crucial

please send more stories to me felix@crucial-systems.com, I would like to post more and
preserve them.

This morning at about 8 a.m., I got a call from an old friend I haven't talked
to in nearly a year. Hey, she said, It's Misa. I'm down at Chelsea Piers, and
can you do me a favor?

No other small talk. Nothing idle. I didn't even ask what she was doing. I just
said yes. She wanted me to send out an email, to whoever I could, and it was
important. And it was about socks.

We need socks, Misa said. It's wet and the guys have wet feet and they need
socks.

So I sent an email to whoever I could think of without any coffee in my brain
yet. The email listed dozens of supplies--some eeriie reminders of just what
they were doing (latex gloves), some workaday, practical stuff (flannel
shirts). There was special emphasis placed on flashlights, goggles, asbestos
masks, batteries, and socks.

New Yorkers have suddenly become familiar with household items they never even
thought about. On the grocery list: asbestos masks? Of course. for our house
has taken a big blow and it's bleeding all sorts of toxins into the air. Last
night at about midnight, one fireman--exhausted and leaning against a mailbox
on Smith Street in Brooklyn--was still wearing his as he wearily discussed the
big dig (his phrase). His words came out like he was talking into a cup. Take
that off, said an old lady.

He seemed surprised. He was so used to wearing it he had forgotten it wasn't
attached to his face.

Back to Misa's email. It came from the front lines at Chelsea Piers, dated 7:15
a.m., so I sent it out. A minute later my cell phone was buzzing. The question
of the hour was what kind of socks. In other words, there's been no hesitation
on the part of anyone I know or don't know to go help. To pitch in. No cynicism
or jadedness or critical distance--the kind some of us remember from standing
with our hands in our back pockets watching rock shows in the early 90s--when
the cool thing to do was nothing.

Now the thing to do is everything. At the Giant discount jeans and shirts and
socks store, they gave me half off, and a stranger in a hard hat advised me to
get the brown ones, not the white ones. At the Rite Aid the counter clerk gave
me butterfly bandages for free. No charge, she said. It's not like we can do
without. It's all right with the manager? I asked her as she cracked her gum
and kept one eye on the television next to the electronics case. Manager's
looking for his brother, she said.

We have all adopted a collective shorthand for this disaster. In the most
verbal city in America (no Boston, I didn't mean academically, I mean street),
we've created another branch of language to describe, to hint, to mention
without admitting or giving in. Hope has become a necessary action. To hope is
to plaster xeroxes of the missing on mailboxes. To hope is to buy 25
three-packs of brown socks, four hundred batteries, a million powerbars. And to
not stop.

So to everyone working, to everyone engaged in the aftermath of such a terrible
act of hostile engagement, I send my best. See you there.

Jana Martin

-----Original Message-----

Date: Friday, September 14, 2001 3:10 AM

Subject: "What group are you with, miss?" "No one, officer. I'm a New Yorker." "Let her through."

This email is a message about what happened today. You can skip it if you
like, and go to the next email (sent to my NYC area mailing list friends)
which contains facts about where to go, how to donate, volunteer, get info
etc.

I have to tell you what's really going on at ground zero and along the West
Side Highway. At canteens set up along the WSH and at the site itself on
Chambers, there are masses of volunteers and immense collections of food,
water, protective masks, socks, power bars, gatorade, you name it.

And it will all be gone by the time you read this.

I teamed up with friends and brought sandwiches, water and snacks down to
the
Chelsea Food Market and was directed inside to the warehouse where they're
piling supplies to go out. More on what they need and where to bring it in
the following email.

We were told to bring sandwiches down to St Vincents and they didn't want
them, and directed us down a block to Fiddlesticks, a pub. There, we were
told to put them all in a walk in cooler in the basement, which we did. The
place was packed with sandwiches that just couldn't find a home right then.
I
returned later to the pub to pick them up, and the restaurant will easily
spend a thousand dollars on making sandwiches for the relief workers. Every
employee there left their shift to help us load the van, asked me how else
they could help, where to go, what else we needed... If you are ever in the
area, I urge you to walk over to Fiddlesticks, ask for the manager and
thank
them profusely. They're gods.

I walked across Christopher St to the West Side Highway and was stunned to
see so many people standing and cheering the relief and emergency workers
and
they drove to and from the site, clapping, waving flags. Exhausted and
covered in debris, they smiled and tooted their horns and flashed their
lights at us. Folks, it sounds like something small, but to see how much
everyone appreciated the support...you have no idea.

Got down the West Side Highway to Charlton and found a canteen, passing out
food water and masks to relief workers on their way downtown. Also saw a
chain of people making sandwiches. "But there are hundreds of them in the
cooler at Fiddlesticks..." I said. "There are?" Cut to Nicole in a van with
a
variety of volunteers, doctors needing a ride, a state trooper who jumped
in
to help us get through blockades, driving all over town, with perfect
strangers (apt description!) loading food, equipment, supplies all over the
city all night. I met twenty of the most extraordinary people I've ever
met.

