NEW YORK—David Scott Saurez. . . Hilario Soriano Sumaya Jr.. . ."And my father Ramon Soares, ten years ago you made the ultimate sacrifice". . .Sean Patrick Tallon. . ."Dad, I miss you and I love you and I celebrate your life every day". . .Maurita Tam. . .Kenichiro Tanaka. . .Donnie Brooks Taylor. . ."I am honored to have read these names.". . .Anthony Tempesta. . ."Courtney, you are the son any parent would have loved to have". . .Tamara C. Thurman. . ."You both will never be forgotten.". . .Vladimir Tomasevic. . .Doris Torres. . ."Abdul Kareem Traore. . .Ching Ping Tung. . .Allen V. Upton. . ."Until we meet again, find peace in heaven's hands. . ."
All morning, I am trailed by the names of the dead, as they are read off during the ceremony at the site of the fallen towers. It began at my home, when I turned on the television this morning. The names followed me down the street, which even for a Sunday seemed strangely silent and somber, the proliferation of stars-and-stripes hanging limp and sorrowed. To the supermarket, where more names can be heard through the speaker of a portable television. A car radio, and the sound of more names.
Out across the bridge to the edge of Flushing Bay, as I listen to more names, transfixed and growing numb. I fight it off, visualizing the names written across slate-gray clouds percolating above the National Tennis Center, even as jets—will there always seem something malevolent about them? Swim and bank through the sky. And the names followed me to the media center where I now sit, and where many in the endless rows of television sets are tuned to the reading of the names of the dead.
As each name is read by one or another of the two people bravely standing at a lecturn, it comes up on the screen below, with a thumbnail photo, age, and city of residence of the deceased. In some cases, we see just the name, for nothing else has been discovered about the person and in those cases the photo-square is filled with a section of the flag of the United States of America. And I wonder, who were they, and to whom, if anyone, were they friend, family, lover? By whom are they missed and eulogized and what have we lost with their passing? I find that this simple reading of the names, with the intermittent, brief tributes to the loved ones lost by each of the readers, is far more moving than any speech or quotation could ever be.
A moment, among many: a young African-American boy of perhaps 16, wearing just a t-shirt, has just read his portion of names, and spoken a few words about the uncle he lost. As the fifty-ish, blonde lady next to him at the lecturn tries to utter the scant two or three spare lines she has prepared to honor the sister she lost, she breaks down. The boy gently puts his hand and on her back.
"God bless your souls and all the souls of the deceased, and God bless America."
-- Pete
I will have a Crisis Center post for you soon. No tennis commentary at this one. Thank you.