Reflections of 9/11 on 9/11
So…what do I write today. Not sure yet so I’ll just start.
It’s just about noon here now and they’re still reading out the names. So many people.
But today, I don’t want to just dwell on the sadness. And my sadness is so much different than that felt by those who lost a husband or wife or mom or dad. But as I have said, you can’t compare - it is all relative to ourselves, to our own experiences and lives.
No, today I will not dwell on the sadness. I will try to understand and appreciate all of the good, all of the blessings, all of the beauty that has been created out of that event. I will remember how it felt to be back in the city after 9/11 and how everyone had an unwritten agreement that we would all take care of each other and that we would get through this. Nobody had to say anything - we all said it with our eyes. And we all looked deep into each other in those days, whether stranger or friend, we were all blood. The heroism, the warmth, the love and the support was something I will never forget. As I watched some of the shows last night on TV, one of the Fire Chiefs stated it perfectly, “In our saddest our, it was our finest hour.” That was an extraordinary experience. For me, a real sadness is that it didn’t last. But I did get to experience it. And I know what is possible. And having experienced it and knowing it is possible is what fuels me when I say to you that there is a way…that you can figure it out..that you don’t need to be stuck where ever you are stuck. That every day miracles are real and can happen. In those days after 9/11, everyone chose to come together and support each other. They chose. It can happen. And it can happen for you too. Are you ready to choose? It doesn’t mean that it is easy. in fact, it is usually much harder. That’s why it is so hard to choose. But it is possible. It just has to mean enough to you.
Today, I still feel the sadness and I remember my friends. I will go to the memorial at Sherwood Island with my family and share with my kids little descriptions of everyone I knew that has a stone there - keeping them alive in my memory and sharing these wonderful people with my little ones. I have already hugged and kissed my wife and kids many many times and I will continue to do so tomorrow.
Because that is the key. Tomorrow. Today, we have a lot of focus and many intentions. Today we relive an experience that served as a wakeup call for us. Today we remember again what’s important to us - we remember all the people we love. We realize that there may be things about our life that we want to change. And we’ll start right away tomorrow. But tomorrow is September 12. And when you wake up tomorrow, will you have the same intentions and strength, and courage that you have today? Will you wake up with a renewed sense of purpose and vision and say “Today is the day I make my new beginning” ? Will you keep that fire alive that is inside your belly today and wake up and take the first steps towards your intentions, no matter how small that step is?
Or will you wake up on what’s just another Tuesday morning in September, summer over, school begun, lunches to make, meetings to go to, calls to make, things to clean, trains to catch, elevators to ride, places to drive to, shopping to do…and tell yourself that you’ll start again tomorrow or when it’s a little more convenient or when you have the time…
DON’T! Make a small decision and take a small step. Martin Luther King Jr said, “Faith is taking the first step even when you don’t see the whole staircase.” I can’t tell you that it will save your life, but it might just feed your soul.
Peace, possibility, faith and love.
September 11th, 2006 at 10:35 am
Mike - I never knew your 9/11 story. That is truly incredible. My office was around the corner, my building evacuated without any real danger. But I happened to have a dentist appointment that morning, so I watched events unfold on TV with my (then) 2 year old and new-born infant (we now have three). Here is a note I wrote the Monday after, the first day back to work for me:
A Few Thoughts That Grew - Morning of September 17, 2001
I went back to work today. The Monday after. A new week, a new New York, a new national proprioception, a new planet. A new day. The thoughts you are about to read are not unique. Everyone similarly situated to me has had their analogs throughout the day, I am sure.
The drive to the ferry is perfectly normal. A bright, beautiful day; no excess traffic; the electrical-fire smell that had wafted mid-week at least as far as we were in Syosset, 30-ish miles away from The Site, is no longer detectable. Walking up to the ferry check-in counter, I immediately notice two things: (i) the ferry is running late (as it is not yet docked five minutes prior to the scheduled departure time of 7:55, and some of the now-familiar on-boat crew are on land, in their jackets) and (ii) there are many more people waiting to board than is usual. I suspect many have decided not to drive in or take the train today. “No lines of cars stuck in traffic, no packed rail cars squeezing through tunnels into Manhattan Island (as all public transit must do), no overflowing throngs of people fighting their way in opposite directions across the subway platforms. No. Not today. Instead, a boat humming, skimming across the open water of Long Island Sound, then kissing the edge of Manhattan Island so I can step gingerly, tentatively into The Mess, big toe first. I’ll do that. A good day to try out this new ferry service.” That’s what they must be thinking. That’s what I’d be thinking.
