My name is James Michael Richardson. I was a homeless man living in Manhattan up until June Seventeenth, two-thousand-two. My story made me famous. I was not a part of a family who lost a loved one because of it, not a loving boyfriend, husband, son, uncle. Not a friend, coworker, nothing. Instead I sat on the street and watched them pass. Some of them not giving me a glance or second of their time. A few though were probably the nicest people I have ever met. A hot coffee, a simple “How are you doing?” or “What’s your name?” is what made their lives important to me. The rest of them I watched shuffling along, suits fresh from the dry-cleaners, neatly pressed skirts and blouses, hair gelled and sprayed in position, shoes clacking along. I got to know their routines as I am sure they didn’t care about mine. Helen Burkbe, however, she was one of a kind. Chocolate brown curls, Granny Smith-green eyes with sun-drop flakes. Her lips were soft pink and thin, faint freckles were delicately placed across her high cheek bones and small nose. She remained my beacon of light long past her death. She is the reason I told this story. She didn’t have any to remember her, like me she was an adult orphan in a big city of people who didn’t care. No boyfriend, no siblings, no extended family she knew or cared for. It was my job to make sure her death wasn’t over-looked. I watched One World Trade and Two World Trade burn and fall to the ground on September Eleventh, Two-thousand-One.
CHANGES:
Statistic:
The attacks of 9/11 resulted in a death toll of 2,996 people.These numbers included World Trade Center employees, the passengers of the airplanes American 11, and United 175, firefights, police officers, emergency workers, paramedics, EMT's for private services, the attacks in Arlington and Shanksville, Military personnel, and the hijackers themselves. New York City was only able to identify remains for about 1,600 of the World Trade Center victims. As of August 2011, 1,631 victims have been identified, while 1,122 of the victims remain unidentified. Helen is a part of the 1,122 unidentified victims.
Dialogue from character:
"James, Gatsby was so high school, not to say Fitzgerald wasn't a wonderful writer, but the book didn't leave a.. uhh, lasting effect on me." Helen argued over a pipping hot cup of coffee.
"I see what you're saying, but today's authors have no idea what they're doing. They just write and don't bother with symbolism or-" James was cut off.
"All that nonsense?" Helen questioned. "I know what you mean, it's really sad. But just because I don't like that book doesn't mean I don't enjoy good literature."
"I see, I see. Well-" James was cut off again.
"I'm sorry but I gotta run to work!" Helen exclaimed while jumping up coffee in hand.
"Where DO you work?"
"See you tomorrow morning!" Helen called out while leaving the Dunkin Donuts they were sitting in. Her curls bounced, and her gray skirt swayed in the wind as she crossed the busy New York City street.
That was the last time James spoke with Helen or watched her dodge taxi's as she ran to work.
Question:
How do you remember the tragic events on 9/11? Were you even born yet? What do you remember? I was not in it, but I watched it all happen. I sat on a street curb watching the two magnificent towers tumble to the ground. I stood by as nameless people were pulled from the rubble and families frantically search for their loved ones. Many people were never found or named, Helen was one of them. Her story was never told, a body to match her name, she was just a name on a list of people who worked in the building.
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