THE STOIC SENTINEL OF THE NIGHT:
THE GLEAMING GUARDIAN OF THE DAY
TAGS:
SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, SEPTEMBER 11, 2017, FREEDOM TOWER,
COMMEMORATION,
MEMORIAL, REMEMBRANCE, THE LEGACY,
PRESERVING
THE PAST ACCURATELY, NEW GENERATION, FDNY, PAPD, NYPD
(Monday
September 11, 2017, Vesey & West Streets.)
The sun had yet to break dawn as this part of our City was already a hub
of activity. Red and blue lights strobed
from numerous NYPD vehicles cast their glows across the glass and steel facades
of Brookfield Plaza and the adjacent buildings.
A bagel joint across Vesey Street was doing a brisk business as dozens
of uniformed NYPD MOS waited for their coffee.
There were enough retired Cops to be seen some of whom work as armed security
officers for private concerns; others milling about having come to this place
on this day for what has become, over the last 16 years, to be an annual ritual
of commemoration, memorial, and remembrance.
The soaring Freedom Tower that rises from its square footprint of
ultra-fortified concrete and steel concealed by a layer of prismatic glass
whose flat-planned surfaces stretch to merge as a perfect square, 1,176 feet
above the ground atop the multifaceted structure seems to stand as both silent
sentinel and vanguard in its semi-lighted predawn state just feet north of the
twin reflecting pools that were the original footprints of our majestic Twin
Towers.
At
the southwest corner of Vesey and West Streets a narrow gap in the steel
barriers was the entryway into The Site, the hallowed ground that would host
the family members of the deceased, the comrades of the fallen MOS, and the
requisite pipers and honor details that would begin today’s ceremony at 8:46,
the time 16 years ago that the first hijacked plane hit the North Tower. It would take well over 3 hours for the
families and friends of those so abruptly taken from us to read the names of
the dead. It was as somber a mood today
as it has ever been and as long as this core of people from throughout the
Tri-State Area live, it shall always be so.
The
entry point was manned by young men and women wearing the light blue shirts and
caps logoed with the “9/11 Memorial”. A
cluster of Police Officers stood closely by as those special attendees wearing small
blue lapel ribbons, some carrying flowers and photos of a lost spouse, child,
or parent made their way towards the small stage erected between the reflecting
pools. Police buses soon arrived carrying hundreds of FDNY MOS wearing their
dress uniforms; on one shoulder the official patch of the FDNY, on the opposing
shoulder the unique patch of their “House”; Engine, Ladder or Rescue
Company. It was this elite Corps of
civil servants who’d lost the most on that infamous day; 343 of their ranks
perished on this ground. Yes, this was
indeed hallowed ground perhaps the most sacred acreage in all of New York City.
Many
of the uniformed MOS of FDNY and NYPD could be heard telling their own brief
stories of September 11, 2001. Most had
been in grade school, others in high school, some barely old enough to fully
comprehend the magnitude of the events that would perhaps alter, if not guide,
directly steer their lives into their chosen professions. Many of the older guys, some still active,
other happily (still others not-so-happily) retired shook hands and
hugged. Their tales were told in tones
that could not be overheard. Some of these men were fighting the lonely battles
of ravaging malignancies from exposure to toxins in the airborne dust and
debris during their time spent over the months of the “Recovery”; that
horrifically daunting undertaking that was both painstakingly respectful and
massive in scale and scope as they searched for human remains amid the clean-up
after the fall of our Towers.
Today
was a day eerily similar to that bright Tuesday morning. This morning’s sky was a cloudless pale-blue;
the sun rose swiftly and with it the temperature with a tepid breeze whispering
through the juvenile trees and flying flags. At 8:46 the City became
uncharacteristically quiet and calm as a chill raced along the spines of all in
attendance. Even the throngs of tourists
pressed along the barriers seemed hushed as if osmotically affected by the
collective mood of the moment and those paying their deepest respects. The proceedings unfolded as the sun rose to
its noontime peak momentarily banishing shadows from The Site.
