickets or the manifest.
But, if collectively, all of the hijackers went to the trouble of faking their names somehow, why did they leave flight manuals and passports written in Arabic behind in rental cars in some parking lots? The passport of alleged terror mastermind Mohammed Atta was found in the rubble of the World Trade Center two blocks away. He used an alias to get aboard, but he kept his passport. Everything and everyone aboard his plane was incinerated beyond any hope of recovery, except his passport.
Despite all of these inconsistencies, the planes did crash. And the questions come up as to why wasn’t anything done to stop that from happening?
Each hijacking occurred in the northeast corner of the United Sates. This is the busiest airspace on the planet. Each commercial flight, commonly called a heavy, is always under positive control. Each heavy is under constant communication with air traffic controllers to maintain safe separation from other aircraft. Altitude information is provided by the aircraft transponder, and communicates to the air traffic controllers, and that information shows up on the control screens. Turn the transponder off, and the controller no longer knows the altitude and the separation of the heavies. That aircraft is now a hazard to air navigation and will be ordered to go to 3,500 feet and to return to the airport.
If voice communication is lost as well and the aircraft begins to wander from its original flight plan, there is now a state of emergency all over the airspace. The ability to keep planes from running into each other is now in serious jeopardy. On the morning of September 11, 2001, there were four heavies with no transponders and no voice communications wandering around the busiest airspace on the planet. Within two or three minutes, there would be near panic across the entire air traffic control system.
What should have happen next would have been a matter of routine. These intercept procedures have been in place for years. There were more then 60 routine interceptions in the months prior to 9/11. The air traffic controller calls a duty/liaison officer at the North American defense Command in Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado. Within two to three minutes, the first available fighter jets are scrambled, off the ground, and on their way to intercept. Even though the aircraft’s transponder is off, the heavy’s airframe produces a radar echo visible to controllers who can vector a chase plane to the target. Authorization for an intercept from a higher authority is not required. No one has to call the president, vice president, secretary of defense or the Air Force.
Of course, all recorded conversations between pilots and controllers are public information. They are erased unless something serious has been recorded. Those recordings are serious. The New York Times obtained some of these. They show that the controllers seemed to have lost contact with the airplanes.
There is an Air Defense Intercept Zone just off of the Atlantic coast that was constantly patrolled. There are also other “fast movers” (fighter aircraft) on routine patrols or training missions that can be called upon to respond.
Flight 77 took well over an hour to get to the Pentagon. There were at least three air forces bases within striking distance. Nothing happened. No one was questioned or court-martialed.
These are only the central questions. There are others. How and why did the twin towers crumble upon itself? The published story has holes. Jet fuel didn’t do it. What about the Israeli spy ring tracking the so-called hijackers? Why were members of the Bin Laden family flown out of Boston and back home just days after this horrific event? Surely, they were material witnesses. There are dozens more. The more questions that you ask, the more that seem to come up. But we’ll keep asking.
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Monday, 15 September 2003 |
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Outside, the world watched in disbelief as the two World Trade Center towers, one by one, were hit by jet airliners. Inside Tower Two, Lo, 24, was sitting at his desk, beginning his second week of work. The havoc began with a loud “Boom!” that sounded as though a large desk had been dropped on the floor. Shortly afterward, Lo’s computer began to surge. Lo then turned around and peered out the window. “It looked as though it was raining papers, and my first thought was, who’s on the roof throwing papers?” Looking out toward the rest of the people on the semi-filled floor, Lo began to hear panicking voices saying, “We’ve got to get out of here!”
Still in a state of confusion and having no clue that the first tower had been hit, Lo quickly followed a group of people from his floor toward the elevators on the 44th floor. “I didn’t even know where the stairs were. You generally don’t walk up 73 flights of stairs,” said Lo. While going downstairs, rumors of a plane hitting the first tower began to circulate. “You just heard people saying that a plane hit the other building, and I’m thinking a Cessna or a little prop plane’s wing clipped the building.” Some people claimed to have seen the plane hit, while others couldn’t remotely fathom what was happening. Regardless, thousands of people continued to walk down the seemingly endless flights of stairs.
When Lo finally reached the sky lobby on the 44th floor, masses of people were congregating from all different directions. “We were all just kinda hanging out and talking. Everyone was asking what’s going on and I heard someone say, ‘A plane hit. It was an American Airline 767,’ and I actually laughed a little bit. That’s a jet! That’s a big plane!” said Lo. “I thought he was wrong.” Suddenly, a voice came over the loudspeaker and said, “The fire department is downstairs. Remain in the building. Do not go outside. There’s a fire in the first World Trade Center. Please remain put. If you want, you can go back up to work. Everything ‘seems’ secure.” After the message was announced, Lo proceeded to wait for an elevator back up to his floor, but it was the uncertainty of the word “seems” and the shakiness of the announcer’s voice that caused Lo to think twice.
