Ford Street

Seven Years On

Six years on

3,000 people died six years ago today, and the nation howled in protest. 

Six years ago tomorrow, a war was started to “avenge al-Qaeda.” 

More than 3,800 U.S. military are dead as a result of this war.  Estimates put close to 38,000 civilians dead in Iraq. 

Even if American deaths are “worth more” than Iraqi deaths, why aren’t we howling as much over the 3,800 dead?  Why do we all let this continue? 

Why? 

Five Years On

      

Five years on. 

This is a tough day, still, for many people.  Not just New Yorkers, or folks who work in the Pentagon.  It’s a tough day for all of us who live and work in this country.  Whether you’re a Democrat or a Republican, whether you live in a blue state or a red one, whether you think the war is a good idea, or not.  It’s a tough day. 

It was a tough enough day for me, until a couple of weeks ago.  I thought that I’d discovered everything I needed to discover about that day.  I thought I had a pretty full inventory of the people that I knew died that day.  I was wrong.  I’m still finding out about people I knew. 

Five years on. 

A few weeks ago, the last transcripts of phone calls made from the Trade Center were made public.  The one transcript, in particular, that got a lot of airplay was from a young woman named Melissa Doi.  This one call got a lot of play because Melissa kept saying; “I’m going to die” – and we all read the story and some of us listened to the call, and we all were brought back to that day, and lived alongside Melissa for a moment.  I was busy at work when that story came out, and I heard about it, but I never read the article all the way through.  It hurt too much, frankly.  Then I got a phone call at work from a friend I used to work with, in the early 90s. His name is Dom, and he said, have you seen this story about the woman calling from the Trade Center?  I said I had, but hadn’t really read it.  Dom said, it’s Melissa, from Rowland.  And so I mentally added one more victim to my personal inventory. 

Five years on. 

I knew Melissa because her mom, Evelyn, worked in the PR agency that I worked for, and Evelyn got Melissa a job there.  To be honest, I didn’t know Melissa well.  She played for the company softball team, and she was fun, and she was Evelyn’s daughter, so she was all right with me.  I liked Evelyn, and I knew that her family meant the world to her.  So Melissa was part of the Rowland “family.”  Fast forward some – she was working for IQ Financial Services, on the 83^rd floor of the South Tower, and placed the call that’s now part of the pain of that day.  If you want to listen to it, you can do so here.  I’m not advocating this.  The thing about the call is, Melissa is clearly panicked, but she’s still thinking, and at one point she says to the operator:

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

The operator says, no, no, no, no, no – then the operator, who was also thinking, says;

“Ma’am, say your prayers.”

The operator knew damn well that things weren’t looking good for Melissa.  She asked them to call her mother, Evelyn, but they couldn’t do it.  So the operator stayed on with Melissa until she couldn’t talk any more.  There are some reports that Melissa made it part of the way down the stairs, and some reports that she died while on the phone.  Either way, it’s still paralyzing to think about.  Still. 

Five years on. 

I’m sorry for what Melissa went through, and I’m sorry for what Evelyn is going through, all these years later.  I’m sorry for what all of us went through, and are still going through.  I look up a lot more than I used to.  I’ve always kept a lookout for planes, but now when I see a plane over Manhattan, I watch it for an extra moment; is it on course?  Or too low?  I’m sorry that my dear friend Mike lost so many friends at Cantor Fitzgerald that day, and I’m sorry for me and my family, who died a little every minute for two days, when we thought that Mike had died.  When you die a little, you don’t get that part of yourself back.  Mike, like all of us, is different now.  Before, he had the easiest laugh in the world; now, it takes him just a heartbeat longer to laugh.  The heartbeat feels like forever to me, and I’ll bet it feels even longer to Mike.  He still doesn’t really talk about that day.

Five years on. 

I’ve written about September 11^th before; if you so choose, you can read this or this or this.  Following is a picture of Melissa, smiling and happy.  Like we all were. 

Five years ago. 

The White Cliffs of Dover

Originally written on October 11, 2001

What the devil, you ask, do the White Cliffs of Dover have to do with anything?  Stand by...

