One of the reasons
I’m not afraid of “terror” is because I lived and worked a half a mile away
from the site of the biggest attack in the history of the world, according to
many estimations, the site formerly known as the twin towers and now known as
where the World Trade Center (the two towers) used to be, ground zero, a patch of land with a footprint of two huge
square city blocks in southern Manhattan.
Like millions of
others, I could see the towers from where I lived in Brooklyn and I passed
through them towers twice daily on the R train of the Metro Transit Authority,
commuting from Sunset Park and Bay Ridge Brooklyn to my job in Midtown
Manhattan, on the eighth floor of an office tower next to the New York Life
building, recognizable by the gleaming gold-plated peak in the skyline. I commuted in this way
for six years and it wears me out still to think about it. It is a grinding 45
minute subway ride, to travel about three miles or so, I’m not even sure. Add
to that the walk to the train station on either end of the trip. My commuting
years were pre-smart phone years and I read a lot of books during those hours
to pass away the monotony. (That part I miss.)
I am not afraid of
anywhere in the world for the same reason I’m not afraid of New York City:
because of the beautiful people who live there. I visit NYC as much as
possible, and would go more if I could. My inlaws, friends, former coworkers,
neighbors and are still there. And my husband Bob speaks the pattern heard on
the news radio each year the 911 remembrances come up: the animated wool
sweater vocal tone of a Brooklynite.
At 9 a.m. on
September 11, 2001, I was meeting with my boss via telephone from an office in
St. Paul, Minnesota. My boss was in an office in Baltimore, where my employer
had relocated after almost 50 years in Manhattan. When Bob decided to go to
seminary in St. Paul, we moved across the country in my dad’s semi trailer, car
and all, and I started what would be eight years of telecommuting the same job.
(Following two years in Baltimore and six years in New York City. Don’t worry
about all those numbers.)
As part of the
telecommuting plan, my boss and I chatted by telephone each Monday morning to
review the week. My Minnesota window showed the same clear blue September sky
as we see over and over in the televised replays of that morning. During the
call we mentioned the plane that ran into the tower, both of us imagining a
small engine and dismissing it as a minor accident. A few minutes later, a
colleague in Baltimore rushed into my boss’s office to say a plane headed to
the Pentagon had gone down in Pennsylvania. That’s when we decided to end the
conversation and pay attention.
I left my office to
find Bob from class, and we watched the towers collapse on live TV in the
student TV room in Bockman Hall, along with a roomful of other people. 911 was
a lot of things to a lot of people, but to us it was like our backyard had been
bombed and no one knew it. I wanted to shout, “We’re from there!” “We know
those people!” “This is not just a global incident, this is my husband’s
hometown!”
When I moved to
Brooklyn, I realized that people had no idea where Minnesota was. Likewise,
when I moved back to Minnesota, I realized that people did not know the
geography of Brooklyn, New York. Parts of Brooklyn are closer to ground zero that most of Manhattan. My inlaws were in 911. They watched it. They
walked home. They dealt with the aftermath. All those brave first responders who
walked into the burning towers to save people, only to perish themselves, were
the people my inlaws grew up with. Brooklyn, New York, is like a series of
small towns and everyone is incredibly loyal to one another. It’s not so
different from other places where friends and family love one another.
Ironically, a
group of travelers from Trinity Lutheran Church on 45th Street in
Brooklyn, Bob’s home congregation, happened to be in Minnesota when 911 hit.
They had come in part to see Bob and wish him well in his first semester of
seminary, and also to see their retired pastor who then lived in Minneapolis,
Bob’s mentor, another Bob by the name of Nervig. Bob Nervig had set up a lovely
itinerary to show the church group the sites of the Twin Cities and show them a
good time.
The group had no
idea they’d be stuck in the Midwest due to airport closures. But even as the
facts took days and weeks to unfold, they pretty much knew immediately that the
president of the church council had perished, as he worked at Marsh &
McLennan, situated to take a direct hit from the first plane. I remember us all
sitting stunned together in the chapel of Luther Seminary, the group from
Trinity, Bob Nervig, my Bob, me, and a cavernous room full of others. We were shocked of
course, as everyone was, and they were all wondering when they would be able to
get home.
The chapel was
full that day and I remember being bothered by the fact that no one else knew
that this group from Brooklyn was suffering so directly. I felt like they
needed some sort of special recognition or accommodation, even though everyone
was confused and feeling the hit. Silly on my part, I know. You can’t parse
anguish. It’s all relevant.
Of course this
brings to bear the truth of all strangers – no one knows from where they come
and what they’ve experienced, unless you take the time to listen and
understand.
When 911 happened
I worked at an international aid organization, and I was surprised by the
condolences that came from so many people from seemingly scary places around the
world. Kenya. Tanzania. Rwanda. India. Bangladesh. Niger. Peru. Indonesia. El
Salvador. The Philippines. Plus, we had also just moved into family housing at
the seminary and were living next to actual humans from many of these same places. I
realized that all of these people knew what 911 was doing to us because
physical insecurity was a daily reality for them. 911 shocked us, but not them.
For many others in the world, it was another attack in a long line of attacks.
I was never afraid
when I traveled to such places for my work and I was never afraid to live in
New York City. It wasn’t because the danger didn’t exist, it was because the
people around me were so decent and brave and determined to protect me. That
remains my world view.
This past summer
the youth group from our church, St. John’s Lutheran in Des Moines, Iowa,
traveled to Brooklyn, New York to join Salaam Lutheran Church in putting on a
summer vacation Bible school for the children. The children were mostly
immigrants and refugees from Arabic speaking countries who had fled for safety
with their families. Fear is relative. While other groups from the Midwest had
canceled their trip to New York because of fear, these kiddos had come to New
York for safety. Our kids from Iowa (including our son and Bob, who helped with
logistics) had an amazing week and learned for themselves why they shouldn’t be
afraid: because of the people. Honestly, I felt sad I couldn’t be with them but I am on to another job with it’s own set of commitments. Couldn’t take the
time off. But during that trip Bob got to see his 86 year old mother every
night, a great lady who worried for our daughter who was spending time in Paris. “It’s so
dangerous there now,” my mother-in-said.
In the days that
followed 911 Bob and I indulged in the 24-7 television coverage. With our own
kids away in day care and kindergarten we sat in our apartment and watched the
footage over and over again. The planes hitting. The smoke. The crumbling. I
had nightmares of the people jumping out of the skyscrapers holding hands to
their death. We wished we were there and felt jealous of the “mission trip”
that would go there from the seminary without us. Felt like we should be
leading those trips, or at least joining them. I had to remind myself that 911
didn’t just happen to us.
After a few days I
decided to stop watching TV to preserve my own sense of reality. I had to get
those images of death and destruction out of my head. I quit TV. Yet, I think
by far the saddest outcome of 911 is that some have watched the fear-mongering
TV for 15 years straight. As a country, we have swallowed the fear. We have
internalized the hate. We have bought the idea that there is an “us” and a
“them.” I for one do not.
A few weeks after
911 our neighbors down the hall, students from Norway, invited a group of us to
dinner and drinks in their apartment. They first asked if it would be
respectful to have a party when we were all mourning. We all said yes and
squished together for food and friendship, laughter and jokes. Our hosts played
music on their piano, which we bought from them before they returned to Norway.
Being together felt so good.
That is my ground zero take-away: I am not afraid.
Why? Because of the beautiful people.