A/N-What is there to be said? Jack McCoy has something to say about Ground Zero, September 11th, the price of freedom, and the true meaning of the word 'hero'.
I went down to Ground Zero today.
It was the first time I'd been there since September 11th. I guess you could say it was a moving experience, but I just felt numb. I seem to be feeling numb a lot lately. War does that to people. It's as if we're sitting outside of a fishbowl, and in the fishbowl people are dying and buildings are being destroyed and heroes are giving their lives for freedom.
Someone once asked me what the price of freedom was. I told them the price of freedom was morals, and now I know that I was wrong. The price of freedom is the innocent lives of people who never did anything wrong but follow their government. The price of freedom is tallied in deaths. It seems that we've been in debt for the past ten years, ever since Desert Storm, and now we need to pay off our balance.
The New York Times recently did a photo spread in their magazine of Ground Zero, and on the cover were these two towering pillars of light rising up against the night sky and reflected into the water. I have that picture and a few others pinned up on the wall in my office, right above the door, so every time I walk in or out of the room I know what's going on only a few square miles away from me.
I went down to Ground Zero today.
How many times have I walked or ridden by those two buildings, thinking to myself what an eyesore they were against the otherwise architecturally beautiful skyline? And now they're gone...the skyline seems so incredibly empty without them, like missing teeth lost in a schoolyard fight.
How many times have I taken the subway, right underneath the Twin Towers? Zooming along, oblivious of the buzzing hive of financial activity going on right above my head, and now it's gone.
How many times have I talked on the phone to a friend who worked at the Trade Center? How many times have I hung up after saying goodbye, thinking that he'd still be there tomorrow? Thinking that my world would never change, and I'd live in my safe little bubble all my life. Thinking that I was immune to the rest of the world's problems.
I went down to Ground Zero today.
Patriotism has been springing up all over the place since the attacks. In store windows, on car windshields, on backpacks, clothes, jewelry...everywhere I look I seem to see the American flag. All I've got is a little flag lapel pin and a red white and blue ribbon. That's it. A few people in my building, mostly women, have gone all out, wearing flag printed shirts or skirts, handing out ribbons to everyone they see. That's where I got mine. I normally would've just gone on with only my lapel pin to advertise my patriotism.
I went over to Emil Skoda's office the other day and asked him what made a suicide bomber kill. He told me that they believed that they would be eternally rewarded for their martyrdom, and that they would become the Muslim version of saints in paradise. I asked him if they were schizophrenic, or if they had mental disorders, or anything like that, and he said no. Most of them were teens or in their early twenties, and they'd been taught all their lives that Israelis and Americans were bad. So they decide to kill us, I said. Yeah, they decide to kill us, all right.
I went down to Ground Zero today.
The sheer amount of debris alone was unbelievable. It's been over a month and still the streets are littered with chunks of concrete and twisted lengths of steel. The sidewalks are crammed with people holding up signs and posters, many of them missing loved ones or friends. I ran into my friend's wife, standing on the street, a picture of her husband held high above her head in hopes that someone would recognize him. I stood with her for the rest of the daylight hours, shouting out encouragement and thanks to the rescue workers, police men, and firemen who passed by us.
No one recognized her husband. Not one person told us where he was, if he was still alive or in the city morgue or buried under literal tons of rubble. The sad thing about this is that there are thousands just like her, waiting for news, good or bad, about the ones they love.
I took her out to dinner at a small cafe that I know, and we shared stories of our times with him, and we talked about pointless things, like what had happened on the West Wing that week and whether or not the Yankees would win the World Series. The simple act of not thinking about the tragedy right outside our doors was enough to brighten the whole evening.
And now, here I sit, back in my office even though my light is the only one on in almost the entire building, typing away at my laptop about my day while the unsung heroes of this city toil away under bright lights and the watchful gazes of the hopeful.
I keep on coming back to that one word. Hero. What does it mean to be a hero? Does it mean saving someone's life, or is a hero someone who changes the world, even in the smallest way possible? In that case…In New York City we have a street that we call the Canyon of Heroes. Almost every year it rings with the cheers of Yankee fans when their home team parades through the streets after winning the World Series. This time it rings with something else: the respectful silence of thousands as they stand and watch the true heroes of this city as they work to restore some semblance of order and sanity in our no-longer sane city. They're the ones who keep us from becoming disheartened at the sheer scale of it all.
I went down to Ground Zero today, and I learned the true meaning of the word 'hero'.
