Altarpieces

          Every year we celebrated Thanksgiving by driving forty-five minutes down to my
grandma and uncle’s place in Hell’s Kitchen, a “giant” (by New York standards) four-bedroom
inside an affordable-housing building. Unlike my friend’s grandma’s house, where pigs and
roosters seemed to be everywhere, my grandma preferred Jesus and John F. Kennedy as the main
décor.
          Jesus was everywhere you went: in the kitchen, the living room, even the bathrooms.
Sometimes he was in framed photos, other times in statues; the worst was when he was on the
cross, bleeding, his face twisted in despair, nails sticking out of his appendages.
          JFK was a more puzzling choice. “Why does Grandma have him everywhere?” I asked
once.
          “He was the first Irish Catholic president,” my mom replied.
          This response confused me further. To me, adults only liked to talk about where they
were when he was shot, not his religious background.
          As the turkey cooked, we all sat around watching TV—my parents, my grandma, my
uncle, and me. We mostly watched football, but during breaks flipped over to the news. President
Bush had made a surprise visit to Iraq. Footage showed him holding a suspiciously perfect looking turkey, smiling as he prepared to serve troops their holiday meal. “The first time a U.S.
president has visited the country,” a news anchor said.
          “War on oil is all this is,” my dad said, and the adults all chimed in that they agreed,
calling Bush all sorts of names. My uncle, who had low-functioning autism and still lived with
my grandma, seemed to be more parroting the sentiments.
           I still couldn’t process why we were at war with Iraq. In the early days after 9/11, Iraq
was never mentioned.
          That day in 8th-grade English class, my teacher paused her lesson to announce, “There’s
been an attack on New York City,” said it was “very sad,” and then went back to finishing the
lesson. She was probably in the group of people who lived in Rockland County and had no
connection to the city, seeing it as a place to go once or twice a year for a day trip.
           When the bell rang, I rushed to the nurse’s office, panicked. On my way, I couldn’t help
but notice that they were playing the attack on the TVs in the front office, causing me to feel an
out-of-body experience, like in a movie.
          The nurse called my mom, who hadn’t yet heard the news but immediately said she was
coming. As I sat waiting, a popular boy named Chris Arroyo walked in and sat across from me.
I’d been so anxious that I barely noticed him until he spoke.
           “Your dad works in the city too?” he asked, calm.
           I nodded and whispered, “Yes”. Not bothering to mention my grandma and uncle. Who
rarely left Hell’s Kitchen, but what if they decided to run an errand near the Trade Center?
Unlikely, but my mind was doing somersaults, inventing possibilities.
           Of course, they all ended up being OK. In line with my grandma’s macabre taste in home
décor, a few 9/11 memorial pieces made it inside the apartment. Right next to a statue of the
nativity scene was another statue of the rubble of the World Trade Center, an FDNY crew in the
center hoisting an American flag. Next to that was a picture of me.
            Sometimes I think, this is a little like JFK getting shot, isn’t it? This is my “I’ll always
remember where I was” part of history.
            I was staring at that photo when my grandma announced dinner was ready. We all stood
up and crammed into the dining room, under a giant sculpture of the Last Supper that hung on
the wall.
            Before eating, my grandma and mom made us all say grace while my dad stared straight
ahead, not even bothering to pretend. He was always more Irish Catholic in name than in spirit.
            Afterwards, we dug in. As I slid my turkey into some cranberry sauce and a silence came
over the table, I asked, “What’s it mean that we’re at war? What’s a war on oil?”
            The adults all were quiet for second, like they were playing a silent round of hot potato
for who would be the one to answer my question, before finally my dad let out a sigh and
prepared to take it on. “Don’t worry about it, Brit. Just eat.”

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