In the U.S. press lately, people have been remembering (commemorating? celebrating?) the invasion of Iraq by the United States ten years ago.
People who have been following this blog know by now that I rarely make political statements, that these should be separated from the overall palette of culture, language, religion, lamas, and rusted taxis as much as you need to part the spots from the fresh fruit you just bought at the supermarket. Which is why this is less about the Iraq War but a personal flashback of where I was ten years ago. Time to reminisce.
Ten years ago, Liebi and I had just arrived in New York (post 9/11 New York) in the summer of 2002 after being Peace Corps volunteers in Morocco (our other choices were Washington, DC and Athens, Georgia). As any small-towner would be, I was giddy about living in New York—this would be the opportunity of a lifetime, as would Liebi believe as well. We found an apartment in Woodside, Queens, very close to the 7 train that would take you to Times Square in 15-20 minutes. It was a neat little one bedroom apartment that we would move into—Liebi and I are still convinced today—because the 'demographics' were right, according to the landlord, lingo for 'we were white'. Both of our cats would share the apartment with us.
Liebi was going to Grad School near Union Square, and I would get a job in Brooklyn working for a non-profit agency offering various services to immigrants, Caribbeans and Haitians in particular. To make extra money, I would work from nine in the morning till nine at night. Of course, there would also be the commute to Brooklyn that would last at least an hour: 7 train to Times Square in Manhattan, catch the Q train to Church Avenue in Brooklyn—that’s 14 hours I would be out of the house, minimum. Those were rough days admittedly, although I still reminded myself that they did not compare to the immigrants fresh off the boat that I was assisting. Their fate appeared rather clear to me: they had left poverty behind for more poverty in the U.S., the only difference being that they would at least find opportunity in New York, especially for their children.
We were not left untouched by the impending war with Iraq. I admit I marched in both New York and Washington in a feeble attempt to have the Bush administration remove their thumping fists from their chests. Somehow everybody still had a nasty feeling that the decision to go to war had been reached long before that. Politically, 2003 was a never ending nightmare.
Later that summer, we would move again, this time to the Upper East Side in Manhattan, only a few blocks from the mayoral residence of Gracie Mansion AND Central Park. The commute into Brooklyn was no different, but I was able to at least cut my hours and enjoy New York more, now that we were living in Manhattan. Liebi and I would regularly jog in Central Park, attend the nearby museums, and stroll along the East River.
One of the more memorable days in 2003 occurred on November 24, 2003, when I finally proposed to Liebi, following a scavenger hunt I sent her on through Manhattan. I remember standing on the rooftop of our building, Manhattan’s high-rises sparkling all around me, thinking how unreal this all was.
Of course, Saddam would be captured later in the year, SARS ravaged various countries throughout the world, and there was the unforgettable New York blackout on August 14—I would end up walking home all the way from Flatbush, NY to 94th Street and 2nd Avenue, with the subways out of order and in the middle of the summer.
That was the world that was for me ten years ago in 2003. Some of it certainly was depressing overall (America at war; working long days), some of it certainly of concern (my job; New York blacked out for 29 hours? NEW YORK???), but I will never, ever admit it was dull.
