Turning 38

I celebrated my 38th birthday a couple of days ago. No biggie. Do I feel older? No. Do I feel wiser? No again.

My parents called me to wish me a happy birthday and my dad said something to me that made me think. He says, "you know, when I turned 38 I brought our family over from the Philippines."

Wow.

Could I ever think of doing that? I think of how they packed up the 2 kids, got on a jet and landing here in Minnesota in November (coming from Manila no less). No job, living with relatives, a different country and culture.

Could I handle that?

My Pilgrimage to Fulton and Church

It was a warm October evening as we got off the train at Penn Station, much warmer than we thought it would be. As we exited the train and followed the after work crowd up to street level under Madison Square Garden I was both apprehensive and excited to experience Manhattan for the first time in my adult life. I was excited for the opportunity for finally experience the City, but apprehensive of where we might go, and how I might feel.

This was October of 2002, a year and a month removed from the September 11 terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center.

My coworker, Gordon, and I were in New York on business, spending most of our time at JFK airport. This, our final full day, we had finished up early and decided to take the train into the City and devote the rest of our time playing Midwestern tourists. As we climbed into the sunlight of midtown Manhattan it took me a minute to adjust to the mass of humanity, to the sounds of honking horns, and just the pace of the City. Gordon had been to Manhattan in his recent past so he knew where he was going so I followed his lead. From Madison Square Garden we walked to the Ed Sullivan Theater, as Gordon is a big David Letterman fan. We hung around outside the building and we could hear laughter coming from inside as they must have been taping an episode. After about 10 minutes of failing to catch a glimpse inside we decided to keep onto our sightseeing.

On our way across the street to Rockefeller Center our crosswalk was crowded and seemingly anxious, straining on it’s collective leash to cross the street. Thousands of citizens and tourists, needing to be across that strip of asphalt RIGHT NOW. I looked around and saw the faces of New York City; busy, harried, determined. And then a FDNY truck rounded the corner and slowly passed in front of us. A seemingly brand new one. Suddenly, if for only an instant, that crowd changed. For just a split second, that anxious, sweating mass of humanity quieted, and a hush fell over the intersection. A brief moment of quiet and remembrance in the bustle of the moment. One of the firemen sitting in the back of the cab made eye contact with me. I nodded, he nodded back, the truck kept rolling, and the crowd lost its moment. The volume and anxiety rose again, and we surged forward as the light turned from red to green.

As tourists we followed the crowd, walking through Rockefeller Center, and then eventually winding up at the south end of Central Park. By this time the sun was starting to set through the man-made canyons and valleys of mid-town, and the city lights began to light up the cityscape. With no set plan or timetable we felt free to explore and experience New York City, after all, it’s the City that Never Sleeps, so why should we? But something else was calling, and both of us seemed to know it. Few words were exchanged, and by mutual agreement, we started our trek down the Avenue of the Americas. We had started our own pilgrimage to Ground Zero.

Like countless people before us we felt like drawn like moths to a flame. Sure it was going to be a long walk, in fact, we had countless opportunities to hail a cab or jump the subway and get to Ground Zero relatively quickly. But why? We wanted to experience the city, to see it like any other New Yorker would see it. And I think another reason why we decided to walk was because we felt that we owed it to ourselves, to this city to make the journey on foot. Call it penance in a way. So we walked. And walked. And then walked a little more. We stopped at McDonalds for a coke and a chance to rest our legs. And after a bit of a rest we got back out onto the sidewalk and continued our trek south, past the Empire State Building on 5th street, and then eventually merging onto Broadway past Union Square.

Through the darkening night, through Soho, and the Garment District we walked. In a park full of homeless we found an empty bench, wiped our brows and rested a little more. On the map it’s only a 4-mile walk in a straight line, but we weren’t going in a straight line, and so we became a little bone weary. As we set out for our final push towards 1 & 2 World Trade Center we decided to stop and have a bite to eat. We walked into a little place, doubtless one of those places that entertains the financial district types, low key and low maintenance. As we sat and recounted our little pilgrimage I couldn’t help but look around and gaze at some of the pictures hanging on the walls. Some were old, but most were new. Most were pictures of what it looked like outside these windows on the day of September 11th 2001 and the days soon thereafter.

Those pictures told a story as I sipped a cold Budweiser. From those year-old pictures to my immediate view I saw an old wound starting to scab over. In those pictures I saw shattered vehicles, and shattered lives, people and objects strewn aside like so much flotsam. And now sitting comfortably and satisfied in this bar I sensed an oasis of calm and recovery. A bite of normalcy that served as a side dish to your burger. As a visitor I couldn’t truly know what those who worked behind that counter and kitchen felt and saw. Maybe there were unoccupied barstools in that place that were left empty on purpose. I couldn’t bring myself to ask. We ate our food and drank our beers, making small talk with those around us. But we still had a few final steps to take.

The closer you got to Ground Zero the brighter it got. Hundreds of halogen lights illuminated the night sky, some focused up into the surrounding buildings but most into the pit itself. Gordon and I slowly walked towards Ground Zero, quiet, somber, and still. It was quiet there. Sure you had sounds of traffic and the like, but it was much more quiet than I expected. As it was in October of 2002, it was quiet as the open grave that it truly was. More than 3000 people lost their lives on that fateful day, most at this 16-acre site. Over 3000 people. People with dreams, hopes and ambitions. Ordinary people like me, who were forced into extraordinary circumstances. Only to have those dreams extinguished forever.

Around the pit a large fence was erected, a memorial to those who had died there, as well as for those who had helped there. As for myself I felt weak and small. Part of a larger game whose outcome I did not yet know. There were a few people out there. Quiet, introspective, and meek. Every one of us in our own thoughts, and in our own spaces. I looked at the pictures on the fence, pictures of the World Trade Center in its heyday. Busy and vibrant, a symbol of ingenuity and prosperity. And then I looked through the fence and saw a hole in the ground. My emotions ranged from anger to hate, to sorrow and despair. I thought back to that day, how a seemingly perfect day led down this path of unknowing. And while confusion rang like a dissonant chime, I felt some clarity.

On the crossroads of Fulton and Church Streets I began to slowly heal myself. That’s where St. Paul’s Chapel backs up to Ground Zero. St. Paul’s Chapel is the little church that survived the collapse of the World Trade Center. Covered in debris, ash, and later on, tears, the little church provided an island of solace for countless rescue workers, family members, and citizens of conscious from New York and the rest of the world. Gordon and I walked slowly around the chapel, reading the memorials and I had to stop a couple of times to collect myself. We saw signed flags from New Zealand and the Philippines, t-shirts and hats from all 50 states. Even a signed hockey stick hung from the fence that rung the perimeter of the church.


It was here at this place, where people had first come to start to try to heal. By lighting candles, by hanging memorials and bed sheets and well wishes on cardboard, people came here to help those who needed to grieve, those who needed to cry out and be heard. Those voices of anguish and anger echoed in my mind, fresh and immediate. But in the relative quiet from around Ground Zero I heard another voice.

It was a voice of the Human Spirit.

It was a voice of reason, and a voice of calm. And that voice told me that no matter how ugly one face may be, there will always be another face: one of kindness, of generosity, and of understanding.

It seems like I stood there at the corner of Fulton and Church for a long time. I looked into Ground Zero for the last time and we turned away without looking back. The cab ride back to the hotel was quiet but not overly sad. We had seen what we had needed to see, and said what we had needed to be said. When our flight took off out of LaGuardia the next morning I looked over Manhattan again and found my eyes searching towards Ground Zero. I left part of myself on those streets of Manhattan, but I found that I had brought a larger part back with me.