I check in. No one asks me for ID. They never did that before either, and they certainly recognize me after these past few months. But would I rather they did check? I study the faces waiting in the lobby — who’s ID would I check? The boarding card hits my fingers. As I am walking away, the check-in agent (or whatever they are called) tells me, pointing, that someone has donated lunches — sandwiches and drinks. What a kind gesture — one of the many I’ve witnessed over the past week from New Yorkers who had always seemed so hard, so self-focused, so competitive. I walk over to the labeled boxes. “Turkey.” “Ham and Swiss.” “Water.” “Apples.” I remember that our Department Head told us, on one of our many conference calls during the displacement from our building last week, that our basement cafeteria would be unavailable today since it has been feeding the rescue workers, so we should bring our own food. I forgot. So I stuff a sandwich and water bottle into my briefcase. Then I walk back to the check-in agent to ask who donated the lunches. “Some of our Annual Riders.” That’s a euphemism for the guys who pay-up for the Admiral Class seats on the upper deck of the ferry. That entitles them to a free Journal, free parking, etc. “Do you know who, specifically?” “Oh, I don’t know . . . Mr. So-And-So was one of them.” She said it like he was someone important, someone I would have heard of. I look over at the labeled boxes again, and a woman has already eaten half of a ham and swiss sandwich. Shana tova. She seems fine. OK. A reasonable risk. At least, I’ll keep the food in my briefcase. Maybe I won’t need it. Maybe the cafeteria will be open. Maybe some of the neighborhood lunch places will have food. We’ll see. Risk. Suspicion.
I sit and wait for the boat to arrive. I check voicemail, email. More messages from the firm’s and my division’s leadership about luck, aid, heroism, progress, transportation, structural integrity, air quality, etc. I leave messages for my teams about meetings scheduled for today that may or may not happen. The boat arrives.
I walk down the dock, toward the boat. Two uniformed police officers stand by, saying “good morning” and “how you doing” along the way. That was new. I smile a “thank you” as I make eye contact with both of them. Here comes the first real change in myself I noticed, somewhat ashamedly: As I enter the boat, there is a uniformed ferry porter escorting people over the gangplank. One hand on the rail, one hand in his pocket, one foot on the side of the gangplank, the other with its heel down, toes pointing up. He is relaxed, smiling, enjoying the sunny morning. He is doing his job. And he appears to be of Middle Eastern descent. I recognize other uniformed ferry workers, but I haven’t noticed this guy during my previous commutes. I watch him for a moment as I walk by, to see if he makes eye contact. He doesn’t. I wonder what kinds of screening procedures the ferry service has in place as part of its hiring protocol. I look around at the other commuters. Who will try to overpower him with me, if it comes to that? Hints of law school conversations shoot through my head — about racial profiling, type-casting, overt and subtle forms of prejudice. I sit down and call my wife, lamenting about how my worldview is slowly changing. I am suspicious. I am wondering what level of fear is appropriate.
The boat ride is not unlike the dozens of others I have taken since we’ve been living on Long Island over the past 3 months. When the safety video comes on, I decide to pay closer attention than usual to the instructions on “the donning of life vests.” But I forget to listen. My thoughts go elsewhere. I try to predict all the other ways I will look at the world differently from now on, all the events I will ponder that seemed insignificant just last week, but which now seem to rouse what-ifs, suspicion; which now seem to demand conjecture, judgment. When the safety video ends, the TVs on the boat go back to broadcasting the morning’s news. No story is unconnected with The Attack.
Manhattan Island pinches at its southern tip, forming a small triangle about 1/2 of a mile wide at the latitude of the World Trade Center, which sits near the western edge of the triangle. My office sits near the eastern edge, a bit closer to the southern tip, just over 1/4 mile away from 2 WTC, Tower 2, the South Tower. My ferry docks at Pier 11, where Wall Street meets the East River. The entire financial district is relatively small in area: The Statue of Liberty, which is due south of the Island, is in plain view from both WTC and my office building. As my ferry approaches Pier 11, I crane around to watch the Statue of Liberty come into view. My eyes water up. The image is powerful, given the backdrop of thoughts and emotions swirling in my head.
