At 8:46 this morning I, along with hundreds of thousands across this incredibly strong nation observed a moment of silence to commemorate and remember the first plane crashing into the North Tower. During which I thought, of course, about the victims and their families, the indescribable bravery of the men and women that rushed up those stairs to help strangers and attempt to save lives, the terror that the passengers aboard the hijacked planes must have felt minutes before they were used as pawns in this horrific tragedy, and then for just a millisecond I let myself feel intense anger toward the men who turned their unreasonable hatred for us into a morning filled with so much grief and panic that we as a nation would never be the same.
The impact of American Airlines Flight 11 exploding into the shimmering glass of the North Tower was the beginning, the start of a new and wounded era in which Americans felt that safety and security was no longer a given just because we resided in one of the 50 states. Some that never thought twice about boarding a cross-country flight became a hyper-vigilant ball of nerves when passing through the security checkpoint in an airport. No one was to step foot inside Lady Liberty, the beacon of freedom for this country, for almost 8 years following the attacks. And, while I am a firm believer that the red, white and blue never ran and as a country we felt a bond like never before, we were now forced to live just a little bit scared.
Just last night I was discussing my morning commuting plans with my mother. As a self-proclaimed worry wart, I needed a second opinion about taking the 20-minute subway ride from the Upper East Side where I live to downtown Manhattan where I work. I explained to her that this meant passing through Grand Central Station on the always-overcrowded 6 train, and we agreed that I should make other arrangements to get to work. However, this morning when I woke up I decided that I would not allow myself to live scared. I don't want to use the phrase "if we live scared then the terrorists win," because I believe every single person that experienced or witnessed 9/11 has the right to live a more cautious existence where they feel it necessary. For example, I can promise you that I will absolutely never fly between the dates of September 10 and September 12. I can say with almost one hundred percent certainty that I would find it impossible to accept a job if it meant I would be working at One World Trade. I don't believe this means I am living scared, but the images have stuck with me and the feeling of that day's horror has just never quite left my memory, and how can it? This was the first major event in my generation that shook our sense of carefree living and shocked us to our core.
Three weeks ago, my dad and I visited the former site of Ground Zero. I have been told by many New Yorkers that the site that once smoldered with the smoke of the fallen towers should never again be referred to as Ground Zero. The rebuilding of One World Trade changed that. This does not mean that the twin towers are in any way forgotten, or that the victims should no longer be mourned. On our trip down to lower Manhattan, my dad and I, who are both extremely proud Americans, discussed where we were when we found out and how confusing it was at first. Thankfully, we were both safe at work and school in Florida, but that distance never seemed to matter. We were forever effected.
When we emerged from the subway on that hot August day and made our way to the memorial, my mind wandered to 2001. I remembered the images on the television screen of the dust-covered workers and bystanders that were running to escape the horror, and I couldn't help but imagining them on these very streets. I live about two and a half miles from the site, and have for about three years, but there is just something about being down here that hits me hard. I see Vessey Street and West Street and recall those names from many of the police radio reports that have been replayed throughout the years since the attacks. Every time I am down here, I remember.
Once we went through security, a dance that all Americans have become very accustomed to and a precaution that I wholeheartedly appreciate, we were allowed to enter the site of the memorial. I was immediately overwhelmed by the peacefulness and perfection that now inhabits the footprints of the fallen towers. It is hard to describe what one feels when visiting the memorial, since I'm sure each and every person connects differently. Personally, I felt a mixture of somberness and immense pride. As my dad and I were walking around the massive reflecting pools my heart ached. My hands glided along the names of the individuals that will forever be etched into the glossy black platforms surrounding the waterfalls. And what struck me immediately was the diversity of names that were spelled out before me. It seemed as though every single country on this vast planet was represented on this memorial, and I realized that this attack on American soil had spilled over the oceans and caused sorrow and tear shed in all corners of the world. New York is a melting pot where so many different cultures and religions are proud to call home, and so I should have assumed that the names on the plaques would reflect this diversity. I took it upon myself to honor each faceless name as an individual, each a person that touched countless lives. A person who had a family and a best friend, a person who had hopes and dreams for a future that would never unfold for them.
In the center of the reflecting pool the water drops off into what seems like an infinite space. No matter how tall you are or how much you strain to lift up on your tip-toes you can not see where the waterfall ends. And it was then I realized that every single thing that was constructed at this site was done so with great meaning. I interpreted the infinite waterfalls as a place where hope and a sense of inner peace reside. It is a place where people who pray could send their prayers and feel connected forever. There are more than 400 trees thriving around the memorial. To me, each tree symbolizes growth and serenity, a powerful combination that those directly effected need in order to cope with the events of this day eleven years ago and the loss they have felt in the time since. But most importantly, it is certainly a place where forgetting is an impossibility.
The plaza is also an indication of progression and a sign of the unparalleled strength and resiliency of these United States. Looming over the commemorative pools is the brand new One World Trade tower. I was able to get about 10 feet from the base and the height of that building is just incredible. Once finished, it will reach an emblematic 1,776 feet and already shoots up high above the rest of the New York City skyline. At night, when the city is wrapped in a cloak of darkness, One World Trade twinkles with the colors of our unwavering flag, and can be seen for miles across the Hudson. The structure stands in the same 16-acre plot of land as the reflecting pools, a statement that speaks of moving through the grief while never forgetting what has brought us to this point.
My decision to become a New Yorker was neither hindered nor enhanced by the events of September 11, but since becoming a resident of this unique and bursting city, I have found an American pride that I'm not sure existed before. While strolling along 6th avenue, I have the good fortune of catching a glimpse of the new building that trumps the skyscrapers that surround it. Every day on my walk home from work, I pass two firehouses that display the names and faces of their heroic brothers who would never return to those bright red houses. Those men suited up on that morning to try and put out a fire that would blaze on for decades. And as I sit at my desk in downtown Manhattan I feel so proud and completely honored to call this island home.
When Saturday Night Live returned to air on September 29, 2001, former Mayor Rudy Giuliani told America that is was OK to laugh again. As a New York City staple, SNL was the perfect place to allow the black cloud that had settled to be slightly lifted. It was the start to a healing process that would never fully finish, but it was a start nonetheless. New York City, Washington D.C., and Shanksville, Pennsylvania will forever be special places in the hearts of Americans. And with toughness, spirit and laughter I believe America will always remember while continuing to rebuild, proving why we are, indeed, the land of the free and the home of the brave.
1 comment:
Traci Rosenthal for President (or at least a presidential speech writer). This was so beautiful. I am teary eyed.
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