When I sat down in my window seat on Jet Blue’s midnight flight from Albuquerque to New York the other night, I wondered who would be sharing the row with me. There had been an interesting assortment of people in the waiting lounge: old Hippie types (there are lots of them in New Mexico); a group of very fit older men and women who had just competed in 2019 National Senior Games,(I was told this by a wiry man who assumed I was part of their group); touristy people in shorts and baseball caps; several Muslim families with children (the moms in casually covering outfits but all with brightly colored heads scarves, plus an older woman in elegant black); and assorted other night-flighters.
Two people arrived and sat in my row. Next to me, that older woman dressed head-to-toe in a flowing black dress which had patterns on it of small jet beads, simple but elegant. Her hair, of course, was covered with a black scarf. And a man who looked to be around fifty. Waiting for us on our seats were little pouches containing Jet Blue’s bow to night flights- earplugs and a sleep-mask. The woman picked it up turned to me as if asking, “what is this?” I gestured plugging ears and covering eyes. She smiled and sat down.
As soon as they settled in, the man turned to me and in very good English opened a pleasant conversation to which I immediately responded and we got into talking. Turned out he is her son. They are from Jordan. They had been attending a big family wedding at the Sandia Pueblo Resort. He’s traveled many places in Europe and in Asia. I have traveled some places in Europe and Asia but mainly in Latin America. He’s never been to Latin America. She told him to tell me that I should visit Jordan and see Petra. I said I hoped to some day.
We talked travel. We talked food. (We had a good time with food.) And then he asked me, “Where are your people from?” And I replied “My mother’s family came from Hungary to United States in the 1860s. My father was born in Lithuania and came when he was four.” And then I added “I am Jewish.” He nodded, turned to his mother, and translated that bit of information.
We continued talking. Then we tried to sleep. None of us could sleep much. I guess I did sleep a bit, because when I woke up, they had switched seats and he was next to me. So, at some point, over Virginia according to the small screen on the seat in front of him tracking our plane’s flight, we gave up trying to sleep and he and I continued talking.
We talked about how difficult it is to sleep sitting up on an airplane. We looked at the rising sun together. We talked about how people on this planet form a large and beautiful garden with many kinds of flowers. He said God has created a beautiful place and beautiful people. We talked about how there must be peace. We all agreed that we must stop hating and killing each other. I even got to use my one word of Arabic: šukran (thank you)
When we landed at JFK, from the front of my backpack I unpinned a red button emblazoned in white letters with the words Choose Love.I handed the button to the woman who took it with delight and immediately pinned it on her black dress, nestled among the jet beads. She smiled at me. Her son smiled at me. As it was morning and we all were facing journeys into where we were headed: me, just to the subway to get back to Manhattan and they, a three hour drive to family in Connecticut, I gave them a couple of small coffee candies which they popped into their mouths. I said, “I hope you get to Connecticut safely.” The woman then rooted around in her large, black leather hand bag and pulled out a pen and gave it to me, nodding and smiling.
Sukran Choose love. Give it, receive it, return it. Thank you.
(note: this was written in response to the act of terrorism perpetrated against the Jewish community in the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, PA on October 27, 2018. )
I grew up in Squirrel Hill. When I was a little girl, five, six, seven years old…a little girl… in the spring, my father and I would go to a nursery and buy flats of pansies and petunias and bring them home to plant in the awakening garden on the hillside property surrounding the brick house he had bought shortly after I was born. He’d pretty much grown up in Squirrel Hill. I grew up in my father’s garden. In my memory, the nursery where those flowers came from was very close to the Tree of Life Synagogue.
My father shared the love of that garden and its expression of life with me. I still love gardening. A cousin of mine once said to me, “Wherever you go, work in the garden so that wherever you go there is a garden. I do that. And when I do, I remember my father and his garden in Squirrel Hill.
It is interesting to read articles that are currently being written about Squirrel Hill, articles that describe it, define it. Now Squirrel Hill is part of the story that is the awful history of gun violence in this country. A place named Tree of Life has become a place associated with death. But I have to believe that the roots are strong. And the branches will hold. And though we heading into the dark time of year and what feels to be a very dark time in our country, we must hold the thought that spring will come again and the Flowers will bloom again and the Trees will return Green and Strong.
There was once a giant that took over the countryside. You know, one of those stomp-around and smash-everything, grab the cows and eat them whole, and while he’s at it, eat the people whole too, tyrants. And tired of living in terror not just of the destruction and death meted out by this voracious bully, but by the uncertainly of when it would be their turn, the people of that place, knowing that he is fundamentally lazy, decide to strike a deal with him. They will voluntarily send someone once a year to his cook pot if he will leave them alone the rest of the year.
Now, in these stories, he agrees. But one of those annual sacrifices turns out to be the person, often a “magical child” or, in other versions, the ordinary mother of an ordinary child, who knows how to defeat the giant. There are other versions, other plot lines, of this story. But it is usually a child or young person who knows how to get rid of this oversized bully by guile, generally using the tyrant’s own flaws against him. The giant is once again defeated and life continues.
