DECEMBER 2010

a literary magazineissue three: nine-eleven

“It is in literature that the concreteoutlook of humanity receives its expression.”

Alfred North Whitehead

w. kozak

page sevenfreedom from emotional paralysis

page elevenpoetry after 9/11: david ray

page threecreative literature: an essential of life

page thirteenthis is my story

page seventeenworks cited

page eighteenacknowledgements

three

The tragic events of September 11, 2001 have created memo-ries for millions

of people across the world, memories they’ll hold onto until the day they die. Most people recall exactly where they were, what they saw, how they felt and how they reacted on that day. The innate desire for humans to express themselves causes people to talk about their 9/11 experience with families and friends, keeping it fresh in their minds for years to come.

But imagine ifthat’s all there was.

Imagine a world where every-one talked, but no one took it upon themselves to write down their ex-perience. A story’s survival would depend solely on word-of-mouth. Without a written copy, how would the true essence of astory live on—through a paint-ing, musical score, or sculpture? It’s true that paintings are a strong art form of self-expression for both the creator and the admirer. But how many times have you looked at a painting

and wondered, “What’s the story be-hind this?” And if you look, you’ll almost

always fi nd a text sur-rounding that question. So, is there any form of art other than creative literature that has the same infl uence and ef-fectiveness to tell a story and express the mind?

Alfred North Whitehead, an infl uen-tial philosopher of logic once said:“It is in literature that the con-crete outlook of humanity receives

its expression.” In other words, literature is the most comprehensive means to expressing the human mind. Whether it be a novel or a poem, each word in a piece of literature is carefully and purposefullychosen, and comes straight from the mind, abandoning all material things, and relying solely on words to express thought and emotion. And we need to express thought. We need to satisfy our natural desire to release the abundance of emotions that fl ow through us each day.

By Taylor Servedio, 20

Hence, when an atrocity occurs, it is to no surprise that literature becomes the primary foundation to recovery. The catastrophic dealings of September 11 created a swarm of new emotional experiences for millions of people. We were over-come with anger, sympathy, con-fusion and disgust, and with these intense emotions came the desire to speak out, to share stories, and to articulate ideas and opinions.

In his book of lectures, Modes of Thought, Whitehead further explains our disposition for self-expression:

“Expression is the diffusion, in the environment, of something initiallyentertained in the experience of theexpressor. No conscious determi-nation is necessarily involved; only the impulse to diffuse. This urge is one of the simplest characteris-tics of animal nature. It is the most fundamental evidence of our pre-supposition of the world without.”

It is through reading and writing that humans “diffuse.” We can look at a paint-ing, listen to an instrumental, and study a sculpture, but none of these art forms pos-sess the power that literature does to con-vey the “concrete outlook of humanity.” Therefore, since literature is the most credible source for unwinding, it is re-lied on most during times of intense emotion. Specifi cally, during times of distress, people turn to literature as a stepping stone in the healing process, whether it’s through reading or writing.

Thus, with a natural ability to ex-plain those universal emotions in words, creative writers across the na-tion turned to their pens and papers and wrote. They wrote to express themselves and the minds of their readers. And as a result, creative writing will forever be the source to understanding the true outlook of humanity on the attacks of 9/11.

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“Her Very Eyes”By Kimiko Hahn

A friend’s sister, my daughter reports,cannot close her eyes,and I interrupt, it must be asbestos irritation—until she adds,she sees bodies falling from the sky,she sees bodies breaking through the glass atriumor smashing onto the pavement,she sees one woman, her skirt billowing out like a manikin’s,and a suited man plunging headfirst,And she hears them land in front of herbut cannot turn away when she closes her eyes.And she doesn’t know what to do.This is what my daughter reportsupon coming home from schoollast Tuesday.

from emotional paralysisby Taylor Servedio, 20

In the event of an atrocity, the fl ood of emo-tions practically paralyses the body.

The heart rate increases and the adrenaline surges, so that hypothetically we could revel in a few minutes of super hero power. More often than not, however, when danger calls, physically we feel [trapped]. Our hearts cry out, but our bodies remain stiff. We want to scream, but the tongue may not formulate any decipherable consonants.When an unexpected disaster happens,

the general public stands witness,stunned.

