Some people will be writing about where they were the day of 9/11, but I remember the events of the night before better.  The night of September 10th, 2001 I couldn't sleep.  I was sharing a one room apartment with a mentally ill woman who needed a little help in getting her bills paid and house cleaned.  Since I was homeless and doing the couch surfing amongst friends at the time, I took up her offer to stay so I could build up some security in my life.  The streets of Milwaukee are no place to be when you're homeless, even worse if you're also unemployed.  I made my living as a street psychic.  I would offer up Tarot readings for food, literally, and one of the best places for me to get my dinner was to spend time at the George Webb's restaurant on Farwell Avenue.  My friends teasingly called me "the George Webb's Priestess" because my Tarot reading abilities and pleasant, giggly nature led many to trust me.  One of my teachers always told me that I would be successful as a reader because I don't look frightening and, that even clad all in black, I'm still approuchable yet powerful enough to earn myself the respect of even the toughest gang member.  He was right.  Many times when I thought for sure I was going to be threatened, some guy would stand up for me and say, "Don't mess with her, she's our White Witch."  So it was generally viewed by folks in the neighborhood that I was bad luck to mess with.  I like to think that higher powers were looking out for me at that time, so I wasn't always afraid to walk down the street after 2am.

Like I did on the tenth of September, 2001.  I couldn't sleep because my roommate was snoring loudly and because I had a terrible dream of seeing a very dark, choking column of black smoke filling what looked to be an office space.  I woke choking and shaking, happy to know that I was still alive in that cramped space of an apartment, and anxious to get out of there to visit with friends I knew who'd be up that late at night at George Webb's.  I quickly dressed, grabbed my cards and a notebook to record the dream I had, and see how other people were doing.  When I got to Webb's, I was surprised to find just about all of my Pagan and occult friends there.  It wasn't unusual that some of us would be there, but unusual that we'd all be awake and sitting in that place or arriving there at the same time.  I even called my best friend Andrew to come join us, but he must've been the only one who had stayed home to try to sleep because he had classes in the morning.

Not all of us shared the same omnious dream, but all of us there were feeling anxious.  One friend told me that the crystals she wore were "humming" louder than usual.  Another friend told me that he felt so much anxiety that he wanted to go out and pick a fight with someone.  All of us were also noticing that the drunks that night were skittish.  Even Cowboy (a bum who liked to walk around the nieghborhood wearing an over-sized pirate hat whom, besides his hat, we could always identify miles away because he had a very distinctive old man's laugh that made everyone laugh just as loudly with him) was strangely silent, mumbling to himself about the end of the world and "How does that make you feel?"  Cowboy always had conversations with himself like that, but that night his talking to himself seemed out of character.  Normally he'd be talking to himself about much cheerier subjects.

But as the time passed, and about two packs of cigarettes smoked later, the night normalized into what seemed to be a very quiet dawn.  All talked out, I crawled back to my home-for-the-moment and slept as much as I could.

In what seemed like only a few moments of sleep, I was violently woken up by my frantic roommate who screamed, "Val!  Wake up!  Get the fuck up!!!"  There was no transition period between wakefulness and sleepytime, no time for me to wipe the gunk from my weary smoke stained red eyes.  My first response, "Is there a fire?"  No, worse.

"THEY're bombing the World Trade Center!"  My roommate tearfully sobbed.

"What?"  It still seems surreal to me.  Did that really happen?  How could it happen?  Was it a joke?  My disbelief bled into a near panic attack of anger.  We flipped on the television.  It was around 9am.  In silence we watched the folks at Good Morning America get interupted as live footage of the WTC was broadcast.  The column of black smoke that I had dreamt about was there, live on the screen, to feel me with dread.  Instantly, I really didn't want to be alone with my roommate.  I wanted to be with family.

The only family I considered "mine" at the time was my best friend, Andrew.  Where was he?  I had to find him.  I knew he was in classes, but I figured I'd give it the off chance that he was home and called.  He answered.  Most of our phone conversation was spent in silence as we watched the event of the second plane crashing into the towers.  Did we just see that?  Oh, yes we did.  It wasn't just some horrible dream, but I kept pinching myself in the hopes that it was.

Andrew must've sensed that I couldn't be left alone, that I needed a good distraction, and perhaps he did, too.  He made a few more phone calls to family and friends, then called me back to order me to meet him at Blue Dog Bagels for lunch.  It was around 11am that we sat there.  I could barely eat the bagel sandwich we shared.  I barely remember what kind of sandwich it was.  Andrew gobbled it up like it was going to be out of style while I sat there nibbling on crust. 