This story has been told around the world, wherever and whenever selfishly destructive tyrants arise. The imperative to face them down confronts us with the our need to wake up to the peril that lurks in the dark corners of the human psyche and which erupts just when we become complacent and let go of vigilance. The community, then, is shocked into the necessity of resisting and given the opportunity to strike a blow for freedom, indeed, for life itself.
We need to hear this story, these stories, in their many forms. David and Goliath comes to mind. Most recently I have been telling a story from ancient Mexico that I learned years ago about a boy who is the son of a Nahuatl woman and Tlaloc, a Pre-Columbian rain-god. And while the boy is raised as an ordinary human, when the time comes to out-wit the hungry giant and save the community, he know just what to do. He frees the people and is made king of the land. The story says that he never died. And some say that he is still with us, disguised as an ordinary human being, continuing to help us. Some say that each of us has a bit of this “magical child” within.
There was once a giant who ravaged the land. We seem to be living through this narrative yet again. What are we going to do about it?
I’m riding high above the clouds, on a journey crossing Pennsylvania on my way to Santa Fe, NM. The television monitors in LaGuardia airport had been alternately beaming images of children in cages and sounds of TV talking heads reporting on children in cages, children taken from their asylum-seeking parents, being held hostage, it seems, for a wall. I realized that the last time I inadvertently sat in front of that particular monitor in LaGuardia, images of children fleeing Parkland school after the mass-shooting were filling that same screen. I need to stay away from television screens in airports.
I’ve been in New York City for 10 days. At the beginning of the trip, I taught my “Storytelling in the Classroom (and Beyond)” intensive at NYU. Among other things, we were looking at storytelling as social action. At the end of the trip, I was in Central Park telling stories about defeating voracious giants and preening bullies. In the middle, I spent seven or so hours in one day immersed in the Broadway revival of Angels in America. Oh my, how I loved Ethel Rosenberg haunting Roy Cohn!
This past couple of months has been pretty wild for me. Some health issues popped up, due, I’m assuming, to a bit of chaos swirling around my personal life magnified on the national and international scene by the actions of the lizard people who seem to have taken over the world yet again.
In the middle of all that, I received a hundred page manuscript of poems about Auschwitz and Birkenau. My poet friend Carol Rubenstein has spent the past decade going to those haunted places often, diving into to the haunting as only she can, and writing the poems. I have been slowly making my way through her depiction of that ash-covered horror story. To have such extreme history, those places, and “the nameless,” being re-imagined by her poetic responses is unbearable. Especially at this moment in our history, as we create concentration camps for children on our southern border. Friends of mine are caravanning from NY to one of the camps in Texas. Just imagine, we don’t have to go to Poland to bear witness!
And here I sit, serenely sailing at 32,000 feet over Pennsylvania. I spot the Monongahela and the Allegheny rivers, and now the Ohio flowing south west from Pittsburgh’s “golden triangle.” I was born in Pittsburgh, safe from Hitler’s booted enforcers who were then bashing the tender heads of babies like me against walls. I wave to my friend Frances and to some cousins still there. And I wave to my friend Indigo, who built a labyrinth on her tree lined street in Wilkinsburg. When I was growing up in Pittsburgh, I don’t think I ever heard of a “labyrinth.” I think we all need to start building labyrinths on every corner and under every tree. Much better than building concentration camps for babies. Much better.
~~~”Re-imagined, but not Imaginary”..from the preface to The Nameless by Carol Rubenstein
In the 1990s, I was a guest artist at a summer camp in a deeply troubled neighborhood in Philadelphia. The brick row-house that housed the Neighborhood Center was across the street from Norris Square, a small, scruffy, city park. Each morning, abandoned drug paraphernalia had to be removed before our campers sat down for their opening circle on the park’s dusty ground. Along with some great community building activities I learned from the camp director Kathleen Luchtan and the wonderful … and educational interactions… I had with the residents of that “Empowerment Zone” neighborhood, I experienced the power of storytelling to validate and empower the listeners.
Upon arrival one sunny morning, I found myself in the midst of an intense drama. One of the teen-age assistants, hired under a city program called Phila-Job, had disappeared. She had not come home the night before, and her mother had waited till that morning to call the police. When I arrived, the Center was abuzz with Philadelphia police officers questioning her friends while other teens talked to each other trying to figure out where she was or who might have kidnapped her. Members of the neighborhood were out looking for her and there was a constant flow of people checking in and out of the Center. There were two local women, working with us through Ameri-Corps, spearheading the community response. This was a parallel search (and no doubt a more invested and informed one) to the official police investigation. There was great fear for the missing girl’s wellbeing.
I stayed with the younger children, doing storytelling and visual art projects as the staff, the “Phila-Job” teen assistants, the two Ameri-Corps women, and the police officers were all engaged in trying to find her. This went on for most of the morning. And then they found her, the two local women and her friends, not the police. We all breathed a sigh of relief.
