In the summer of 2001, I took a work-related trip to New York City that lasted several days. We stayed in Manhattan, arrived in time to catch the end of the glorious madness that is the Gay Pride Parade, and ate some of the best pizza in the world that first night in the big city. Gotham was everything I'd hoped and expected it be and more. Big, bustling, beautiful, boisterous, and brimming with possibilities at any hour of the day or night.
During those days, we spent hours and hours walking the city's streets. We toured MOMA. We rode along Central Park. We ate wonderful Salvadorian cuisine. We downed many beers at Jimmy's Corner (the "veritable shrine to boxing"). We snacked on halal from food carts in the middle of the night. We did all this and so much more. But the highlight of the trip was walking down to the financial district on one chilly but beautiful evening, entering one of the World Trade Center buildings, and taking that long elevator ride to the top to bask in the glorious view of the skyline of the world's most exciting city.
In retrospect, I'm so glad I made that walk and that I took that elevator ride. Given what would happen to those buildings a few months later, that experience has resonated strongly with me since. I think of that night often. I think of the co-workers I took that walk with, co-workers who remain good and valued friends still today. I think of walking down the sidewalks along Wall Street, of riding the Staten Island Ferry on the choppy water and being enamored by the Staten Island Yankees stadium all lit up and buzzing with game-day excitement in the near distance. I think of the Statue of Liberty standing tall and proud as we floated by. But I think mostly of the Trade Center buildings. Their enormity. Their purpose and meaning. The flags from countries throughout the world waving in the breeze on the plaza. I think of those buildings' massive presence.
Truth is, I was tired that night and hadn't really wanted to make that walk. I very nearly passed on the chance. Something or someone must have intervened and made me go. I'm entirely thankful. Eternally grateful. Again, considering what fate would hold for those buildings a few months later, I'm beyond thankful.
I've always been a person who has had a difficult time dealing with blatant sadness. There are certain movies I can't bring myself to watch because I know what's in store. There are certain images that I turn away from because my personality isn't one that's prone to walk away with much more than numbing pain. 9/11 is certainly one of these scenarios. There have been few times in the years since that day that I've been able to view an image related to the buildings being hit and crumbling. I just won't allow myself to even try. For the same reason, there have been few times when I've forced myself to read or listen to an account from those who made it out or those who lost family and friends. Just last week I listened to an audio account of a boy whose grandmother, someone he never got a chance to know, died in the buildings but how the legacy she created by refusing to leave behind her co-workers has provided inspiration and purpose for that boy. I was moved to tears pretty much instantly and each time I thought of his words the rest of that day.
9/11 signifies so many things for so many people. It's hard to digest it all in one passing moment, so I don't try. Too often, I'm left debilitated. Death. Loss. Anger. Shock. Fear. Courage. Unity. Division. Innocence lost. Hatred introduced. I think of 9/11 often, but for reasons I can't explain or understand, I can't confront the most emotional moments of that day visually. I'm not trying to pretend the event never happened. I'm not trying to forget or distance myself. But I can't watch those buildings fall down. I don't need to see them crumble. I feel the effect of those building collapsing a little bit in every day life. In the changes this country underwent and is still dealing with. In the changes this country' citizens underwent. In the changes the world underwent.
Beyond the buildings dying, beyond the dust clouds rising and swarming, and beyond the dread-filled faces of those people running for their lives down those city streets we had walked on not long prior, the strongest image related to 9/11 for me is that of my young children. I envision them still standing next to me outside the State Capitol building following 9/11, along with throngs of other people gathered in sadness, holding candles in our hands, singing songs of patriotism and love, saying prayers in unison. I envision myself looking down at my children, knowing full well in those moments that they'd never know the same type of childhood that I had been privileged to have had, one in which the outside world seemed so far away and so mysterious, so exotic and promising, so vast and full of possibilities. Not dangerous. Not invading. Not ugly. Not demented. Not threatening and cracked.
My children looked so beautiful that night standing among all those adults, their faces full of wonder and curiosity, not knowing or understanding what we were there for. Not understanding the meaning of all the words being lifted up. Their faces were so young and bright. So innocent. So alive. I still tear up when I think of it. I'm sure I always will. I was thankful then, and I'm thankful now that they were with me then and still are here today, walking this planet, free to speak and believe and choose their own paths. Free to explore the world, despite the ugliness that unwittingly entered their own worlds that day.