Got to 14th and 7th and there were 20 people piling up boxes of batteries,
flashlights, masks, clothes, boots, waiting to go downtown. I offered to
bring them down and a state trooper said he'd come along to get us to
ground
zero where they were most needed. Eveyone made a daisy chain and loaded the
van in minutes,thrilled to know their donations were going straight to the
relief workers who most needed them. All night, we shuttled things all over
the city from the Armory to the WTC site directly to the West Side Highway
replenishing resources.

At the Armory we made another daisy chain to transfer the food from the van
to the kitchen basement. Two tourists stopped to take pictures of us and I
said "you can take pictures or you can pitch in." They put away their
cameras
and helped.

I didn't realize we'd get so close to the site later in the night. To see
the
pictures on the television, and then to stand at the base of the site with
asbestos in your eyes and debris dust down your throat, even with a mask,
is
unbelievable. The rubble is still burning. Buildings are still falling.
This
will takes months. Whatever you give, keep giving. It will never be enough.

State trooper, Tim, who worked with us all night, clearing the way, was
helping empty a van with us and a Red Cross supervisor came up to him and
said "Who's in charge here?" "She is, that young girl." Had to smile at
that. Kept working til 1 AM, then had to walk for an hour across town to
shake it all off. I am still shaking. Cut my hands, broke my nails,
bruises
all over. Not sure if I can sleep tonight after what I saw. Overwhelmed.
Nauseous.

The need is immense, the workers are exhausted but I swear are re-energized
every time someone brings them supplies, asks how they are, or just thanks
them. Please keep doing it. Thank a cop. Most of the state troopers won't
be
home for weeks and didn't have time to pack much of anything. Some are on
18
hour shifts because there is simply no one to relieve them. "You know, New
Yorkers get a bad rap. You aren't mean at all. This is simply amazing," one
said to me. One cop handed me a flower.

Whatever you're doing to help, keep doing it. They will need supplies for
weeks and months to come and every damn Powerbar is appreciated like a
Christmas gift to an orphan. If you're volunteering this week, keep
volunteering next week. And the week after that. And the week after that.
The
relief workers, EMS, firefighters and police officers will be doing this
til
it's done, and it's not going to be done for a long, long time.

Keep it up. Please.

Nicole Blackman

This morning at about 8 a.m., I got a call from an old friend I haven't talked
to in nearly a year. Hey, she said, It's Misa. I'm down at Chelsea Piers, and
can you do me a favor?

No other small talk. Nothing idle. I didn't even ask what she was doing. I just
said yes. She wanted me to send out an email, to whoever I could, and it was
important. And it was about socks.

We need socks, Misa said. It's wet and the guys have wet feet and they need
socks.

So I sent an email to whoever I could think of without any coffee in my brain
yet. The email listed dozens of supplies--some eeriie reminders of just what
they were doing (latex gloves), some workaday, practical stuff (flannel
shirts). There was special emphasis placed on flashlights, goggles, asbestos
masks, batteries, and socks.

New Yorkers have suddenly become familiar with household items they never even
thought about. On the grocery list: asbestos masks? Of course. for our house
has taken a big blow and it's bleeding all sorts of toxins into the air. Last
night at about midnight, one fireman--exhausted and leaning against a mailbox
on Smith Street in Brooklyn--was still wearing his as he wearily discussed the
big dig (his phrase). His words came out like he was talking into a cup. Take
that off, said an old lady.

He seemed surprised. He was so used to wearing it he had forgotten it wasn't
attached to his face.

Back to Misa's email. It came from the front lines at Chelsea Piers, dated 7:15
a.m., so I sent it out. A minute later my cell phone was buzzing. The question
of the hour was what kind of socks. In other words, there's been no hesitation
on the part of anyone I know or don't know to go help. To pitch in. No cynicism
or jadedness or critical distance--the kind some of us remember from standing
with our hands in our back pockets watching rock shows in the early 90s--when
the cool thing to do was nothing.

Now the thing to do is everything. At the Giant discount jeans and shirts and
socks store, they gave me half off, and a stranger in a hard hat advised me to
get the brown ones, not the white ones. At the Rite Aid the counter clerk gave
me butterfly bandages for free. No charge, she said. It's not like we can do
without. It's all right with the manager? I asked her as she cracked her gum
and kept one eye on the television next to the electronics case. Manager's
looking for his brother, she said.

We have all adopted a collective shorthand for this disaster. In the most
verbal city in America (no Boston, I didn't mean academically, I mean street),
we've created another branch of language to describe, to hint, to mention
without admitting or giving in. Hope has become a necessary action. To hope is
to plaster xeroxes of the missing on mailboxes. To hope is to buy 25
three-packs of brown socks, four hundred batteries, a million powerbars. And to
not stop.

So to everyone working, to everyone engaged in the aftermath of such a terrible
act of hostile engagement, I send my best. See you there.

Jana Martin

emergency response system disabled