That’s why, as the Norton Anthology of American Literature puts it, “Many writers who wanted to respond in the immediate aftermath found them-selves at a loss for words, unable to describe what they and others saw and felt in the wake of an event that seemed beyond words” (3205). Kimiko Hahn, an accomplished fe-male poet from New York, was one of the writers who found the words. In her chill-ing poem, “Her Very Eyes” Hahn was able to describe this emotional pa-ralysis in the wake of a tragic event. According to the anthology, the premise of the poem “with its network of exchange between women - mother, daughter, and a ‘friend’s sister’ - evokes one of the most in-

delible images from 9/11, that of bodies falling or jumping from the towers” (3212). The language is conversational, yet precise and vivid, with a hint of innocent youth. Without any fl uff, Hahneloquently details the initial fear in the event of a tragedy. The speaker’s tone is very straight-foward, and the poem’s form is traditional, sim-ply because the story speaks for itself. She carefully chooses descriptive words that work to illustrate a very real and detrimental ex-perience for that young girl. The poem speaks for all people who share a similar experience. It is our human nature to need and to seek an outlet in order to understand and alleviate pain and suffering, in order to exit the moments of emotional paralysis. It is a writer’s job, per-haps his or her destiny, to act as a voice during unfortunate times for the rest of those who can-not express their hearts in a creative fashion. It is Literature, and all that is included within this frame--poetry, short stories, fi ctitious novels--that compels human beings, in the most comprehensive ways, to express the matters of the heart. With “Her Very Eyes,” Hahn supports this argument.

WHY WRITE?Writers and readers gathering to remember American Novelist John Updike.

“Why Write?”: a small essay from Updike’s collection, “Picked-Up Pieces”

Why write? As soon ask, why rivet? Because a number of personal accidents drifts us to-ward the occupation of riveter, which preexists, and, most importantly,

the riveting gun exists, and we love it.

Think of a pencil. What a quiet, nimble, slender, and then stubby wonder-worker he is! At his touch, worlds leap into being; a tiger with no danger, a steamroller with no weight, a palace at no cost. All children are alive to the spell of pencil and crayons, of making something, as it were, from nothing; a few children never move out from under this spell, and try to become artists. I was once a rapturous child drawing at the dining-room table, under a stained-glass chandelier that sat like a hat on the swollen orb of my excitement.

Saturday, January 8, 201010 am to 6 pm

David L. Lawrence Convention CenterPittsburgh, PA 15222

modernmyworld.commodernmyworld.com is not a real website, nor a real business, as far as the creator of this magazine knows. if it were a real business, she would imagine it to be a place where people can go to submit and get copyrights to new, innovative ideas about absolutely anything they come up with. creative writers would be one of this company’s target audience.

David Ray

“Almost immediately after the ter-rorist attacks of September 11, 2001, on the World Trade Center (WTC) and the Pentagon, poems began to surface in public places and public forums.”–Alkalay-Gut

In an article found in the book, Poetics To-day, Karen Alkalay-Gut studies the imme-diate growth of “testimonial and elegiac

poetry” after 9/11. Entitled “The Poetry of September 11: The Tes-timonial Imperative,” the article begins with an abstract summary of the author’s purpose. The summary references American poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s classifi cation of poetry as “’B.S. and A.S.’—Before and After September 11” (257). In the article, Alkala-Gut notices that since 9/11, lamenting testimonials in the form of poetry have be-come quite popular and valued amongst society. As a result, she says, “poetry has acquired a long lost social purpose—to order, inform, unite, and con-sole a confused and grieving people” (257). David Ray became part of poetry’s immedi-ate surge after 9/11 when he wrote “Six Months After.” According to the Norton Anthology of American Literature, the poem “meditates on the wreckage catastrophe leaves behind and the efforts of 9/11 workers who dealt with debris” (3215). With a quick glance, Alkalay-Gut might catego-rize Ray’s poem as one that’s “aquired [that] long lost social purpose...” But, with a closer look, is it truly evident that the poem is merely informing, uniting, and con-soling a confused and grieving people? Is it re-ally only about Tony the fi reman and the man with an axe? Or could it be that Ray wrote this poem to con-vey a larger message--not about the wreckage left on ground zero--but rather, about the effects that literature will have on the history 9/11? Through an analysis of the historical references within the poem, perhaps “Six Months After” could be viewed as a rebuttal to Alkalay-Gut’s defi nition

of poetry’s “acquired purpose.” Maybe Ray is saying that poetry’s purpose has not changed, and instead, poetry has the ability to change the comprehension of history. Here is how I’ve come to this: First, Ray references two historical literary writers: Leo Tolstoy and Walter Benjamin. It should not be ignored that Tolstoy is the author of two fi ction mas-terpieces, War and Peace and Anna Karenina, both of which represent the peak of realist fi ction, and are a major infl uence in both literature and society--thus, literature changing history. To further understand