Many people don’t realize, as I did not realize, that lower Manhattan’s docks are bustling with commuters, not to mention tourists, in the mornings. There is a continuous flow of ferries in and out of the numerous slips lining the southern tip. When we dock, people waddle off my boat as usual, with their wide stances moving in the kind of slow motion you would expect from a line of people filing off of a swaying pier, then converging with similar lines coming from the other ferries docking at Pier 11. I look up at the ironically-clear blue sky. I notice a police boat patrolling the coastline. And there are uniformed police everywhere. And the smell is back — toasted rubber and wires. I have a pretty keen sense of olfaction. I sniff the air deeply. I feel a slight rasp in my throat, but write it off as my sinuses over-dramatizing for the benefit of my imagination. As I move through the financial district walking toward my building, and the ambient air-flow changes direction, the smell diminishes — even goes away completely at times.
I wind my way through the maze I have been improving upon as my commute has progressed over recent weeks, turning many corners in approximation of the hypotenuse, through alcoves and corridors created by the very tall buildings. I look at my watch, and subtract the 5 minutes that never fool me into being early. 9:20. There is a line of people outside of 32 Old Slip, waiting for the building to open. 15% of them are wearing or holding masks. Not just surgical masks, but also Brundle-fly, stereo-cylinder, metal-filtered, over-the-head, black floppy rubber gas masks. I try to calculate the volume of biological or chemical irritants that would have to be amassed in one container to do any real damage upon release. I reassure myself — surely more than could be collected without raising suspicion. There was that word again — “suspicion”. I think about how forceful a rush of dust and soot would be created by a descending skyscraper, shooting debris down the narrow passages formed by these steel canyons. Each street can become a powerful wind tunnel — another thing most non-New Yorkers probably do not realize. Dust and soot — the biological-weapon-consequence of collapsing skyscrapers. I wonder how clever, how vicious these terrorists are — how much was intended, how much incidental.
I see two uniformed military men on a corner, dressed in fatigues. I see their berets, combat boots, belt packs, flashlights, batons; I assume they are carrying guns. I wonder, “why there, on that corner?” As I walk past them, I look back at the sign of the store closest to them. “Eastern News.” A news stand catering to nationals from a certain part of the world? Likely. I wonder why they positioned themselves so far from the news stand, if, in fact, that was why they were there — out on the very far corner of the sidewalk, lots of people passing between them and their charge. Maybe I am over-thinking it, proving too much.
A blur of people walking to work, not talking to each other. Why not? Are they too focused on studying their surroundings? Wondering just how afraid they should be? Formulating imaginary disasters in their minds? Being suspicious? How long will we feel this way? Or is it just me?
My maze brings me to the back of my building, which is closer to the elevator bank servicing my floor than the front entrance. I usually enter here, but not today. I keep walking, around to the front of the building. Broad Street winds in a northwesterly direction from the water. A few buildings up is the NYSE; there Broad Street intersects with several corridors cutting due west to the WTC complex and surrounding buildings — 1 Liberty Plaza, the Commodities Exchange, Bankers Trust Plaza, the American Stock Exchange, 7 WTC, the American Express building, the Merrill Lynch building, the Dow Jones building, and, of course, those humongous Twin Towers, each a full New York City block wide in both directions and 100-plus stories high. If you have not stood beneath them, you cannot appreciate how truly massive they are, or were. The special effects guy in my head cues up the footage of the first tower’s collapse, footage I keep seeing again and again. I shutter and keep walking, realizing that I somehow have advanced many steps without paying attention — something you can only do when you are not trying to. I see the NYSE come into view, along the curve of Broad Street. Teary again as I try to focus on the huge American flag fluttering across the facade. They are checking IDs of people going further, entering the Exchange. I turn back toward my building, ready, maybe, to begin my work day. I enter; I see the reception desks, the usual guards watching people scan their IDs across the turnstiles’ laser-readers, the people sifting into their respective elevator banks. I see a German shepherd lying on the ground, leashed to a burly security guard. Security. Dogs. The world is different.
I get out on my floor. Everyone in my group is in the large, central conference room; they are all looking in the same direction. The TV. I stop myself from wondering about what fresh hell has just been unleashed. They are watching live coverage of the opening of the NYSE. 9:32. The Exchange is opening late today. I enter the silence. Grasso is on the podium with “our heroes” — some of those steel individuals who have not stopped digging, carrying, clearing, saving, encouraging, persevering, hoping, helping for a week straight. They make me feel so proud — of them, of us, of New York, of America. Strange how I always scoffed at nationalism as small-minded, as just another “ism”. I suppose you live through a war, and you just feel differently about it. Patriots. Huh. I listen to a woman in uniform sing “God Bless America” — a song I always cited as one example of the hypocritical flouting of the alleged separation of church and state. I try to make it sound different this time. Listening, teary again, I wonder if I care that the people I work with may see my eyes well up. The heroes ring the bell, the market opens, applause. Those of us in the conference room greet each other for the first time, shake a frown around the room, disband. No one has to say anything. We are all thinking it to each other.