In order to make myself feel good, my roommate lent me a corset to wear so that at least I'd feel pretty during this time of national crisis.  I don't know how good I looked, but I distinctly remember Andrew telling me, rather surprisingly, "I want you to exert so much energy that you'll rip that corset up in shreds."  Huh?  Andrew sometimes said things like this to get a rise out of me.  I didn't know whether to be insulted or seduced.  What did he mean?  I flushed red and nearly choked on my pathetic lunch. 

"WE're going swordfighting." Was his next statement.

Before all the candle lit vigils, amidst the silence in the skies, far away from the inescapable news casts, Andrew and I found a way to release the tension and anxiety.  We picked up a couple tree branches on the ground in the green circle park area between Farwell and Prospect Avenues -- tree branches that we had carefully hid days before so we could use them again -- as our makeshift swords and we set against each other.  The bruises and little cuts I endured during that fight were like a healing balm against the tide of anger and sadness I had felt.  I'll never forget that swordfighting session we had.

Now, if you can imagine, a 30 year old woman in a corset and boots dancing around with a man 11 years her younger with his long hair tied up in sections by a series of hair ties dressed all in black, you'd think "what a couple of loons" and perhaps that's what we were.  But that day our little battle went mostly unnoticed.  And, by mid afternoon, we fell into an exhausted heap of giggles -- with Andrew apologizing to me for hitting me too hard in the jaw and me smiling just to have him graciously kiss my hand like some gentleman from an era centuries ago.  

What I remember next was us going our separate ways to meet up with other friends.  I first went back home because my scalp was starting to itch like crazy.  My roommate told me that perhaps I needed to condition my scalp because it had been a dry day and that perhaps a little more beautification would help relax me even more.  So I poured rosemary oil in my hair and, as I was combing through it, I felt something give way on the strands of my hair.  To my shock and horror it was head lice!  Ack!  Add the horror of finding head lice while the whole terror of 9-11 was going on, and you got one hell of a panicked Val.  Off we ran to Walgreen's to buy RID, with my long dark hair oiled up and suspiciously covered by a Moroccan scarf.

By now it was early evening, about 5pm or so, and the streets of the east side are already getting crowded with candles and people gathered along every side of the sidewalk in prayer.  There I am, walking around with my oily hair tied up in a scarf, reeking of rosemary and lavender, looking very much like a Muslim woman!  Walgreen's was crowded with people buying candles and American flags.  At the front of the store, where bums usually locate themselves to beg for change, already there's some Christian facist handing out phamplets about how this is yet another sign of the End Times.  As I tried to avoid this idiot and several of his followers, I was met with jeers.  They had assumed I was Muslim because of my head scarf.  "You're the reason why this country is in the toilet!"  One of them cried. 

By then, all head liced up, with a slightly bruised jaw, and fingers scratched up after my intense little pretend sword fight with Andrew, I lost my patience.  "Maybe you need to go back and read your Bible, you hypocrit!"  I screamed back, "Or better yet, find another religion to buy into!  Maybe if you Christians stopped claiming yours is the only way to Heaven, maybe then we wouldn't have wars going on the Middle East!"  I don't remember what else I yelled, but they were just as surprised as my friends were at my outburst, but, dammitt, those idiots were asking for it.  However, I remember on my way out, after yet again someone mistaking me for a Muslim, I dared break the silence by saying, "Don't you all have something better to do that harass people into your faith during a time of National crisis?!"

I got even angrier as I raced home to put that RID in my hair when already there were idiots on the street selling WTC/911 T-shirts and lapel pins.  How did they make them so fast?  I hate it when people take advantage of things like that.

Later that night, after rinsing away those bugs out of my hair (we later found out that it was my roommate's daughter who had come down with them and that they had taken root in the bed I had slept in), I decided to move out of that apartment and took up residence with one of the waitresses from George Webb's.  The next night I remember going back to the restaurant to earn some quick $$$ doing readings, and just not having the heart or passion to do much of anything.  One of my restaurant pals had an uncle who worked at the WTC.  That was the closest I got to knowing someone who died there.  To this day, it's still surreal.

Five years later, we're bombarded again with images from 9/11.  I know it's important to remember this event, but I wonder how much longer I have to see that column of smoke?