Ray’s use of historical icons, I researched Walter Benja-min. Wikipedia identifi es him as a literary critic whose primary argument was that “logical philosophic rea-soning cannot account for

all experience, especially not for self-representation via art.” In other words, you cannot explain the act of self-expression through art, or in this case, poetry, and you should not try to understand it. Combin-ing what I learned about Benjamin with the stanza of which he is placed, Ray could be referring to po-etry after 9/11 when he writes, “the pile/of debris growing/skyward” and then again, at the very end, with “Some say the debris/also speaks.” He uses the noun debris because it’s chaotic and diffi cult to un-derstand, just as Benjamin says art, or poetry, cannot be logically reasoned. Taking all I’ve learned thus far and trying to con-nect it to the stories of “Tony the fi reman” and the “man with an axe,” I found that these men could represent the people that Alkala-Gut is examining--the people who turned to poetry as a form of self-expression for the fi rst time in their lives after 9/11. Ray is saying that the men’s stories, or the people’s poems, must be heard, or read, to understand history. Ray suggests that the explosion of poetry after 9/11 is the result of the experiences people had, and those works of art, those poems, will shape history, his-tory will not shape poetry.

twelve

This is what it meansto understand history,Tolstoy: We never gofar enough, just creditthe latest Napoleonwith the damage.

Walter Benjamin:one single catastrophewhich keeps piling upwreckage . . . the pileof debris growingskyward.

“We all see a pieceof history,” said Tonythe fi reman, no longera boy on probation.--“It was raining bodies,”said another, holdingan axe, “I founda foot encasedin the rubble.”

This man with an axeand a helmet rubbed tearsfrom his eyes, and thatis what it meansto understand history,although there is alsothe scream and the shriek,the drumbeat of bodies

striking the roof.Some say the debrisalso speaks.

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THIS ISof September 11, 2001of September 11 2001

MY STORY

I was in my 6th grade English classroom, and it was morning. It was the beginning of the school year, and the atmosphere of the class was exciting and new.

My young, good-looking teacher, Mr. John Q, ruled that each student sit next to someone different every day. He lived by “The Golden Rule”—do unto others as you would have them do unto you—and wanted no one to feel left out or discriminated. That day, I got to sit next to Ali—one of my best friends to this day who I still believe is almost as funny as me. I was also directly across from the boy I had been “going out with” since the start of the school year. It had been about two weeks; we were pretty serious. We had just begun the lesson plan for that day, which was to discuss some ancient short story we were assigned to read the night before. I remember, just before we opened our books, Mr. Q openly admitted that what we were about to read would be a waste of time, and followed with an apology. Suddenly, the janitor (and our teacher’s cousin) Billy Q, fl ung himself into our classroom. He mut-tered, “Johnny, put on the news,” with a panicked voice. I was used to Billy Q barging in like this. New Castle, my hometown, is full of people who believe they’re full-blooded Italian, just be-cause their great-great-grandfather came over on a ship from Italy 100 years ago. Billy Q is one of those people, and at the time, I was, too. So when he de-

manded to turn on the news, no one took him seriously. Mr. Q said something like, “You know I’m not allowed, what’s up?” to which Billy whis-pered something that none of us could make out. “Mr. Q’s jaw dropped and he looked really scared,” was how I described Mr. Q’s initial reaction in my response journal.Mr. Q turned to us and said, “Do you all feel you are mature enough to watch a devas-

tating event that just took place in our country?”

My mind immediately began sorting through the possibilities of what could have happened.

I remember thinking, Bush was shot! followed by, No, it’s a massive

tornado! And even though I was deathly afraid of murderers and tornadoes, I was not scared. In-stead, I felt incredibly curious and excited. I was smil-ing and laughing. The whole class was giddy. We liked fi nding things out, especially if it meant we got to watch TV and abandon our books. I didn’t really care what was happening, merely because I couldn’t understand. I remember watching the second plane crash into the South Tower. I don’t recall feeling sad, just confused. I didn’t understand why it was such a “dev-astating event.” I thought, can’t they just fi x the dam-age? And when both towers crumbled to the ground, I thought, can’t they just build two more? The idea of thousands of lives being crushed and torn into pieces at that very moment never crossed my mind. As an 11-year-