Lo headed to the window to see what was going on outside, and, suddenly, there was another loud “Boom,” and the building began to sway. “You could feel the building shifting back and forth and then I looked at the elevators and there was smoke coming out from the crevices,” said Lo. Scared and with the building still swaying, Lo quickly walked with the rest of the people toward the 44th floor staircase and started to walk down. Luckily, the lights were still on and, to move faster, some women removed their high heels. “I was trying to logically think of what happened. Why did our building just shake?” The only conclusion Lo came to, while walking down the stairs, was that maybe it was the antenna from Trade Center One that may have toppled over and hit the second building. To him, this was the only comprehensible answer to what was happening. Terrorist attacks were the furthest thing from his mind.
With his feet uncontrollably shaking, it wasn’t fear, but rather anxiety to get out of the building that was consuming Lo.
Finally, Lo arrived in the lobby, technically the second floor. He looked outside the huge glass windows. “I looked out, expecting to see all these people, but it was a ghost town. When I looked out, it was grayness and a lot of debris,” said Lo. While Lo was still completely bewildered by the apocalyptic scene outside, he observed a security guard escorting everyone to narrow escalators down to the mall, which was the bottom level. “Everyone was exiting from the staircases going down, so there’s this huge pileup of people trying to go down these two escalators that weren’t even working and it was like a traffic jam,” said Lo. Cops were yelling, “Don’t Run!” as the mass of people, including Lo, were escorted back up the stairs to the second level again. “This time, I saw this guy and he’s got a T-shirt on and it’s ripped, and his whole arm is singed, and I’m thinking, what happened to you?” said Lo.
Minutes later, he evacuated the building and looked up to see a cloud of smoke coming out of Tower Two. Cops were shouting, “Keep walking! Keep walking!” as Lo walked farther from the building, continuing to look up every so often. People all around were crying, and he overheard someone say that the Pentagon had been hit as well. Ironically, Lo found himself walking past a church cemetery. He stopped about 1,000 feet from the building. Cops were shouting, “Don’t use your cell phone! Don’t use your cell phone!” as Lo unsuccessfully tried to use it anyway. “I felt pretty safe, but I also didn’t expect the buildings to come down. So I was just watching.”
Captured by the surrealism of the whole event, Lo watched as the fire trucks began to roll up. His next thought was, how are they going to put out the fire, because it was so high up? At that point, everyone was standing around, talking, and looking upward. All of a sudden, a cop shouted into a megaphone, “Stand back! The building’s not secure!” All eyes were fixed on the top of the tower. Lo watched as the building began to fall. “All I thought was, oh my God, a bomb went off!” People began to scream, and Lo, along with the mass of people, started running as the tower came crashing down around them.
Smoke and debris filled the air as Lo ran toward the Brooklyn Bridge. “It was so scary because you could see the debris coming at you really quickly. You see pictures from the news of people running from the debris, and I was one of those people,” said Lo. His next thought was that it was poison gas and that he needed to get away from it quickly.
At that point, Lo was running on the ramp headed toward the Brooklyn Bridge. The debris was clearing a bit; however, Lo now faced a new dilemma. Although he was running toward the upper level of the bridge, panic gripped him. “I’m thinking, okay, if they blow the bridge up, is it safer to be on the upper level or the lower level? If I have to jump, would I survive?” Lo said. He then decided that he didn’t want to be on the bridge and, instead, wanted to go uptown, but that meant that he’d have to walk back into the cloud of debris. Choosing the first option, Lo continued onto the bridge, staying on the upper level. “I thought, if the upper level collapses, it will collapse onto the lower level.” At first, everyone was sprinting, then jogging, and, eventually, walking. There was a light dusting of debris in the air as Lo made it to the other side of the bridge. An unusual calmness swept over the crowd, which was occasionally broken by someone crying. “I wanted to get off this bridge because I didn’t feel safe,” Lo said. Not realizing how big of an event this was and that the whole world already knew what was happening, Lo, after about ten tries, got through to his brother in Chicago. “I don’t know if you know this, but my building just got hit with a plane, and it actually just fell down, but I’m safe.”