The day went forward. I wrote this in between sporadic meetings and conference calls. I have been in sort of a fog all morning. All I want to do is kiss my wife and hug my children again and again.
I am so lucky. I get to do that tonight.
I could go on about the rest of my day so far (1:05pm as of this writing) — all of the unbelievable stories I have heard, all of the tales of grief, of fear, of fortune, of heroism. The stories are truly incredible. But there will be other things — perhaps more important, hopefully more positive — to write about soon.
September 12th, 2006 at 10:21 am
Thank you Mike.
While I posted the below-below reflection, I found yours. My mind drifts towards all tomorrows, while lingering at today at the same time… Connecting. Conecting with those eyes speaking a thousand words in silence, the memory.
Thinking of you in particular as a promise for millions, your family, blessed souls - and sending you my reflection, just written, hoping it touches base somewhere. Tomorrow will come. Today still is.
Maria
For Mike Jaffé and his loved ones:
Thinking of them
Yes
Of course I think of them
Sometimes . . .
Like on those days
When the sun shines over the calm water
Highlighting the tender and countless little waves
When a small stone skips over the surface
And than sinks
Circles widening and widening
Until they disappear out of sight over time.
Like on those moments of pure happiness.
A happiness one wants to share.
When wind catches the leaves of the trees
Make them shiver
Roaring like an ocean reaching the coast.
The tides internalized
If a child cries in the street
Alone
Like those moments
My eyes meet those of someone passing
The subtle smiles while moving on to . . . someplace
When the earth shakes
And cruelly asks her toll
Foolish messages
Blindfolded
The acts harming others
Ruthlessly
Words from mouths that never stop
Convincing others of their only solemn truth
Lessons never learned
When no questions arise about a why
Those words
They make me sad
I can’t forget.
It stills me
It stills me
It is than I hear the silent voices of hard earned wisdom
All those voices silenced for good
Than I cry for them.
Where is the magical world a child needs so desperately?
Our children
Children of the future
Our children exposed to too much pain
So young still
So young
Impossible to protect them nowadays
I fear for their tasks awaiting them
They need us to learn
Our children
They need our wisdom
They need our care for life
They need us desparetaly!
Of course I think of them
Don’t you?
We all do
Don’t we?
________
Take care Mike! and thank you!
Maria
September 11, 2006 11:11 PM
September 15th, 2006 at 6:51 pm
Mike,
Thanks so much for your card and your thoughts. You put me to shame considering I seem to have no one’s birthday on file. I guess it’s safe to say I am a techie by trade, but probably one of the few people left without some form of organizer. I am also the worst when it comes to staying in touch. I recently had a conversation with a friend of mine from childhood about friendships that last despite the occasional and perhaps lengthy radio silence. The gist and conclusion of said conversation, or that part of it anyway, was that these are the friendships that matter, because as much as they may have been a product of time and place, they were important enough to continue when either times or places or both changed. Lack of communication thus does not indicate lack of thoughts in my case.
I hope you and the family are well. It sounds like you are. I say this because the other day I thought of you and checked our your site and your blog. I very much second the feelings of there being nothing better than being able to spend as much time as humanly possible with the family. I have probably spent the most blessed years of my life right here at home, never far from my child and my wife thanks to a perk that my work has granted me. I wouldn’t trade it in for the world right now.
My wife and I enjoy exploring the idea of living somewhere completely different. For a while there, we were on a kick that sooner rather than later we needed to return to a more urban, culturally diverse, and intellectually stimulating town or city than we are in right now. We had the town of Brookline, MA in our sights. It’s basically Boston, except with excellent public schools. The next thing you know, my company was considering opening an office in South Carolina, where the living would have been temptingly cheap, although it seemed culturally intimidating - a statement ripe with prejudice I acknowledge. We also explored the idea of places on the West Coast, in the mountains, or maybe even in the maverick city of Austin, TX - just to try something different. My wife has only lived outside of Massachusetts once, which was college, and I certainly am always up for exploring, otherwise I would never have moved as many times as I did in my life.