With the help of a journal response that I wrote on September 13,this is how I remember, in detail, September 11, 2001:

old girl, my mind wasn’t developed enough to draw any real conclusions from what my eyes were seeing. That day, students started getting notes from the offi ce that their parents were there to pick them up. Every time an offi ce runner would knock on the door, the class would play a guessing game to fi nd out who it’d be this time: “I bet it’s you!” “No way, my mom’s not that weird!” I re-member referring to kids going home early as “so stupid!” Lunchtime rolled around and the cafeteria fi lled with 300+ of us sixth graders who were abnormally en-thusiastic because we didn’t have to do any schoolwork that day. The principles were calling names over the mi-crophone, and one-by-one me and my classmates watched and laughed at the students who were going home. I was the fi rst of my table to be called over the microphone. In disbelief, I walked up to Principle Retort as if he had called me up for some favor. He pointed to the EXIT sign, which hung directly over the head of my mother. When my eyes met with hers, her expres-sion changed from terrifi ed to devastated, and I could tell she was trying her best to hold back from sobbing. I walked over to her, and without a word, she fol-lowed me to my classroom where I grabbed my book bag and we went to the car. As soon as I shut the door I said, “I don’t get it. Why are you here?” She opened her mouth to talk and instead she began to cry like I had nev-er seen before. She had her arms around me, and I was at the stage in my life where touching my mother felt awkward, so I backed away and said “What’s wrong?” She could barely speak and I recall feeling somewhat superior to her in that moment, as if she was the child who needed consoling. Once she caught her breath, she said: “There’s a plant in Pittsburgh. If they hit the plant, we will all be dead.” Still puzzled, I turned my eyes to the wind-shield, buckled my seatbelt, and we went on our way to pick up my sisters and brother from the high school. The car ride from the high school to my house went something like this: I asked the sister closest to me in age, LaDare—13 at the time—if she knew what was going on. She said, “Sort of, but not really.” I then asked my know-it-all sister, Bryana—then 15—if she had any idea. With attitude, she said something like, “Of course I know. You’re too young to understand, so stop asking.” All who was left was my then intimidating 17-year-old brother Sammy. I

didn’t even bother asking for fear of being called annoy-ing. But to my surprise, he tapped my shoulder and said, “Tay, terrorists from the middle east hijacked some planes and killed thou-sands of Americans because they had something to say.” I asked, “What did they have to say?” And he said, “I don’t know, but does it really matter?” Meanwhile my mom was driv-ing and sobbing and I was more concerned for whether or not we’d get home safely, so I stopped talking, and the car was disturbingly silent for the remainder of the drive. My mom asked us all to stay home from school the next day and I happily obeyed. At that point, I was sure of two things: thousands of peo-ple were dead, and I was supposed to be scared. After learning more about the “plant in Pittsburgh,” I was somewhat frightened. But I was still able to go on with my days, complete-ly forgetting about it and being a happy little kid. On Thursday, the 13th, Mr. Q start-ed the school day by assigning us to write a one-page journal response to the following question:What do you know about September 11, and how does it make you feel?The fi rst half of my response outlined the events that went on in my life on September 11—which is just what I’ve told you. I dedicated the second half to explaining my feelings:

I feel like I’m supposed to be scared because my mom and sisters say they are. I’m not re-ally scared, though. I feel safe with my dad and my brother because they don’t seem afraid of the terrorists. I am worried that the plant in Pittsburgh will be hit by the terrorists. If that happens, we will all die. Knowing this makes me scared for everyone in this classroom because I really like my class and I don’t want sixth grade to end until June. Yesterday and Tuesday I felt excited because I wanted to know more about what is going on. But today I just want to forget about it and learn more stuff. I wish it didn’t happen but it did and we can’t change it.

I want my mom to stop worrying. -Taylor Servedio, age 20

Works CitedWhitehead, Alfred North. “Expression.” Modes of Thought,. New York: Macmillan, 1938. 28-57. Print.

Alkalay-Gut, Karen. “The Poetry of September 11: The Testimonial Imperative.” Poetics Today. 2nd ed. Vol. 26. Duke UP, 2005. 257-79. Print.

Baym, Nina. “Writing in a Time of Terror: September 11, 2001.” The Norton Anthology of American Literature. 7th ed. Vol. E. New York: W.W. Norton, 2007. 3205-219. Print.

“Why Write? by John Updike.” 1975. Burn This Book: PEN Writers Speak out on the Power of the Word. Ed. Toni Morrison. New York: HarperStudio, 2009. Print.

acknowledgementsAll of my credit for this project goes to all who

were affected by the terrorist attacks of Sep-

tember 11, 2001. This includes all who lost

their own lives or the life of a loved one, all who

were witnesses at the scene, all who fought and

risked their own lives to save others, and all

who expressed themselves through writing. I

acknowledge my mother for infl uencing me to

write at a very young age—without her, I would

not have created this project. Finally, I recog-

nize and appreciate the writers who contribut-

ed to and infl uenced the remembrance of 9/11.

taylor servedio - december 14, 2010