When you’re standing before the massive gap in the Financial District, looking up into the vacant sky where the twin towers once loomed, the White House’s efforts to prosecute Khalid Sheikh Mohammed and other Al Qaeda operatives in federal criminal court just a few blocks from the site where thousands of Americans were murdered by their actions may seem like an important demonstration of American justice.

That’s how New York City Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg felt up through November.

He steadfastly supported the type and location of the trial, declaring it, “fitting that 9/11 suspects face justice near the World Trade Center site, where so many New Yorkers were murdered.”

Some survivors and family members of the nearly 2,900 people who died that morning (in New York, at the Pentagon and in a field in Pennsylvania) also welcomed the decision. Several indicated that they wanted to witness the trials in person.

But over the past few weeks, many opinions have begun to shift.

It started with businesses and community leaders questioning the financial burdens that a trial would bring to a heavily trafficked area of the city:

• Real estate brokers argued that security restrictions would dampen the market for apartments in Chinatown and TriBeCa.

• Small-business owners feared a severe drop-off in customers.

• Residents worried that they would be unable to use local streets.

Bloomberg was listening and on Jan. 27 he publicly echoed the growing concerns – he wanted the trial moved. Besides local New Yorkers’ apprehension, he estimated that security for a trial in lower Manhattan could cost as much as $1 billion.

It raised more inquiries as to whether the Obama administration is fully aware of the financial costs of such a trial. The president is proposing a $200 million fund to help pay for security costs. The money will be included in a budget plan for 2011 of roughly $3.7 trillion.

Including and besides the financial expense of having this trial in New York City, many, including me, are curious whether Obama is considering the emotional costs of returning to the scene of the worst terrorist attack in American history … especially a scene that will take place inside a civilian court.

Mohammed and the other operatives committed an act of war. And as perpetrators of an act of war it seems obvious that they should be tried before a military commission. If held in civilian court, the trial would afford them all of the same constitutional privileges than an American citizen on trial for a crime would enjoy.

Clearly, there is a difference.

These terrorists should be tried in military tribunals where other Guantanamo Bay detainees will be judged.

Other concerns:

• A civilian trial could turn into a propaganda forum for the accused. Because the trials would be out in the open, it would give defendants an opportunity to churn out propaganda, which could end up putting the U.S. government on trial.

• What if key evidence in the trial is thrown out on a technicality? Related to that, many are concerned that for some reason, one or more of the defendants could be set free and secrets about how the government protects the country will be disclosed.

• Many fear that New York City will again become a target.

President Obama repeatedly declares that he supports “change” for the American people; that he listens to American voices; that he wants transparency and open government decisions.

It is apparent what the majority deems appropriate: the layout for the 9/11 trials needs to change.

Originally published Sunday, Feb. 7, 2010 in The Observer

“Everyone will say it’s because we moved in together,” I said.

They could think that. But we know better.

“I think living with one another is what kept us together longer,” Mark justified and nuzzled his nose into my hair like always. I agreed.

“We’re just two very different people on two very different paths,” he said.

I think I’ve known this for a while. And I think he did too.

We held each other for what felt like seconds all day Monday – my back against his chest, head in my wet pillow, and his arm around my midriff.

Nothing happened to instigate our breakup – there was no terrible fight or disagreement or act that set one of us off. Neither of us met someone better. It was an amicable and mutual decision that things just weren’t working out.

“At least we gave it our all,” he sighed.

For the past two years, we had been fighting to maintain a long-distance relationship – he in Syracuse performing with his band of 12 years, me in Fredonia finishing my Masters. I had been living in the city for five months when the call I’d been waiting for, for years finally came:

“I want to be with you,” Mark had said over the phone.

Because of a financial and emotional deficit in both our lives, we’d decided that sharing an apartment would be a satisfactory restoration.

Excitement was the initial emotion to fill me after we moved his belongings into my already cramped 12- by 9-foot bedroom. We got to see each other every day, eat meals with one another and live “normal” lives together.

But like smoldering embers burning below the surface, impossible to extinguish, a new sensation began to fume inside me: something didn’t click.

He wanted to save money, have more time to himself to jump-start his recording career, and discuss topics dealing with capitalism and the economy, while I longed to travel, constantly be on the go exploring this city and other lands with a companion, and discuss theory, fine wines and alternative cultures.

Many other divergent and significant interests began to splinter at the seams and “small things” became defining things.

“I think we have three-fourths of an amazing relationship,” he said in retrospect. “I’m not sure if that is enough to make it last, though.”

“What will we tell people?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I guess that it just wasn’t meant to be,” he answered.

I looked around my bedroom at the dresser that did not belong to me, dirty clothes crumpled on my floor that were not mine, new books, notebooks and a computer on my desk that sat next to my own.

Since December, this had been our room.

Breaking up in New York City – especially when two people live together – is similar to, yet unlike, breaking up anywhere else. Because Mark is still searching for a full-time job in a locale that is laying off people left and right, we are forced to continue to share an apartment until he saves enough money for his own.

