Missing evidence. (letter from the editor in chief).

Although I recently wrote about the events of September 11 in The Advocate, I nevertheless find myself unable to begin my year-in-review letter without noting, one more time, how everything has changed. The scary part is, unless you live in New York City or Washington, DC, you can't find the actual wounds. You can only read about them or--now with all the network year-end wrap-up shows--watch them over and over again on television. There seems to be a free-floating anxiety, like the refined anthrax dust that may or may not be in the air. Yes, something horrible and forever damaging has happened, but where is it?

Being a New Yorker by birth, I, of course, had to rush back to "see" for myself. Never has something missing been such a powerful sight to behold. Amid the dust, I couldn't find what was gone. Wire fences kept me from acres of empty space that once touched the sky. Buildings miles away from "ground zero" were still being washed down to find their windows and doors. It was unspeakable.

And yet New Yorkers were talking to each other again. People were watching and reading the news and discussing it. I couldn't believe it. It was like the old days. Taxi drivers--including those wearing turbans--usually unwilling, uninterested, or unable to talk to me, were smiling and chatting away about how wonderful America is. The energy of the living was literally rushing in and filling the spiritual burial ground left behind by the twin towers. After several days of absorbing everything in Manhattan, I moved on to D.C. There, a few miles away from the White House, across the Potomac River, I stood, stunned at the sight of the Pentagon. Finally I could take in one view that told a complete story. With all the nonstop coverage of the devastation in New York, the obliteration of America's famous war rooms had gone underreported. I'm sure there were many reasons for this, but seeing it for myself, in person, caused an old Phil Ochs song lyric to drift through my mind: "And do you have a picture of the pain?"

Despite my own wrecked state, the renewal of spirit I had experienced with New Yorkers had spread. I was amazed at the flurry of fresh energy and upbeat feelings going on in D.C. Everyone wanted to talk to everyone else about absolutely everything.

People interested in the news again? People trying to connect with the meaningful things in their lives? What could be better for the nation's leading gay and lesbian news-magazine. Gay issues--deep in the fabric of America and anything that happens to America--are suddenly everywhere again. We've got Jerry Falwell (who refused to be interviewed for this magazine) shooting himself in the foot after putting it in his mouth. We've got Mark Bingham's mother, lovers, business partners, and friends saying yes to helping us put together Mark's life's story so that we can honor him as The Advocate's Person of the Year. We've got a new war going on with gay people fighting in it. We've got the ashes of buildings with gay and lesbian police and firefighters digging through them. We've got new waves of gay men losing their lives to AIDS (see Lance Loud's "A Death in An American Family"), while messages about the disease--and funding for it--are more uncertain than ever.

And don't think the dive-bombers of 2001 managed to destroy our closets. They only turned them to glass. Much like the little hero of The Sixth Sense, we at The Advocate "see gay people," but it's not OK to talk about them. Yes, we photographed and interviewed many of the year's best and brightest, but many more could not be acknowledged because they feared the exposure. We even heard reports about friends of those crushed in the towers running to their apartments in efforts to "de-gay" them before grieving family members got there. Talk about horrible and damaging things you can't see. Talk about something missing being a powerful sight to behold.

And, by the way, how do you take a picture of that pain?