After Ten Years

Today's view from the ground: New York, NY

In the above photo, a crowd of thousands gathers just north of the World Trade Center site to hear the names of those killed in the attacks of September 11, 2001, read by their families.

In most of New York, today is just like any other Sunday. The streets are open and relaxed, no one is in too much of a rush, and the usual characters are gathered around the usual corners. It is a pleasant day, not too hot and not too cold, not too bright and not too cloudy. It has a feel of summer's anticipated demise, but it seems like any other day.

I woke up, put on a suit, went outside, and took the subway downtown. It was there that I got the first tightening in my chest. Two men in the rarely-seen full dress uniforms of the Fire Department of the City of New York sat on the subway, hats in their hands, eyes weighed against the floor. They had that look I know so well in people who work near death. It is the look that comes before telling someone that their spouse or parent won't be coming home or that things will never be the same in a few moments. It's the look that says "this isn't why I love this job."

We got out at City Hall and walked across town. All of the transit that goes near the site of the World Trade Center was suspended until this afternoon. Two 9/11 memorial staffers in reflective vests smiled and pointed us to the easiest route to the site. After that, things began to seem less somber and more like the thing that New Yorkers love and hate more than anything else - a circus.

Dueling newsies tried to press free copies of the Post and the Daily News into our hands. Three men were hawking small, medium, and unnecessarily large American flags. The T-shirt vendors had all types of memorial shirts, including one picturing the Statue of Liberty and emblazoned with the slogan "You messed with the wrong woman." A man in the crowd, obviously drunk or impaired, was screaming "U.S.A.!" into a waiting bank of cameras. Protestors and advocates of everything from job creation to the power of prayers lined Broadway, handing out flyers and shouting their thoughts.

I found this sort of thing upsetting, as President Obama had a positive message with this auspicious day: the inclusion of all peoples and their joint concern for freedom and safety. Ten years ago, everyone was American. When the earthquake struck Port-au-Prince last year, we were all Haitian. When tsunamis hit South Asia and Japan and when Hurricane Katrina came ashore over New Orleans, people came together. Something bad against any human is an affront to all of humanity. This is not an American day. This day belongs to all the changed lives of September 11: everyone.

Once I passed the outskirts of the ceremony, I got some first looks of positivity. Ground Zero has no resemblance to the smoldering heap of poisons it used to be. It does not reek of politics and incompetence and infighting, although we know that never dies. The monument is solemn, respectful, and serene. The waterfalls where the twin towers used to stand combine the feelings of an unhealed wound and a cleansing finale. The families of the fallen - adults, children, firefighters, police officers - circled the monument, finding the names of their loved ones, taking rubbings on papers or tracing the letters with trembling fingers.

Meanwhile, the relatives of the dead read the casualty list, solemnly and in perfect rhythm, for the world to hear on television. Uniformed personnel stood at attention behind the pairs of adults and children, each reading a handful of names and then closing with a short tribute to their fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, and spouses. I had the honor of standing behind a 17-year-old girl whose father was a financial analyst and a woman whose sister was a maintenance worker. Both were killed in the North Tower. They each read their names, the names of their family, and turned to step down. The girl began crying as soon as she was off the set. She then straightened up, inhaled deeply, and walked off.

Most people can't do that. Most people don't get the chance to find out if they can. I sometime wish this country could shake it all off and move on. But it's part of us now. It's part of what we have given to and taken from the world. Some culture experts call mine the "9/11 Generation." Some of my co-workers in the disaster relief community call today my tenth birthday.

I remember the morning of September 11, 2001, with the same clarity as everyone else. I had just begun college in Pittsburgh. I was in my second carpentry class when someone said that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. I reacted much as President Bush did: It's happened before. It's a shame. Probably nothing serious. By the end of the class, it was clear we were both wrong.

After 10 AM, the word came that a plane had crashed eighty miles outside Pittsburgh. As a freshman with the college radio station, I went to the press office, where a group of reporters were already preparing to leave. We tore down the Pennsylvania Turnpike listening to reports on the radio. I tried calling my best friend, who had started at NYU the same week, with a friend's cell phone every ten minutes, but nothing was getting through. I didn't know who to talk to. I didn't know who to pray to. As the news director gave us a lecture on how to act once we arrived, all I could think was "he's all right, I know he's all right." Fortunately, he was.

I remember the children from the local school crying as the smoke rose off the ground. I remember the amazed faces of the local first responders, who thought we were still under attack. Both of their worlds changed with that moment; they became first-hand witnesses of history. The headline of the school paper on Wednesday was "Besieged," and nearly every story we read on the air for the next six months had something to do with homeland security, Afghanistan, or the fallen twin towers in New York.

It was a dark and sullen time. I would never have believed that, ten years later, the anniversary would be a circus of souvenirs and local cranks milling around the thousands of relatives who had been ripped apart by the day and its effects. But now, as a part-time New Yorker, I understand why such things happen. It's this city's way of getting past things. It this city's way of remembering. The monument is open, the families feel comforted, and the people who want attention got as much as they could stand. Today was a good day.

I walked past Trinity Church to Battery Park, where my favorite 9/11 memorial stands. It is a sculpture called "The Sphere," which stood in the plaza of the World Trade Center and was nearly crushed by its collapse. It now sits squatly at the entry to the park with an eternal flame flickering beside it. Until tomorrow, it is surrounded by flags that bear the names of the fallen from the attacks, including the rescuers. For all of my misgivings about taking part in these anniversaries, I am not more proud of anything in my life than my privilege of sharing their profession and the family and friends who support me and help reclaim American's global soul.

That's the view from the ground.