So, it's been one month since Everything Changed.

These days, Manhattan is a different city:

-- There are uniformed troops directing traffic downtown.  Battery Park is, as it was at its creation two hundred years ago, a military garrison.  It's closed to the public; it's now an Army fort.

-- What used to be the WTC is ghastly, still smoking in places, haunted...it's a movie set, not real.

-- I gave up my precious parking spot in midtown; I don't know when, if ever, I'll be able to use it again.  Cars with single occupants are no longer permitted to enter the city between the hours of 6 a.m. and noon.

-- I have to pass through three police checkpoints in order to get into the city by bus, and two checkpoints to get home.

-- The Battery Tunnel is closed to passenger vehicles; the FDR has been re-designed with checkpoint lanes and highway signs now read "Emergency Vehicles Only South of Canal Street."

There are, of course, some good changes.  People are much more kind, and much more inclined to give you a smile and ask how your day is going.

People notice each other.  They take care of each other.  Personally, I have to be very careful about where I go and what I do when I'm wearing a uniform.  I've noticed that my money is no good in NYC while in uniform.  I can't pay for meals, bus rides, even a bottle of water at a deli.  I offer to pay.  Sometimes I get kind of insistent about it.  It's no good.  Last weekend, I was on a CAP mission with four colleagues.  We were in the Bronx (very, very far from Ground Zero) (Ground Hero?) and we were waiting in a parking lot for some information from the Air Force before we could continue.  I knew we'd be out another couple of hours, so I squared my shoulders and walked into, of all places, a General Nutrition Center.  They sold bottled water, so I grabbed five bottles and walked to the register.

Got waved off.  I said, please let me pay.  Got waved off again.  I brandished my money threateningly.  The guy said; "What you guys are doing is amazing."  I started to explain, for the thousandth time in my CAP career, that I'm not in the Army or the Air Force.  It never does any good, especially these days.  I sighed, took the water, smiled and thanked the guy.  As one friend pointed out, it makes people feel good to feel that they're helping someone who is helping -- make sense?

Back to the White Cliffs.  When I am nervous, or extremely tired, or in need of comfort, I sing a song to myself.  The song is "White Cliffs of Dover", and many of you on this list have been, er, subjected to my rendition of it after CAP missions that last way too long, or camping trips that don't include enough sleep.  I had to fly to Boston on business last week, and while I was waiting in the terminal at LaGuardia, I was, of course, thinking very hard about how unenthusiastic I was about getting on that plane.  So I started to sing my song.  And I stopped after about six syllables.

It's not just some silly song from the 40's anymore, is it?  The anthem that came to represent the courage of the people of Britain during World War II now hits home very hard indeed.

"I'll never forget the people I met

braving those angry skies

I remember well, as the shadows fell

the light, the hope in their eyes

and though I'm far away

I still can hear them say

Thumbs up!  for when the dawn comes up

There'll be bluebirds over the White Cliffs of Dover tomorrow...when the world is free"

I received two packages of letters this week from schoolkids.  One package was from 6th, 7th and 8th graders in Harrisburg, PA and the other package was from slightly older kids from Australia.  I was expecting the one from Australia; I'm to pass those letters on to schoolkids here in NY.  I can't tell you how touched I was when I realized that the other package contained letters addressed to me -- thanking me for taking part in the rescue efforts.  The letters are amazing; they're sweet and sincere and full of phrases like "I'll bet you're scared.  Don't be.  All of us here are thinking about you, and praying for you."

How can I be scared anymore?

There'll be blue birds over the White Cliffs of Dover Tomorrow, just you wait and see...

More New York Stories

Originally written on September 16, 2001

I’m sunburned, my hands are bleeding, I’ll never get the dirt out from my nails, my back is killing me – and I wouldn’t trade the past two days for anything.  This has been an overwhelming weekend for me; I’m overwhelmed with sadness, so much so that it requires a supreme effort to do ordinary things like walk my dog or make something for dinner.  I’m also overwhelmed with pride at the way this city, and this country, have responded to this horrible week.