In any event, through our thorough research of lots of ideas, we learned that we are actually in a pretty amazing place, both geographically and otherwise. This town has museums, a conservatory where our daughter is taking violin lessons, gorgeous scenery, and many more things that I could rave about, including all the happy friends our daughter has here, the proximity to Boston and I could go on. Much more importantly though, we reminded ourselves of what makes us happy, and every single day there are so many things that do, it’s incredible. Those things happen to be here right now, and while we still enjoy the idea of seeing and perhaps even living on other places at some point (life can take you places on short notice as I have learned), we also know that we want to enjoy what we have to the fullest right here while we can. Romping around on the beach, the woods, or the bogs with my wife and daughter and our new dog, being able to be around for endless conversations with my wife, and playtime with my daughter, it really doesn’t get much better than this.
So there you have it - my thoughts on turning 39 and a small update on our lives. I have turned into the biggest home body I could ever imagine, and am loving every second of it.
B
October 5th, 2006 at 9:37 am
Recieved this today…Oldie but a goodie
PEOPLE COME INTO YOUR LIFE FOR A REASON, A SEASON OR A LIFETIME!
People come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime.
When you know which one it is, you will know what to do for that
person.
When someone is in your life for a REASON, it is usually to
meet a need you have expressed. They have come to assist you through a
difficulty, to provide you with guidance and support, to aid you
physically, emotionally or spiritually. They may seem like a godsend
and they are. They are there for the reason you need them to be. Then,
without any wrongdoing on your part or at an inconvenient time, this
person will say or do something to bring the relationship to an end.
Sometimes they die. Sometimes they walk away. Sometimes they act up and
force you to take a stand. What we must realize is that our need has
been met, our desire fulfilled, their work is done. The prayer you sent
up has been answered and now it is time to move on.
Some people come into your life for a SEASON, because your turn has
come to share, grow or learn. They bring you an experience of peace or
make you laugh. They may teach you something you have never done. They
usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy.
Believe it, it is real. But only for a season.!
LIFETIME relationships teach you lifetime lessons, things you must
build upon in order to have a solid emotional foundation. Your job is
to accept the lesson, love the person and put what you have learned to
use in all other relationships and areas of your life. It is said that
love is blind but friendship is clairvoyant .
Thank you for being a part of my life, whether you were a reason, a
season or a lifetime.
January 24th, 2007 at 3:10 pm
“Sept 11 2001 definitely a life-changing experience for me and for my family. That day, we learned many things and began to value things in life differently. It is interesting to me how my experience affected many people in my family - everyone has a story from their point of view and that story - of me personally through their eyes - shaped not just my life but others as well.
My story is similar to many others who worked in WTC at that time. It was a Tuesday and I was at the end of a really difficult project - implementation of Oracle ERP. We had an 8:30 am meeting every Tuesday on the 99th floor. Early meetings were a pain for me because I commute from LI. I could only take 7:32 train to make the meeting - earlier trains are way too early and the next one would make me late. My daughter just started at junior high school and she had an assignment to create a mobile.
That morning, my daughter was fussing with that mobile - a ribbon came off and needed to be glued. I’m a working mother, my family always recognized that certain things can’t be expected - I don’t glue ribbons on a mobile for a 13 year old right before I have to catch a train. But on Tuesday 9/11/2001, I stopped my run, patiently glued the ribbon for my daughter, and when I arrived to the train station - the train was still there.
As I parked my car, I probably could have run after the train – it would not be the first time, conductors sometime see us running and hold the doors for another few seconds. But I did not run that day. For some inconceivable reason, I said to myself that it would be OK to be late that day.
By the time I made it downtown, my office on the 96th floor was already on fire. The team from the conference room on the 99th floor was still alive and sending messages via Blackberries and phones about the evacuation that was trying to take place. They did not know - neither did we…
I stood around the building on Rector St., hoping to see anyone I knew - anyone that was able to get out. When the 2nd building fell, I started to run away and eventually made my way by foot back to midtown, to Penn Station and home on LI. Riding on the train back that day, I was observing various types of people - those, like me, that were lost somehow and did not know how to move on; and those who thought it was great they got an early dismissal day and a day off - but that is another story.
My only thought that day was to let my family know that I was OK. My daughters did not expect me to survive - their stories seem to be scarier than mine. Only around 11:00 AM was I able to pass the word to my youngest – there was no way to get through to her at school.
I learned that 2 minutes could change everything. That gluing a little red ribbon for my kid could be more important than any big event. I do not run after the trains anymore - there is always another one, in many meanings than one.”