Feedback makes the author do the Dance of Joy, and we do so love to keep our authors happy.
TC
I went down to Ground Zero today.
It was the first time I'd been there since September 11th. I guess you could say it was a moving experience, but I just felt numb. I seem to be feeling numb a lot lately. War does that to people. It's as if we're sitting outside of a fishbowl, and in the fishbowl people are dying and buildings are being destroyed and heroes are giving their lives for freedom.
Someone once asked me what the price of freedom was. I told them the price of freedom was morals, and now I know that I was wrong. The price of freedom is the innocent lives of people who never did anything wrong but follow their government. The price of freedom is tallied in deaths. It seems that we've been in debt for the past ten years, ever since Desert Storm, and now we need to pay off our balance.
The New York Times recently did a photo spread in their magazine of Ground Zero, and on the cover were these two towering pillars of light rising up against the night sky and reflected into the water. I have that picture and a few others pinned up on the wall in my office, right above the door, so every time I walk in or out of the room I know what's going on only a few square miles away from me.
I went down to Ground Zero today.
How many times have I walked or ridden by those two buildings, thinking to myself what an eyesore they were against the otherwise architecturally beautiful skyline? And now they're gone...the skyline seems so incredibly empty without them, like missing teeth lost in a schoolyard fight.
How many times have I taken the subway, right underneath the Twin Towers? Zooming along, oblivious of the buzzing hive of financial activity going on right above my head, and now it's gone.
How many times have I talked on the phone to a friend who worked at the Trade Center? How many times have I hung up after saying goodbye, thinking that he'd still be there tomorrow? Thinking that my world would never change, and I'd live in my safe little bubble all my life. Thinking that I was immune to the rest of the world's problems.
I went down to Ground Zero today.
Patriotism has been springing up all over the place since the attacks. In store windows, on car windshields, on backpacks, clothes, jewelry...everywhere I look I seem to see the American flag. All I've got is a little flag lapel pin and a red white and blue ribbon. That's it. A few people in my building, mostly women, have gone all out, wearing flag printed shirts or skirts, handing out ribbons to everyone they see. That's where I got mine. I normally would've just gone on with only my lapel pin to advertise my patriotism.
I went over to Emil Skoda's office the other day and asked him what made a suicide bomber kill. He told me that they believed that they would be eternally rewarded for their martyrdom, and that they would become the Muslim version of saints in paradise. I asked him if they were schizophrenic, or if they had mental disorders, or anything like that, and he said no. Most of them were teens or in their early twenties, and they'd been taught all their lives that Israelis and Americans were bad. So they decide to kill us, I said. Yeah, they decide to kill us, all right.
I went down to Ground Zero today.
The sheer amount of debris alone was unbelievable. It's been over a month and still the streets are littered with chunks of concrete and twisted lengths of steel. The sidewalks are crammed with people holding up signs and posters, many of them missing loved ones or friends. I ran into my friend's wife, standing on the street, a picture of her husband held high above her head in hopes that someone would recognize him. I stood with her for the rest of the daylight hours, shouting out encouragement and thanks to the rescue workers, police men, and firemen who passed by us.
No one recognized her husband. Not one person told us where he was, if he was still alive or in the city morgue or buried under literal tons of rubble. The sad thing about this is that there are thousands just like her, waiting for news, good or bad, about the ones they love.
I took her out to dinner at a small cafe that I know, and we shared stories of our times with him, and we talked about pointless things, like what had happened on the West Wing that week and whether or not the Yankees would win the World Series. The simple act of not thinking about the tragedy right outside our doors was enough to brighten the whole evening.
And now, here I sit, back in my office even though my light is the only one on in almost the entire building, typing away at my laptop about my day while the unsung heroes of this city toil away under bright lights and the watchful gazes of the hopeful.
I keep on coming back to that one word. Hero. What does it mean to be a hero? Does it mean saving someone's life, or is a hero someone who changes the world, even in the smallest way possible? In that case…In New York City we have a street that we call the Canyon of Heroes. Almost every year it rings with the cheers of Yankee fans when their home team parades through the streets after winning the World Series. This time it rings with something else: the respectful silence of thousands as they stand and watch the true heroes of this city as they work to restore some semblance of order and sanity in our no-longer sane city. They're the ones who keep us from becoming disheartened at the sheer scale of it all.
I went down to Ground Zero today, and I learned the true meaning of the word 'hero'.
Feedback makes the author do the Dance of Joy, and we do so love to keep our authors happy.
TC