This could last a few weeks, or a few months.

But we are determined to maintain a friendship through and after this difficult, confusing and overwhelming period of our lives.

People may assume that the love faded; or that “men suck”; or that I am a selfish woman for not wanting to be a homebody. But only Mark and I will know the truth:

Our love for one another is still there. It always will be. But sometimes that is not enough.

Originally published Sunday, Jan. 31, 2010 in The Observer

“We’re not able to make it to the phone. Please leave your name and telephone number. We’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you.” *Beep*

I called my mom Monday afternoon. She wasn’t home. So I got to hear my dad’s voice as he spoke the above phrase. After I left my message asking my mother if she was OK, his voice was still in my head.

“If you scratch my back I’ll scratch yours,” my father would always coax her and me.

The three of us would usually be sitting in the living room watching the evening news or a movie – my mother rustling around the day’s newspaper and my father twiddling his thumbs.

She was pretty good about carrying out his nightly request. When he leaned against her chair and she crisscrossed red marks along his strong, slightly tanned skin, his knees would go weak.

I laughed at him.

“You’re pathetic, Dad,” I’d joke.

I’ve never been much for getting my back scratched and therefore usually refused him. But I would cave on certain occasions like his birthday, Father’s Day, days he was sick.

I considered such moments twice this week: Monday, Jan. 11 – my father’s birthday; Thursday, Jan. 14 – the three-year anniversary of his death.

That last week came in waves:

He was in the hospital the day of his birthday. He was speaking and partially coherent but undoubtedly in pain. I don’t remember what I brought him as a gift. But I do remember what I gave him.

“Would you scratch my back, sweetie,” he asked. The nurse had moved him out of bed and into a chair to get his blood circulating. “Of course Dad,” I replied. His skin was like translucent ivory tissue paper beneath my fingernails.

Over the next three days his conditioned worsened. And then there was “no hope for recovery,” I think someone said … or maybe it was just me. When my mother and I took him off life support, my hand was underneath his shoulder. He couldn’t talk then. Or hear probably. But, I ran my nails along his back anyways. Just in case. So he knew I was there.

The quilt my Aunt Bonnie made me last spring – created from patches of my father’s old dress and flannel work shirts, ties and jeans – hangs on my bedroom wall in Queens. Most days, I don’t reflect on it.

But on Monday and Thursday, I spent time each day running my hand over the patches and thought about the many times he “scratched my back”:

In high school, the only way I’d retain information for tests was to make flashcards. My dad would test me for hours until I memorized every one.

My dad taught me how to drive and took me for my road test. When there was something wrong with my car he’d fix it. My gas tank and window washer fluid would always be full even if I hadn’t been home in months. He drove out undetected to inspect the car.

He’d write me an email a few times per week, “Hey there sweetie pie,” to see how things were going. He’d always sign it, “Your loving papa xoxo.” Even though I deleted most, I kept the last two he sent me. They are tacked on my bedroom wall.

A few weeks before his death, my laptop had crashed – all of my final papers for college were gone. He took off from work to run me around to computer stores until someone could salvage something. A few days later, I flushed my phone down the toilet ( … yeah, I don’t know) and again he drove me to the store to find me a new one.

When I got overly stressed or angry – like the night before we drove him to the hospital – he’d find reasons for me to be relaxed and stay positive. My dad’s optimism in the goodness of people and events – of life – made me strong.

Every so often, I find myself calling my mother’s house even when I know she is not home. It’s silly, but every time his voice speaks at me I can’t help but want to say, “I’ll scratch yours.”

Originally published Sunday Jan. 17 in The Observer

Should a woman’s choice of whether or not to conceive a child be made by anyone other than the woman?

This age-old debate has taken an interesting shift as of late:

U.S. military personnel serving in Iraq now face court-martial if they become pregnant or impregnate another soldier. The long-standing policy once removed pregnant servicewomen from combat within two weeks. But the new policy makes it a punishable offense, even for married couples.

Army Major General Anthony Cucolo, the man who enacted the ban Nov. 4, argues that service members should put their love lives “on hold” while serving in a combat zone.

Cucolo, who commands American operations in northern Iraq, explained in several publications that he instituted the ban because he was losing too many women with critical skills.

“I’ve got a mission to do. I’m given a finite number of soldiers with which to do it and I need every one of them,” Cucolo was quoted in the military publication Stars and Stripes.

Of Cucolo’s 22,000 soldiers 1,682 are women.

The policy is not limited to women. Cucolo acknowledges, “Men who break this rule are subject to the same punishments.”

Since the new policy has been in force, four women soldiers were redeployed because they had become pregnant in violation of Cucolo’s order. The four women and three male soldiers (one of the pregnant women declined to identify the person who got her pregnant) received letters of reprimand that will not remain in their permanent military files.

