From interviewing families of victims from the 1995 Oklahoma City terrorist bombing, I knew what damage clichés such “Time to move on.” Put it behind us.” “Get over it.” can do—especially as we approach the second anniversary of 9/ll. I thought that if some of the guardians of Middletown– educators, clergy, mental health professionals, law enforcement officials, and volunteer leaders—could connect with their counterparts in Oklahoma City, they could share their common experiences and impart lessons learned.

A two-day Phoenix Rising Summit was planned as an inaugural effort to develop a long-term, supportive bond between the two communities. Middletown’s “angels” went to Oklahoma City National Memorial for the Phoenix Rising Summit on May 5th and 6th. So many inspiring moments came from the gathering, and the group realized that with the second anniversary approaching, the caregivers should come together again in Middletown. The Phoenix Rising Summit II was held on August 28th in Middletown and Manhattan.

Dr. Antonia Martinez, principal of the Village Elementary School in Middletown attended the Phoenix Rising Summit in Oklahoma City on May 5th & 6th, 2003. These are a few of images of the shared experiences.


The Gates of Time are the twin gates frame the moment of destruction - 9:02 and mark the formal entrances to the memorial.

The east gate represents 9:01 on April 19th. The west gate represents 9:03.


Antonia learned about how the educators in the Oklahoma City community responded to the needs of the children following the tragedy. She photographed this wall of hand painted tiles sent to Oklahoma City in 1995 by children. At the Memorial Center, a series of chalkboards creates an oversized display of these works where children can continue to share their feelings - an important component of the healing process.

Paid for, in part by the Gail Sheehy Foundation

PARADE Magazine
August 24, 2003
By Gail Sheehy

 

The second anniversary can be tough - that's one of the things residents of a New Jersey town shattered by the events of September 11, 2001, learned from the survivors of the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing.

How do you cope with the emotional aftermath of a terrorist attack? That was the subject of a meeting that took place this May in Oklahoma City. There, community leaders from Middletown, N.J., which lost 34 people in the World Trade Center collapse, met with their counterparts from Oklahoma City, where the 1995 bombing of a federal building claimed 168 lives. PARADE Contributing Editor Gail Sheehy---whose new book, "Middletown, America," chronicles the shattered families' slow climb toward healing ---was there to witness the gathering. This is her report.

Laurie Tietjen bowed her head until her long ginger hair curtained the tears appearing on her cheeks. She was remembering the first time she went to Ground Zero, a few weeks after her 31-year-old brother, Kenny, a Port Authority police officer, died there. He had commandeered a taxi and raced to the burning World Trade Center in time to save many lives before he was crushed to death.

 
Laurie Tietjen, 31, whose older brother was killed in the World Trade Center collapse.


"It looked like war," she said. "There was still fire everywhere and a very weird smell that I'll never forget. I walked away by myself. I was just in shock.

"A man came over and put his arm around me," Tietjen continued.

" He didn't say anything, just stood there with me about 15 minutes. Finally, he spoke: `I didn't say anything to you, because I know there's nothing I can say to make you feel better. My daughter died in Oklahoma City.'"

Tietjen, a longtime resident of Middletown, N.J., was addressing a joint meeting of community leaders from Middletown and Oklahoma City at Oklahoma City's National Memorial, built on the former site of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building, which was destroyed by a terrorist bomb in 1995. The two-day gathering on May 5-6, 2003, called Phoenix Rising Summit, was arranged so that educators, clergy, mental-health professionals, law-enforcement officials and volunteer leaders from both communities could meet their counterparts, share their common experiences of dealing with trauma and impart lessons learned. It was the inaugural effort to develop a long-term, supportive bond between the two communities.

" I will never forget that man as long as I live," Tietjen told the assembly. "He completely understood what I was going through. I would love to track him down and bring back a little of that courage and hope he offered that day. I just wish I knew his name."
Two years later, support deteriorates. After a great trauma, there is a heroic phase during which friends and neighbors rise to the occasion. In the affluent suburb of Middletown, for the first six months after 9/11, people would hug and cry and talk about significant things, even with people on the street. As time passed, however, many adopted a different, popular credo for dealing with disaster: "Time to move on." "Put it behind us." "Get over it."

