"I find hope in the darkest of days, and focus in the brightest. I do not judge the universe."
-Dalai Lama
I can't help but be a little philosophical these days. Well, to be honest, for the past few months.
Since I've been deployed to New York, I've come almost face to face; nose to nose with my past, my present, and my future; who I was and who I am and who I hope to be. Bear with me.
I find that I have these persnickety and persistent thoughts - all revolving around when I first moved to NYC almost 10 years ago, and the events that followed. It's like I can't shake it, I can't help but run into it - and after last night's events, I am compelled to finally try to find the proper perspective and reflection. Because it almost feels to me like it did in the days and months following September 11th.
I've been more involved with the organization where I was a Fellow in 2001. I have been living in the building just south of the WTC site. I pass my friend's old and still empty apartment two blocks south of the site where I used to spend a lot of time in the years leading up to that fateful day in September. It was the Tribeca Film Fest this past week - and I took full advantage of it, seeing a movie every night, realizing the origins of the festival itself every time. I participated in Coro Fellow Selection Day, peering over the East River at the skyline I grew to love and feel was as important to me as my own skin. Every day, I look up, with fascination, at the Freedom Tower, getting taller and taller each week.
And I have been living in my past for the last two months, almost as if watching it through a looking-glass, the perspective of almost a decade crashing on top of me as I've been forced to reflect on who I was and who I've become. And inevitably, who I want to be.
I will admit I can never complain about my assignment. I think I have the best in the world, spending time in the best city in the world. And I've thoroughly enjoyed living here full-time again, feeling like I just put on my favorite old coat for two months. You know, that really warm and comfortable feeling when you just feel like all is well and life is good, despite how hectic the last two months have been. I've retreated back to my New York shell, walking briskly up and down the streets, muttering under my breath to the tourists, reveling in taking the train or riding my bike to work every day.
But this time, more than any other time, I have been more and more keenly aware of September 11th and it's reverberations in my life. I can't explain it any better than I have before, other than perhaps being right here, so close I can smell and hear the workers on the site, that may be creeping into my subconscious. I was just a few blocks south of here last year for a few months and I didn't have that kind of feeling now. Perhaps the spirits are interjecting.
I'm not sure I can explain this. Other than I could be going through that phase where in my 30's, I feel like I'm looking back at my life and it's trajectory and where I am and how I got here and if it's where I want to be. But it's odd and ironic that I find myself here once again and face to face with something I'd consider to be one of the most influential in my life, that changed and scarred me and it's just everywhere I turn.
So put this frame of mind around what I'm about to explore next. Because this is already what I was grappling with when I heard the news that Osama Bin Laden was dead. After having the most perfect, quintessential, New York Sunday.
It was definitely a strange feeling. Lightheaded, elated, almost like the floor was yanked out. Surreal. And as the news started to sink in, I realized where I was sitting. And it seemed right to crack open a beer. And then it seemed the emotions just started flowing and I started to tear up. It became clear to me that I needed to go around the corner and be at Ground Zero as soon as I heard what the president had to say.
I literally was waiting for him to finish so I could go. I was out the door as soon as he was done. I even grabbed the wrong keys as I left, realizing it halfway through the elevator down and after calling the super and grabbing the keys, I was on my way.
Hopping up Albany street, I turned to head up Trinity and as I turned left, I saw three firemen, standing silently in a doorway, turned towards Ground Zero. A small group of people had gathered at the corner beyond them - I could just make out their silhouettes against the lights of the site. I jogged over to Church and just turned left. Some cars had started to honk. An ambulance turned on the lights and drove by with the windows down and EMT's were fist pumping into the night. A solitary man stood wearing a hoodie (it had gotten pretty cold) and holding a candle in front of Century 21. As I got closer to the Millennium Hilton, I could see a crowd begin to form. Meeting Jess outside, we hugged and held on for a bit. We just knew we couldn't figure out what we were feeling. And we headed toward the small group that had assembled.
People had started to chant, "USA, USA." In general, they were just excited, but it started out small and almost quiet. Before we knew it, people were just coming from everywhere. TV crews started to assemble. After collecting Steve, we found a place to stand and just observe what was happening. The crowd was getting bigger. And louder. And the "USA" chants kept going. The American anthem started to be sung and flags started to fly. It was almost as if you blinked and suddenly you were surrounded by hundreds of people, the crowd swelling together, people pushing to get to the "front", though no one really knew what the "front" was.
It started out peaceful enough, but then the crowd started getting rowdy. Somehow, there was a successful moment of silence before things started to get a little more surreal. Someone started and everyone joined in loudly as the crowd started to sing, "Na, na, na, na - na, na, na, na - hey, hey hey, goodbye."