During those days, we spent hours and hours walking the city's streets. We toured MOMA. We rode along Central Park. We ate wonderful Salvadorian cuisine. We downed many beers at Jimmy's Corner (the "veritable shrine to boxing"). We snacked on halal from food carts in the middle of the night. We did all this and so much more. But the highlight of the trip was walking down to the financial district on one chilly but beautiful evening, entering one of the World Trade Center buildings, and taking that long elevator ride to the top to bask in the glorious view of the skyline of the world's most exciting city.
In retrospect, I'm so glad I made that walk and that I took that elevator ride. Given what would happen to those buildings a few months later, that experience has resonated strongly with me since. I think of that night often. I think of the co-workers I took that walk with, co-workers who remain good and valued friends still today. I think of walking down the sidewalks along Wall Street, of riding the Staten Island Ferry on the choppy water and being enamored by the Staten Island Yankees stadium all lit up and buzzing with game-day excitement in the near distance. I think of the Statue of Liberty standing tall and proud as we floated by. But I think mostly of the Trade Center buildings. Their enormity. Their purpose and meaning. The flags from countries throughout the world waving in the breeze on the plaza. I think of those buildings' massive presence.
Truth is, I was tired that night and hadn't really wanted to make that walk. I very nearly passed on the chance. Something or someone must have intervened and made me go. I'm entirely thankful. Eternally grateful. Again, considering what fate would hold for those buildings a few months later, I'm beyond thankful.
I've always been a person who has had a difficult time dealing with blatant sadness. There are certain movies I can't bring myself to watch because I know what's in store. There are certain images that I turn away from because my personality isn't one that's prone to walk away with much more than numbing pain. 9/11 is certainly one of these scenarios. There have been few times in the years since that day that I've been able to view an image related to the buildings being hit and crumbling. I just won't allow myself to even try. For the same reason, there have been few times when I've forced myself to read or listen to an account from those who made it out or those who lost family and friends. Just last week I listened to an audio account of a boy whose grandmother, someone he never got a chance to know, died in the buildings but how the legacy she created by refusing to leave behind her co-workers has provided inspiration and purpose for that boy. I was moved to tears pretty much instantly and each time I thought of his words the rest of that day.
9/11 signifies so many things for so many people. It's hard to digest it all in one passing moment, so I don't try. Too often, I'm left debilitated. Death. Loss. Anger. Shock. Fear. Courage. Unity. Division. Innocence lost. Hatred introduced. I think of 9/11 often, but for reasons I can't explain or understand, I can't confront the most emotional moments of that day visually. I'm not trying to pretend the event never happened. I'm not trying to forget or distance myself. But I can't watch those buildings fall down. I don't need to see them crumble. I feel the effect of those building collapsing a little bit in every day life. In the changes this country underwent and is still dealing with. In the changes this country' citizens underwent. In the changes the world underwent.
Beyond the buildings dying, beyond the dust clouds rising and swarming, and beyond the dread-filled faces of those people running for their lives down those city streets we had walked on not long prior, the strongest image related to 9/11 for me is that of my young children. I envision them still standing next to me outside the State Capitol building following 9/11, along with throngs of other people gathered in sadness, holding candles in our hands, singing songs of patriotism and love, saying prayers in unison. I envision myself looking down at my children, knowing full well in those moments that they'd never know the same type of childhood that I had been privileged to have had, one in which the outside world seemed so far away and so mysterious, so exotic and promising, so vast and full of possibilities. Not dangerous. Not invading. Not ugly. Not demented. Not threatening and cracked.
My children looked so beautiful that night standing among all those adults, their faces full of wonder and curiosity, not knowing or understanding what we were there for. Not understanding the meaning of all the words being lifted up. Their faces were so young and bright. So innocent. So alive. I still tear up when I think of it. I'm sure I always will. I was thankful then, and I'm thankful now that they were with me then and still are here today, walking this planet, free to speak and believe and choose their own paths. Free to explore the world, despite the ugliness that unwittingly entered their own worlds that day.
Salvadoran? I thought it was Brazilian...
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