Although Lo was safe, he wanted to be “really safe” and not on the bridge anymore. “There was this sense of conformity. I wanted to run, but no one else was so I didn’t.” Once in Brooklyn, Lo’s plan of action was to somehow get to the safety of his home. Without having to pay, Lo got on a bus that was heading toward Queens. All around him, people were talking about what had just happened, and this is when Lo found out that both towers had fallen. As he switched onto another bus, he heard over the radio that intelligence thought that Osama Bin Laden was behind the attacks. As Lo looked back toward Manhattan, all that he could see was a trail of smoke.
After a traumatic day, Lo made it safely to his house, and he called his parents, who were on vacation in Italy. “I heard my mom’s voice, and she started to cry. Then I heard my dad crying. They said, ‘You know it’s your birthday, and you had 300 angels escorting you down those stairs.’”
As humans, we are put here to learn and, with each day, we’re shaped into the people whom we will eventually become. Each experience that we go through in life will make us come to realizations about not only ourselves, but also about the people around us. September 11 was a day that opened many people’s eyes to the reality of the world and to their own mortality. This day acted as a huge lesson to us all, to not take any aspect of our lives for granted because you never know when it will be gone forever.
For Tom Lo, he realizes how incredibly lucky he is. Not only did he manage to walk out of the building untouched, he also didn’t know anyone who died. “There could have been a 100 “what if’s” and they’re all very close,” said Lo. “I’m thankful to have my life.”
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Monday, 15 September 2003 |
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Nicolas Cage and director Ridley Scott were in TO to help promote Scott’s Matchstick Men. The movie is one of those con man efforts that doesn’t quite achieve the brass ring. Cage plays an obsessive-compulsive, germ a-phobic, agoraphobic con artist. He smokes, too. Things are falling apart in his life – to say the least. Just as his mental issues are getting worse, he discovers he has a teenage daughter. He’s ill-equipped to raise her and the thrust of the movie is the nature of their testy interaction and Cage’s character’s having to deal with continuing to flim-flam to live and eat. Director Scott, who usually makes big budget, special effects movies, handles the material well; he can do small, but every time Cage pretended to be a dad, I cringed. He also overacts a tad too much for the less-than-heady material. As his criminal partner, Sam Rockwell is good, as always. Alison Lohman, who is this weekend’s hot, new thing has talent. The movie falters because we keep wondering how Cage got to be such a success at conning if he’s such a mess. Big themes are trumpeted when cinematic psychology rears its boring head as the daughter figures out the answer before Cage. An attempt at a happy ending turns the movie to mush.
Cabin Fever was a popular hit at the 2002 Toronto Film Festival, and it’s finally getting its distribution due. It’s a very good horror movie about a camp in the woods and a flesh-eating virus. Directed by Eli Roth, who co-wrote the screenplay with Randy Pearlstein, the movie has a solid run of good jolts and eventually gets under your skin (sorry). Jet Lag was also a hit at the 2002 festival and I wrote good things about it back then. Juliette Binoche and Jean Reno star as mismatched people who meet at an airport and bond. It’s all very French and very good. The Secret Lives Of Dentists had its premiere at the 2002 TO film festival. The fascinating movie is based on Jane Smiley’s novella The Age of Grief, and stars Campbell Scott as a dentist who has a strange dream that shakes up the boundaries between fantasy and reality. Hope Davis is his wife in this well-acted film.
Into the woods again with Camp, a pleasantly entertaining movie about a summer camp for the arts. Mickey and Judy never put on a musical show like this one. With television’s Boy Meets Boy, Will & Grace, and Queer Eye For The Straight Guy, I’m not sure how any parent can be clueless about their child’s sexuality. But if gay issues remain, seeing Camp will continue to help sort out matters.
Northfork is another quirky tale from the writing-directing Polish brothers, Michael and Mark. This ethereal and engrossing movie stars James Woods, Nick Nolte, Claire Forlani, Anthony Edwards, Peter Coyote, Daryl Hannah, Ben Foster, and Kyle MacLachlan. In 1955, the residents of a small Montana community are forced to move their homes and alter their lives to make way for a new dam that will bring electrical joy to the region. The Polish brothers make compelling movies that are almost eerie in their rhythmic strangeness, and this is no exception.
Dickie Roberts: Former Child Star features the endlessly annoying David Spade as a Peter Pan type who was a big television star as a kid but needs to reconnect with a childhood he never had to score roles as an adult. He hires a family to teach him about what he missed. The lackluster movie has umpteen cameos by real-life former child stars, but it never quite delivers anything other than tedium and a desire that Spade keep his clothes on for the rest of his life.
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