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WILD: ATTITUDE INSTEAD OF REASSURANCE
By Patricia Wild
Somerville Journal, MA
Dec 14 2006
While waiting for a bus recently at New York City's Port Authority,
an alarm suddenly went off. You know the sound; you've heard it a
thousand times: an insistent, rhythmic, loud beeping, annoying but
since you have heard that noise a thousand times, hardly alarming.
Nevertheless, a soothing voice immediately could be heard on the
Port Authority's public address system, reassuring commuters and bus
travelers that the beeping meant nothing, please don't be frightened,
everything's okay.
"What's the big deal?" I wondered. "Someone must have accidentally
set off an emergency-exit alarm. This must happen all the time. Why
the announcement?"
And then, of course, I remembered: I was sitting in a building in a
city that had been attacked. I was surrounded by men and women who
had lived and worked in NYC on Sept. 11, 2001 and who, quite possibly,
were still traumatized. To its credit, therefore, the Port Authority
made a point of letting people know that in this particular instance,
they had no cause to be afraid.
That incident in the Big Apple came back to me on the evening of Dec.
6 when, suddenly, my house and every house on my block lost our
power. Like many of my neighbors, I imagine, I immediately assumed
the worst: A terrorist attack on Boston. Hadn't I read recently
that Gary Hart (Gary Hart?) had proclaimed that another Sept. 11 was
inevitable? Simply a matter of time? Panicked, heart racing, I groped
around in the dark for my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. (Only later
did I realize that I should have at least tried the landline. Which
worked.) A state dispatcher immediately connected me to a Somerville
dispatcher. And that's when the gaping disparity between my Port
Authority experience and my hometown reaction to this situation
kicked in.
Because, I'm afraid, instead of reassurance I got attitude. Instead of
someone on the other end of the phone understanding that I'm standing
in the dark, I'm terrified, I'm imagining the worst, I'm definitely
not thinking straight, I got impatience. A deep sigh. A female voice
whose bored, dispassionate tone communicated, "Why are you bothering
me with this?"
Yes, it's true, she did explain that a manhole cover on Somerville
Avenue had just exploded. That was useful information. But at any time
in the conversation did she give any indication that she understands my
panicked, terrified state? Did she ask me if I was okay? If I'd hurt
myself stumbling around in the dark? If anyone else was hurt? Heck,
no. I got zero questions about my safety, what was happening on my
darkened street. Wouldn't you kind of hope that a Somerville 9-1-1
dispatcher would understand how panicky people think? Wouldn't you
kind of hope that in an emergency situation, a Somerville 9-1-1
dispatcher would ask the questions that should be asked?
There's so much more that could be said about this: About how, when I
found out that the Central Library had power, I decided to go there so
I could read. About how, driving down my street, I passed an elderly
neighbor's house and realized with horror that I hadn't thought to
call her to make sure she was all right. About how, at the library,
I sat beside a Muslim grandmother keeping watch over a sleeping baby
lying in a carriage while the baby's mother searched for VHF movies
and I wondered about the circumstances which had brought these three
to Somerville. Had they huddled together in the dark, terrified,
panicked? About how the subject of the book I'd read is the 1915
Armenian genocide and about how, sitting in a well-lit, warm, safe
place, reading that 1.5 million Armenians were slaughtered while their
Turkish neighbors watched, my guilt at not calling my elderly neighbor
increased. About how much more brightly my neighbors' Christmas lights
seemed to glow when the electricity finally came back on.
The day following the power outage was Dec. 7, the 65th anniversary
of Pearl Harbor, an ironical coda to this incident. Pearl Harbor's
anniversary was a tap on the shoulder from the past. Remember:
History happens. Life changes on a dime. Keep candles, matches,
and flashlights handy.
By Patricia Wild
Somerville Journal, MA
Dec 14 2006
While waiting for a bus recently at New York City's Port Authority,
an alarm suddenly went off. You know the sound; you've heard it a
thousand times: an insistent, rhythmic, loud beeping, annoying but
since you have heard that noise a thousand times, hardly alarming.
Nevertheless, a soothing voice immediately could be heard on the
Port Authority's public address system, reassuring commuters and bus
travelers that the beeping meant nothing, please don't be frightened,
everything's okay.
"What's the big deal?" I wondered. "Someone must have accidentally
set off an emergency-exit alarm. This must happen all the time. Why
the announcement?"
And then, of course, I remembered: I was sitting in a building in a
city that had been attacked. I was surrounded by men and women who
had lived and worked in NYC on Sept. 11, 2001 and who, quite possibly,
were still traumatized. To its credit, therefore, the Port Authority
made a point of letting people know that in this particular instance,
they had no cause to be afraid.
That incident in the Big Apple came back to me on the evening of Dec.
6 when, suddenly, my house and every house on my block lost our
power. Like many of my neighbors, I imagine, I immediately assumed
the worst: A terrorist attack on Boston. Hadn't I read recently
that Gary Hart (Gary Hart?) had proclaimed that another Sept. 11 was
inevitable? Simply a matter of time? Panicked, heart racing, I groped
around in the dark for my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. (Only later
did I realize that I should have at least tried the landline. Which
worked.) A state dispatcher immediately connected me to a Somerville
dispatcher. And that's when the gaping disparity between my Port
Authority experience and my hometown reaction to this situation
kicked in.
Because, I'm afraid, instead of reassurance I got attitude. Instead of
someone on the other end of the phone understanding that I'm standing
in the dark, I'm terrified, I'm imagining the worst, I'm definitely
not thinking straight, I got impatience. A deep sigh. A female voice
whose bored, dispassionate tone communicated, "Why are you bothering
me with this?"
Yes, it's true, she did explain that a manhole cover on Somerville
Avenue had just exploded. That was useful information. But at any time
in the conversation did she give any indication that she understands my
panicked, terrified state? Did she ask me if I was okay? If I'd hurt
myself stumbling around in the dark? If anyone else was hurt? Heck,
no. I got zero questions about my safety, what was happening on my
darkened street. Wouldn't you kind of hope that a Somerville 9-1-1
dispatcher would understand how panicky people think? Wouldn't you
kind of hope that in an emergency situation, a Somerville 9-1-1
dispatcher would ask the questions that should be asked?
There's so much more that could be said about this: About how, when I
found out that the Central Library had power, I decided to go there so
I could read. About how, driving down my street, I passed an elderly
neighbor's house and realized with horror that I hadn't thought to
call her to make sure she was all right. About how, at the library,
I sat beside a Muslim grandmother keeping watch over a sleeping baby
lying in a carriage while the baby's mother searched for VHF movies
and I wondered about the circumstances which had brought these three
to Somerville. Had they huddled together in the dark, terrified,
panicked? About how the subject of the book I'd read is the 1915
Armenian genocide and about how, sitting in a well-lit, warm, safe
place, reading that 1.5 million Armenians were slaughtered while their
Turkish neighbors watched, my guilt at not calling my elderly neighbor
increased. About how much more brightly my neighbors' Christmas lights
seemed to glow when the electricity finally came back on.
The day following the power outage was Dec. 7, the 65th anniversary
of Pearl Harbor, an ironical coda to this incident. Pearl Harbor's
anniversary was a tap on the shoulder from the past. Remember:
History happens. Life changes on a dime. Keep candles, matches,
and flashlights handy.