As
the ceremony drew to a close and many among the gathered lingered at the
reflecting pools, streams of MOS filed out crossing West Street to board buses
or seek out a tavern. This being the
neighborhood of high finance, banking, and brokerage with building lobbies
lined with ultra-high-end retailers, there was not a regular bar within easy
walking distant. Many of the thirsty
found themselves in PJ Clark’s in the South Lobby of Brookfield Plaza
overlooking the marina. A few MOS from
Engine 44 sat mid-bar as more of their brethren shuffled in. The mood was quiet, respectful if that word
can ever be appropriately applied to a barroom atmosphere. Some local workers were eating lunch and it
seemed that they were all buying drinks for those gathered at the bar. The drinks were cold, beer served in chilled
steins, and the unconscious strain of the day began to loosen.
Talk
soon turned to responsibility. It was obvious to the older guys that a new
generation now occupied the ranks of the FDNY and NYPD. Men were now FDNY Officers at younger ages
than their predecessor’s due to the ranks having been decimated on 9/11. Both proud Agencies have long, storied
histories, respected institutional memories, and remain the premier Departments
of their kind nationwide if not around the world. Some expressed concerns
regarding the integrity of the memories of that day and the days that followed
and how vital it was that they be preserved…preserved and passed down,
accurately, just as they happened. Individual stories of bravery, courage,
duty, and sacrifice could not be permitted to hazily drift into exaggerated legend
although many a legendary MOS gave his and her all as they breathed their last. The tales are what they are, true accounts of action taken in confidence and with purpose; those who tell
them have the obligation to maintain the purity of the telling; each tale
represents the ultimate sacrifice and so many of the tales are known only to
God.
It
is a bit disorienting to be in this part of town even for a native son. The complete transformation and
reconfiguration requires a moment for one to get his bearings. Certainly, the images from 16 years ago are
not easily juxtaposed on the glistening tableau of towering edifices born from
the fires and ashes of the unimaginable horror of the demise of our Twin
Towers. It had been unimaginable but we
lived to see that horror and for many, perhaps more than whom readily admit it
in unfamiliar company, continue to see, smell, taste, hear and feel it on
nights when sleep is elusive or troubled.
As
the rush hour exodus began most of the gathered began to scatter. Men made their usual rides back to Nassau,
Rockland, Orange, and other counties east and north. Some boarded subways to continue to have a
few belts in more familiar watering holes near their Houses and Commands. The day was somber and the drinking likewise
subdued. It was not the reckless
distortions of recollections most sought from the alcohol; they simply welcomed
the warmth of the liquor and felt some of the day’s inherent tension lift.
The
sun over New Jersey cast the Freedom Tower and her dwarfed neighbors shinning
like mirrors. It was in this daily
movement of our planet around the sun that played on the surfaces of the Tower
in the timeless regularity that the tides ebbed and rose in the harbor so close
by. In time, real cosmic time 16 years
is the blink of an eye. In the span of
our lives 16 years is no trifling chunk of days, weeks, and months. We progress
from young men to middle aged, we watch are our children sprint from grade
school to college. We see the signs of
age in our faces as we shave and feel the labor of the years in our
joints. But on this day, we pause, we
pause and remember our lost as they were forever frozen in time at the age they
were taken 16 years ago. They haven’t
aged in Heaven; surely one gift of Paradise must be the cessation of
aging. Temporal hardships and strife are
behind them and they bask in the Warmth and Light of the Comfort of The Lord.
This year
we close with a version of El Maleh Rachamim a Hebrew prayer for the rest of
the departed.
God, filled with mercy, dwelling in the
heavens' heights, bring proper rest beneath the wings of your Shechinah, amid
the ranks of the holy and the pure, illuminating like the brilliance of the
skies the souls of our beloved and our blameless who went to their eternal
place of rest. May You who are the source of mercy shelter them beneath Your
wings eternally, and bind their souls among the living, that they may rest in peace.
And
let us say: Amen.
Copyright The Brooding Cynyx 2017 © All Rights Reserved
Copyright Brooding Cynyc 2017 © All Rights Reserved