Families of the Oklahoma City victims know what damage such attitudes can do. "As we passed the second anniversary, the community as a whole---families, friends, even spouses---lost patience," recalled Richard Wintory, Oklahoma County's former senior assistant district attorney, who worked closely with the families. With the shock past and visitors thinning out, he said, "folks around the survivors didn't feel they had to cut them slack anymore.

"The victims themselves wonder, `Why can't I get past this?'" he added. "It accelerates for some---a real downward spiral."

The trauma lingers...and ripples outward. The truth Oklahomans have learned in the eight years since Timothy McVeigh blew up the Murrah Federal Building is that terrorist-caused psychological trauma is lingering and cumulative. Less than two hours into the Phoenix Rising Summit, masks of composure began to come off.

"My name is John Pollinger. I'm the chief of police in Middletown Township." Behind his commanding voice, Pollinger looked every bit the poster boy for a tough law-enforcement official. "We are proud of the fact that out of 300 small municipalities and cities [pop. 50,000 to 100,000] across the United States, our town has the third-lowest crime rate," he said. "That is part of the thing that draws a lot of people to our community: because it's safe." He strangled on the word "safe."

"Till one day...all those people died...and I...I couldn't...I couldn't do anything about it." Pollinger fought to hold back his emotions, but they flooded over him. "That's why I felt so helpless," he said in a soft, broken voice. "I guess it's for a selfish reason that I'm here...It's for me."

Father Jerome Nolan, whose Church of the Nativity had lost young fathers of young children, was no less open about his confusion and personal neediness. "I'm still trying to deal with it on many levels," he told the group. "What do we do for the people who are left? I don't know. I have to deal with it myself."

Linda Wagner, a psychologist who had suffered severe heart complications while in a session with a survivor of the Oklahoma City bombing, warned those who would help that trauma can be vicariously experienced. She urged her Middletown counterparts to pace themselves, not to make the mistake she and others had made by immersing themselves in others' pain and ending up themselves physically or mentally compromised.

Laurie Tietjen spoke of her concern for the police officers who had worked every night for months at Ground Zero, recovering human remains. "Most of these guys have not had any type of counseling since this happened, and they are hurting like you can't even imagine.

Some are already ruining their lives, but they're too proud to admit it or to face the stigma they think goes with counseling."

"You talk about any kind of addictive behavior, and we've seen it," said Jack Poe, the Oklahoma City Police Department chaplain.

"Addiction to gambling, womanizing, drugs, alcohol, spending themselves into debt, domestic abuse. If we learned any lesson, it's that it takes a while for the men to integrate this experience. The longer they're on the disaster site, the longer it's going to take."

Forming a bridge to the departed.
The day ended with the announcement of a surprise visitor: "Laurie, there's someone here who would like to say hello to you." In walked a tall, rawboned Oklahoma man with a big white mustache. He spread open his long arms and, like sister to brother, Laurie Tietjen folded herself into them. The man was Tom Kight---the name Laurie never knew, the man who had held her at Ground Zero.

Tom Kight of Oklahoma City, who lost his stepdaughter, Frankie Merrell, in the 1995 bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building.

Inset: Frankie at 18.

Tom walked Laurie to the memorial's grassy knoll, where an outdoor room enfolds 168 empty bronze chairs, marking where their occupants used to sit in their offices. He stopped before one vacant seat aglow with light. "Say hello to Frankie, my daughter," he said.

"It felt as if Frankie was sitting right there with us and smiling," said Laurie. Here was another lesson: It is healing to build bridges from the land of the dead to the land of the living. And the best way to do that is to tell and retell the victims' stories, to shift the emphasis from the way they died to the way they lived.

Tom Kight proudly but sadly told the story of how his daughter had lived. Laurie held him, saying nothing. As she and Tom walked away from Frankie's chair, Laurie silently promised the girl that she would keep an eye on her dad. Now the bridge between the living and the dead went both ways.

PARADE Contributing Editor Gail Sheehy is the author of "Passages," "The Silent Passage," "New Passages" and "Hillary's Choice." Her most recent book is "Middletown, America: One Town's Passage From Trauma to Hope," published by Random House.

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction or distribution is prohibited without permission.