I’ve spent the weekend volunteering at one of several donation clearinghouses around the city, specifically the Javits Convention Center location.  This location is also a relief center for firefighters and search and rescue personnel, so I had the honor of meeting a great many people working the “front line” of this disaster.

I unpacked dozens of boxes sent from all over the country.  Many of the boxes had been signed by the senders; they also wrote “God bless you” and “We love you” and “We shall overcome” on them; it was tough to throw some of those boxes away. 

The boxes had all manner of goods in them (one friend suggested that I make a list of the funniest things donated, and I will, as soon as I feel a little more settled.) 

We sorted water, Power Bars, canned goods, sweets, cookies, toothpaste, razors, paper goods, etc. etc. etc.  Then items were re-boxed and placed on skids for removal, as they were requested.  I worked at the food tents; there are also areas for clothing, medical supplies and electrical/digging supplies.  I was only at one center, and that one center has enough donated goods to last all emergency workers at least 2 months.  (There are three other such centers in NYC, as well as centers in Queens, Brooklyn and New Jersey.  It’s mind-boggling, how generous people around the country have been.) 

If any of you reading are tempted to donate goods, please call the Red Cross instead and make a cash donation, unless you happen to have welding torches or steel-tipped boots hanging around.

It became clear to me early on that there was just way too much “stuff” there, and having been appointed the “co-captain” of the food tent (don’t ask!) I set off to find a way to clear out some of the perishables.  After finding out that FEMA had advised the center to try to offload supplies to local shelters, I came across a young man that was looking for donations for Covenant House.  I helped him load his truck, and was talking with him, in the middle of traffic on West Street, about what to do next.  We both agreed on the best location – a large men’s shelter near Grand Central Station – but I didn’t have easy access to a pickup truck. 

As I am lamenting this fact, I hear a shout from several cars over; “I have a truck!”  I looked over and there was a man in a pickup truck staring at me.  He said again; “I have a truck” – so I crawled across the traffic, pushed all of the cars in the middle of the street back about ten feet, and got this man to pull his truck over to the Javits Center.  I asked him if he really wanted to volunteer his truck, since once sucked in, he’d probably be ours for hours and hours, and he said; “Tell me what to do: I’m yours.” 

And ours he was – for the next seven hours.  We drove supplies to the men’s shelter, came back, loaded up the truck with more supplies, and headed south toward ground zero.  We stopped at every police officer on the way and offered water, cookies, Power Bars, etc.

This was the most amazing part of my weekend – we drove all over southern Manhattan and saw, first-hand, a city transformed.  Every park has memorials, candles, pictures, people gathered.  There is a large fence on Canal Street covered with hundreds of yellow ribbons.  There is a smile on every face for any volunteer. 

There are American flags everywhere; people carry them in their hands, stuck in their hats, sticking out of backpacks and back pockets.  I was with one of my best friends, Dan, and he nearly caused several riots during the day, one in particular, on West Street and 23rd.  We were waiting at a traffic light, and there were a fair number of vehicles waiting for the light.  Dan and I and another fellow were sitting in the back of this pickup, and Dan noticed a little girl in an adjacent car carrying a flag.  He said, in a voice that started out small and ended up HUGE, “DON’T JUST CARRY THAT FLAG; WAVE IT!” 

He stood up in the truck and starting yelling, stamping his feet and waving his arms, encouraging drivers to honk their horns.  In a matter of about fifteen seconds, the intersection was a blaring, shouting earthquake, with Dan at the center.  I mostly just stared in wonder; the defiance in people’s voices was apparent; the optimism was inspiring, but I was more than a little concerned for Dan, who, I think, was inciting a riot because he was afraid he’d start to cry if he didn’t burn off some energy.

Several times over the weekend, we ended up ferrying firefighters from Ground Zero uptown to their firehouses.  On two such trips, the men didn’t say a single word, except to shake our hands and thank us for the ride.  They sat, wordless, haunted, some of them crying, all the way uptown.  The memory of those silent rides will stay with me, I think, forever, much like the memory of what I saw downtown.  There are no words for that, at least, I don’t have them yet.