Four Democratic senators – Sens. Barbara Boxer of California, Barbara Mikulski of Maryland, Jeanne Shaheen of New Hampshire, and Kirsten Gillibrand of New York – have written a letter to the Army general asking him to retract this order.

“We can think of no greater deterrent to women contemplating a military career than the image of a pregnant woman being severely punished simply for conceiving a child,” the senators wrote.

Besides these four female senators, Cucolo’s decision has triggered outrage among many women’s groups.

For example, the National Organization for Women (NOW) called the policy “ridiculous.”

“How dare any government say we’re going to impose any kind of punishment on women for getting pregnant,” NOW President Terry O’Neill was quoted in an online ABCNews article. “This is not the 1800s.”

An old co-worker, friend of mine, Army National Guard E4 Specialist Amanda Sleasman, has a different opinion about Cucolo’s order. She has heard of female soldiers intentionally planning pregnancies to relieve themselves of duty (the military does consider this a form of “malingering” – an army term for a soldier who injures him- or herself to avoid dangerous assignments).

“I think women should not be able to walk away unpunished if she is trying to use pregnancy as a ‘get out of jail free card,’” she explained. “Plus, this general is not just targeting women, he is targeting both sexes who are having unprotected sex.”

Sleasman connoted support that the new rule applies to wives and husbands also.

“Birth control and condoms are given out like candy … there should be no pregnancies happening,” she said.

She went on to explain that unprotected sex in the military is against contract to begin with.

“This is because if you are overseas on duty it hinders the overall mission,” she said. “Every solider takes an oath to protect their country, and stay in good health and standing to do so.”

So again, should a woman’s choice of whether or not to conceive a child be decided by anyone other than the woman?

Taking into account all sides of this issue, I argue “no” and “yes.”

“No”: Although there can be many shades of gray about right and wrong situations, in the “real world” no one should tell a woman how to manage her body.

“Yes”: The military is a very different world. Female and male soldiers sign contracts to be controlled and conditioned to be part of a team in order to protect America. When a team member is randomly taken out of the equation, the whole team is put at risk.

Additionally, Cucolo’s ban punishes women and men, which is a progressive step forward when it comes to equality. Yet, he needs to be sure that all the fathers are, indeed, punished.

Overall, war is no time to make babies … hence the plethora of birth control options for both sexes. Whether a woman is malingering, or mommy and daddy are together making a personal decision to start a family, both are selfish decisions that should be punished.

Originally published Sunday, Jan. 10, in The Observer

“We’re not able to make it to the phone. Please leave your name and telephone number. We’ll get back to you real quick. Have a nice day!” *Beep*

Her father’s voice.

I hung up the receiver without leaving a message. I knew where her mother was. I knew she already knew.

My girlfriend-of-three-months had gone to the store to get cake mix. It was her father’s birthday tomorrow and she wanted to make him a cake. The doctor and nurses warned her that he wouldn’t be able to eat it. “Only fluids,” they repeated.

“He can still blow out the candles,” she replied and left the hospital to get supplies.

“I’ll be back real quick dad.”

It was five days after the surgery and her father was “stable” and “healing nicely.” And then that afternoon there were problems. “Minor complications,” the nurses assured.

A small infection.

“It’s under control.”

“I’m not worried,” she said when she arrived to her dorm room. I’d been there since morning and was lying on her bed waiting. I’d been lying there for five days since morning. “If the doctors aren’t concerned then you shouldn’t be either,” I agreed. But her mother didn’t. She refused to leave his bedside after that – not to eat or drink or even use the bathroom.

But I told my girlfriend-of-three-months everything would be OK; that she shouldn’t feel bad about leaving for a few hours.

“Everything will be OK.”

She told me to wait for her more while she ran to the campus store “real quick” to get supplies to make a cake: mix, frosting, candles. And so I lay some more on the bed staring at a crack in the white plaster ceiling.

When the phone rang, a husky man’s voice asked for her and finally said, “We lost him.”

My first thought was that his bed might have accidentally wheeled down the hall into another room – perhaps the cable was better in room 304. And then the doctor said something that meant the infection had become worse than they originally thought. “It spread too quickly for us to contain.”

Real quick.

Before that call to her parents’ – her childhood – home, I’d never heard my girlfriend-of-three-months’ father’s voice. There were to be family dinners and get-togethers. In the future when we’d dated longer. Like at Christmas and maybe Easter. I think they celebrated both.

When my girlfriend returned from the store she was smiling as if saying, “This will make him smile.” She was holding a white bag with a yellow smiley face and red letters that spelled, “HAVE A NICE DAY!”

It was filled with cake mix and frosting and candles.

She asked me to preheat the oven in the communal kitchen. “180 degrees.”

When I sat up but didn’t stand, “What’s the matter?” was what she said. She stopped smiling then.

“The hospital called,” I said. “They said it was quick.”

She set the smiley face on the bedroom floor and picked up the phone. She called home even though she knew where her mother was.