And suddenly, I wasn't feeling very celebratory anymore. I was actually pretty upset.
It occurred to me in that moment that we were celebrating death. We were celebrating the perpetuation of the cycle of violence. I was so conflicted about being happy we finally accomplished the mission we had set out for but here we were, at Ground Zero, singing, "Hey, hey, hey, goodbye"? That just seemed wrong. Out of place. Disrespectful. Not to Bin Laden. To Ground Zero. That seemed intolerable to me. Sure, celebrations were needed and necessary - almost cathartic, but so did reflection and respect. Especially in that space and in the shadows of where the towers once stood. I felt almost sick when I started to think about it again. But yet, there I stood, waiting to see what would happen next.
I suddenly was transported to nine years ago, having a conversation with my roommate and fellow Fellow, Vivian, upon the announcement that we would go to war with Afghanistan. I remember saying to her that I was upset we were going to war. That I understood it, that I was glad we were going with NATO and a world force, but that "war was not the answer, it should have been the last resort."
Vivian just looked at me and said, "Well, what else should we do? They came after us, isn't this what happens next? What do you think should happen now?"
And I had nothing. I know I hated GWB, but that had nothing to do with this. I could only blankly say, "I'm just waiting for the day that we stop reacting to violence with violence. I'm not sure what else to do and I pray they know all the details we will never know and they will be smart about this, but what just happened here, this kind of destruction and death - war will be more of that. And when will it ever just stop?"
I think of what she said then and it suddenly echoed in my ears. What else should we do now? And then the "F*ck Bin Laden" chant started and I just went blank. Steve turned to Jess and I and just said helplessly, "And there it is. They're coming after us." And I suddenly was very, very disappointed. A few minutes later, two guys climbed a streetlight, which, under normal circumstances, would have had the police scrambling to get them down. And I felt jubilant again because they weren't making any moves towards the people crawling up there at all as one of them had an American flag and started waving it. One was handed a sign that said, "Obama 1, Osama 0" and the crowd went wild. I even screamed for it.
Later, when I left, taking a very roundabout way back home, I came across a Fire Chief, lighting a candle under a picture of the fallen Firemen from the firehouse he was standing in front of, speaking quietly to a young man who was asking about the experience. Along the wall, there was a brass fresco commemorating the fallen and that day. Busboys were getting off of work and bringing flowers to lay under the memorial. The firemen who had been standing there just hours before when I first passed were gone. And I could feel the emptiness starting to take over again.
Just like that, all night. Back and forth between excited. Upset. Celebratory. Disappointed. Confused. Conflicted. Empty. And swelling with emotion. All at once. I felt like I either wanted to scream or cry or just sit in silence. I couldn't figure out which. But I also couldn't tear myself away from the scene or our place on the street, that as long as I was there, I was doing the right thing, being a part of this.
And it hit me that I was looking for reflection. To pay my respects to the dead. To honor those serving our country. And dear God, for some piece - any piece - of closure I could possibly get. Going home would feel like a capitulation, I was a part of this moment and fate had brought me here, the same way it had brought me to Metrotech Brooklyn so I was there at 8:30 am, just before the first alarms started to go off. Something felt right about begin there, no matter what was going through my head. And my soul. Because all I know is an ache started in my chest that hasn't gone away yet.
It hit me today that I've had this feeling before. And it was 10 years ago, in the days and aftermath of 9/11 that started the week after it happened and Matt and I stood at Ground Zero, looking at the mangled wreckage and the firemen and rescue operation. That strange ache that would start in my chest and move to my throat and back and forth. It was back. And yeah, it was different reasons then than now, but here I was, still conflicted, still wanting peace and respect, but so proud of how we responded, proud of community, proud of our country.
This is the hurt that has yet to heal. I didn't even really know anyone all that well who died that day. I just know the effect it had on the people around me, the people close to me, the city I lived in, the country I love and I am finding, 10 years later, that I'm still trying to figure out the full effect it had on me.
Some of it was good. Really good. The fire that it lit to commit myself to the recovery of this city, the feeling of community, of resiliency, of the human spirit. The devotion to the work I have committed myself to. And yet, the wounds still hurt, they are still deep, and still raw.
We all have our stories of that day. We all have stories of last night. We all have different feelings, different hurts, different perspectives about everything related to it. All are valid. All are real.
Yet, I still think, "What happens next?" And like the night of 9/11, all I can do is pray. And wait and see. And find a way to live with the ache that has returned with a vengeance.
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