FOREIGN GUY FIGHT CLUB

Manhattan, 2001. One week after 9/11, the streets were half-empty. A biting, metallic smell permeated the air. I arrived from Paris, from sharing a decent-sized apartment in the 17th with an Algerian. It was a good situation there: cheap rent ($300), a furnished room with heat included and a balcony to look over the boulevard such as Caillebotte painted as an Impressionist.

In Paris, I was aware that my status as a foreigner made me exotic. The Algerian followed me into the kitchen at night asking about American politics, trying to speak English, and offering advice on subjects I fully ignored, such as "You must stop riding your bicycle in the middle of the night" and that it was unhealthy to eat only hamburgers and carrot puree. Maybe there was an orange glow to my skin.

I was working in an Irish pub when the New York towers were hit. Right away, students, newspapers and talk arrived through the low door. It became warm in the brick-walled pub and even as the bar buzzed with intellect, with discussion, with thoughts, like a hive or a newspaper desk, I got dizzy.

For a customer I pulled a pint of beer, leaving a good fresh inch of foam at the top. That's how my boss said French people like it. As they sipped comfortably, I remembered visiting the Twin Towers once, as an intern for Black Book magazine. An editor sent me on an errand there, to a computer repair shop. The two guys that fixed the broken laptop were barely 25 years old. I sought a blurry version of their faces to remember them by because: they might not be here anymore.

The pub filled with cigarette smoke and debate and it all became troubling. My instinct was to walk out the door, throw up, smash something, cry, throw, make love. The last thing I wanted to do was talk. I wished those who had a bone to pick with America would not talk either. I wished they would cobble up a Foreign Guy Fight Club and duke it body to body in the caves, wrestling in the mountains and in the desert sun until fatigue took the havoc from the rest of us.



These are Kate's shoes, at the organic supermarket in Bushwick. Today is the tenth year memorial to the tragedy that affected us all. Today is September 11, 2011 and Kate embodies a positive spirit. Her style is inspirational for what we can achieve by letting go of fear.



A moment of peace to all who were affected by this day, ten years ago.