By my side this weekend were people from all over the country, as well as New Yorkers.  There was Chuck, the 32-year-old pickup truck donor from southern Jersey, who had never been in Manhattan in his life; Marilyn, a 57-year-old housewife from New Jersey, whose family thought she was home preparing for the Jewish holidays this week (her husband finally called her cell phone, wondering where she’d gone and she told him that she was tired of watching TV, and that what she was doing was more important than anything else) (!); Richard, from Atlanta, who got into his car and drove to NYC after watching the memorial service on TV on Friday; Lisa, who drove in from Michigan, much like Richard, and so many others. 

I love them all, and I’m worried about them all.  So many people who, like Dan, need to do something.  I’m much sadder tonight than I have been all week…I think I was in shock much of the week, and the reality has started to sink in.  I feel that I’ve done something to help, but there are more than 5,000 people missing and feared dead in that unholy hell downtown.  Every firefighter and police officer is in mourning.

I love them all, and I’m worried about them all.

OK, forget about waiting.  I know I need a laugh…here is the list of the funniest things donated to emergency workers and volunteers:

10. Bath beads

9.  Nylon tote bags

8.  A dog-eared copy of “A Stranger is Watching” by Mary Higgins Clark

7.  A box of flip-flops

6.  Tennis balls

5.  A case of little toy cars – Chevy Camaros, to be exact

4.  Baby diapers

3.  Adult diapers

2.  Condoms …and the funniest thing donated…

1. Balsamic vinegar

A New York Story

Originally written on September 13, 2001

Many of my friends around the country have asked me to give them my impressions of the past few days.  There are so many New York stories these days; this is part of mine.

Below 14th Street, the streets are empty; people walk down the center of 6th Avenue or Houston Street tentatively, as if waiting for an onslaught of cars, buses and taxis.  They still look both ways before they cross.

Every block or so, especially as you move toward West Street, there are TV crews.  They don’t have to ask for volunteers to interview; people wait patiently to talk to them.  Everyone wants to tell their story to someone, anyone at all.  Where were you when it happened?  Where was your husband, your boyfriend, your sister, your best friend?

Everyone is quiet, calm…nervous.  Gone is the chatter, the bustle, the background noise of the city.  If you manage to forget for a moment, you are reminded immediately by the smell in the air, the sight of downtown, smoke still rising from what used to be the trademark of the skyline.

Postcards are sold out everywhere; people want to look at the New York that used to be.  A lot of people carry the postcards and look every so often; then look up and shake their heads.

About four blocks from West Street, the smoke starts to overpower; you must stand for a minute or two and get used to breathing shallow breaths.  Your eyes start to water.  When you get to West Street, you immediately look south – and you can’t breathe at all.  No matter how many times you see it on TV or in the papers, the actual sight of downtown from close up knocks you out.  A friend said; “It looks like a small child with a front tooth missing.”

West Street is the street that borders the Hudson; this is where the media are camped.  There are candles and flowers everywhere.  People are just sitting or standing around.  No one talks.  They mostly just stare at the bottom of Manhattan, trying to get used to the new skyline.  You can’t breathe properly on West Street – you have to tie something around your face or bring your shirt up to cover your mouth.  Your eyes burn and tear uncontrollably.  That doesn’t stop all of these people from coming.  They stand ready to hand out water to rescuers, to hug them, to applaud for them.  Any time someone in any uniform at all moves around the streets, whether it’s on foot or in a vehicle, the people that are lined up everywhere applaud; they shout “God bless you” and offer bottles of water.

Up and down, men and women walk with pictures of their loved ones – “Have you seen this man?”  You can’t just glance at the picture and say no; you must take the picture and study it, just so that the person looking for someone who is never coming back knows that they did a good job looking.  Then you hand the picture back and say, no, I’m sorry, I haven’t seen him.  You walk another five feet and get handed another photo.

The sadness is palpable, almost radioactive.  But so, I think, is the spirit of New York.

We live among heroes.