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Americans turn inward
Stunned to the core, many reassess priorities
Elizabeth Fernandez, Chronicle Staff Writer
Monday, October 1, 2001
©2001 San Francisco Chronicle

URL: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/chronicle/archive/2001/10/01/MN235715.DTL

A San Francisco gallery owner, wasting no more time starting construction of her dream home in the foothills, clears 18 acres, drills a well, and orders 200 pounds of wildflower seeds.

An airline employee and his travel agent wife, with layoffs all but inevitable, cancel plans for a kitchen makeover -- and worry that their children will be without health insurance.

A sales executive in San Francisco quickens her pace each time she passes the Federal Reserve Bank, convinced that the building will be a target the next time.

When three hijacked planes careered into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, they shattered not only a facade of domestic security but also core elements of daily life for the entire nation. Now, in the midst of what mental health experts say will be a six-week phase of cocooning and interpersonal bonding, behavior is changing in ways both small and fundamental.

"It feels like nothing is the same," says Kit Bell, an elementary school teacher in San Francisco, "and nothing will ever be the same."

Nearly three weeks have elapsed since the country was tilted from its axis. Patriotism and altruism erupted, spiritualism spread. But lingering beyond the flags and prayers is a shadow, a pervasive uneasiness, an instinctive turning inward to home and hearth, a grieving about the past and trepidation for the future.

With war looming, the economy stumbling and heightened security altering the ways of travel, commerce and personal liberty, the tentacles of terrorism are reaching deep into the nation's psyche, altering fixed patterns of lifestyle and emotion.

There are intimate changes. Anne Wilson, CEO of United Way of the Bay Area, bought flag pins -- "As a child of the '60s, I probably wouldn't have expected to wear a flag on my lapel, but now I'm proud to do it" -- and is making sure her 10-year-old old son Ryan knows the lyrics to "America the Beautiful."

And when Cecile Andrews found herself in a mild tiff last week with her husband, she stopped him from departing with the squabble unresolved.

"I said we can't leave it like this, think of all those people in New York who didn't have the chance to say goodbye," says the educator who splits her time between the Bay Area and Seattle. "He said you're right, gave me a kiss and it was over. These days we have such a sense of our mortality."

There are other poignant adjustments, determinations to grasp the present more fully.

Cheryl Haines embarked on her lifelong dream, starting construction on a farmhouse-style home and artists' residence on 50 acres near Nevada City. Since the East Coast attacks, Haines has made six trips to the site, clearing 18 acres of manzanita, purchasing a Mongolian yurt as temporary shelter.

"I thought, let's get on with it, what am I waiting for?" says Haines, a New York native who owns an art gallery in San Francisco. "I want it built today."

Overhanging what one resident characterizes as the Bay Area's "bubble of optimism," an acute emotional accounting is under way, a jolting reawakening to life's fragility.

"I'm preparing for the worst possible scenario, but no one in my generation really knows how to prepare for war," says Josh Parr, a 30-year-old coordinator with Youth Together who works with students at Berkeley High.

"Sept. 11 was the end of a culture of distraction, the end of innocence for my generation. . . . Conceivably, an eighth of the young people I work with could be dead in three years if war happens."

Parr bemoans the transformation in his young son, Miles, who lives in Manhattan.

"He's getting used to F-16s flying overhead, he keeps drawing pictures of buildings blowing up," Parr says. "Two days after the attack, he said, 'Daddy, these are evil people.' To have that awareness is really awful -- he's only 4 years old."

For young and old, irritability or mild depression is commonplace. Some find themselves unduly startled by sudden noise, others have trouble concentrating.

"It feels as if we've lost a part of ourselves," says Barbara Bysiek, director of the Family Stress Center in Concord. "I took my son on Wednesday to the airport and couldn't get the image of that plane flying into the building out of my mind."

For many, sleep is restive or elusive.

"A lot of early-morning awakening is going on all over America," says Dr. Alan Wolfelt, director of the Center for Loss and Life in Fort Collins, Colo. "(People) will never be exactly the same as . . . before this tragedy."

 

UNEASINESS PREVAILS

Disquiet hangs in the air, a sense that peril still awaits. Even elevator rides trigger angst.

"Tuesday morning I was riding in the elevator at the Bank of America building and suddenly started thinking, 'I'm in a very tall building in America, should I be wondering about my safety?' " says Amisha Gandhi, an account manager in San Francisco who grew up in New York.

Gandhi has quickly become hyper-conscious of her brown complexion. "When people see my coloring, are they going to think twice about me? I have this bad feeling in my stomach, an empty pit that hasn't gone away. Is this really the reality of the world today?"

In tandem with the coast-to-coast cocooning, priorities are shifting. Daily agendas are being reassessed, relationships re-examined, time found for loved ones.

One Peninsula politician last week abandoned hopes of state office in order to remain in the Daly City home he's shared with his family for three decades.

"It takes a tragedy of this horrific level to wake us up," says San Mateo County Supervisor Mike Nevin, who decided not to run for the Assembly. "As much as it was gut-wrenching, as much as I wanted to win, I thought some things are more important. The California state Legislature is not even on the radar screen when it comes to my family."

 

DISCONNECT

But many are suffering a vague disconnection. Fueling it are economic jitters. As the stock market lurches, as airlines furlough workers by the tens of thousands and unemployment reaches a nine-year high, apprehension mounts.

"We're looking at not having any insurance coverage for our children," says one airline employee who asked not to be identified because of company prohibitions against talking to the press. His wife works for a travel agency, and both face possible layoffs.

"The kitchen remodeling we were going to do, we can't. Our contractor's a great guy -- he'll feel the trickle-down too. It feels like every home is being terrorized by this attack."

In the face of escalating uneasiness, mental health experts are bracing for an epidemic of post-traumatic stress disorders.

 

ANXIETY LEVEL SOARS

"The baseline of anxiety in our culture has risen," says San Francisco forensic psychiatrist Dr. Mark Levy, who last Sunday during a visit to the Museum of Modern Art was unexpectedly jolted by the sound of distant sirens.

"We are now all primed. It takes less for our fear signals to go off."

Disturbed by the specter of further domestic attacks, by impending battle with an amorphous enemy, the future seems unnerving.

"I feel victimized in many ways and I'm not good at being a victim so I'm resentful," says Luz Reyes, a sales executive for a high-tech company who accelerates her steps these days passing the Federal Reserve Bank.

"It's hard to move on with your life. We had a bomb threat the other day and had to evacuate. Prior to Sept. 11, I would have said 'oh brother.' But this time I dropped everything and ran as fast as I could. I had the fear of God in me."

E-mail Elizabeth Fernandez at efernandez@sfchronicle.com.

©2001 San Francisco Chronicle   Page A - 1