Late that morning, our camp-community gathered together to re-set the day in the back yard “safe-space” of that old row house. After we all settled down on our folding chairs, Kathleen asked me to tell a story. Without thinking about it, I began to tell the Haitian folktale, “Tipingee,” the story of a young girl who is saved by her community. Its participatory chant allows everyone in the circle to help save the girl. I can still see us sitting in the fenced-in yard and the two Ameri-Corps women sitting there nodding at each other as the story unfolded, their, postures changing from an exhausted slump to alert, knowing pride. I can see their smiles and the smiles of so many in that circle as they realized that I was telling them their story, that they, that very morning, had taken action to save one of their own. For me, It was a moment of deep understanding of the power of storytelling to touch us, to validate us, and to heal.
I have since that day used Tipingee’s story, along with other stories, in times when events unfolding in the “real” world were impact us and my listeners. For instance, two days after the horrendous shooting at Sandy Hook elementary school, I was scheduled to give “warm-fuzzy” holiday program for adults and children in a coffee-house/art gallery. I found myself not changing the program, but definitely shifting how I framed it and told it. The children had a great time. The adults, hearing the same stories, heard deeper resonances that touched on, but did not name, the tragedy that was on all of our minds. They, too, enjoyed the program, but for different reasons.
I facilitate a workshop called On the Moment: Storytelling in Times of Crisis. I first led the workshop at the Sharing the Fire storytelling conference in 2002, principally as a response to 9/11. Unfortunately we now seem to be in a time of ongoing crisis. There have been a series of natural disasters and, as a rescue worker who came to NYC described the 9/11 attack, to me, “non-natural disasters” as well. One of the great gifts of storytelling is its flexible immediacy as well as its ability to address difficult topics indirectly through metaphor. As storytellers, our ability to respond to what is happening, both in the world and in the listeners who have gathered to hear story, presents us with the opportunity to not only entertain, but to ease minds and hearts, strengthen individuals and create community. What kinds of stories, what themes, what images can we bring when asked to show up for our listeners when the world is falling down? Storytellers know!
(for information on the workshop, contact me: email@example.com) The story referenced is: “I’m Tipingee, She’s Tipingee, We’re Tipingee Too,” a story from The Magic Orange Tree by Diane Wolkstein)
We are heading into a week that features two holidays about re-birth, Passover and Easter. There are tiny purple flowers blooming in the garden and the rose bushes and trees are putting out hesitant buds. Here in New Mexico, life peeks out after the cold drought of winter. Persephone is signaling from the Underworld, letting us know she is on her way to rejoin her mother Demeter to insure that Life may continue. It is always good to note that life may continue.
Why do I feel the need to repeat that mantra? Perhaps to affirm the possibility, assure my readers and myself that despite the auxiliary verb “may,” there is a glimmer of hope, an actual chance, perhaps even good odds that, yes life may continue.
I want to tell you about a project with teens that I was asked to be a part of this month. And to share with you a beautiful essay by Michael Tallon, These Magic Kids, that is about the young people we’ve been watching take the reins in the fight for life here in our beleaguered country. My takeaway from watching these amazing “children” who are raising their strong voices in defiance of a kind of death cult that seems to have ridden off with the sanity of much of this country is: Life may continue, perhaps stronger and wiser than ever.
I’ve been listening and talking to a number of young folks these past couple weeks, not just the ones in the news, but in the streets before during and after the March for our Lives here in Santa Fe this past Saturday. I want to tell you about some kids I met at a conference held by FCCLA, a national life skills and leadership organization for youth.
I was asked to be a judge at a state wide competition where some of the FCCLA members made presentations of projects they’d been working on. Winners would go on to the national competition. I was one of two of adults judging the presentations of a project three students did to raise awareness of FCCLA in their schools and communities. There were an 8th grade African-American boy from Tucumcari, NM and two Latinx high-school girls from Albuquerque.
These students created PSAs, social-media campaigns, before-and after surveys, workshops, and other events to get the word out about FCCLA. They brought portfolios describing their processes, goals and results and they made oral presentations about them. They were chosen to come to this state competition at the Marriott Pyramid Hotel in Albuquerque. We may have been in a fake “pyramid,” but there was nothing fake about these kids.
These three had not had the privilege of the kind of educational and community resources that the Parkland students have. But they have the same passion, focus, drive, and determination we’ve been seeing on TV. And they obviously have at least one fine teacher-advocate for their futures. They were well spoken, organized, focused, and sweet as they could be.
When I asked the 8th grade boy from Tucumcari why he chose to join FCCLA, he replied that he wanted to learn how to comfortably talk to strangers. I know he said more than that, but I was struck by this young African-American taking the step of working on the skill to look the world in the eye, not with fear…which leads to so much anger…but with calm, friendly confidence. He and the two young women from Albuquerque are my in-person representatives of this new generation of Americans. I’m so glad they are here. Let’s help them.
(This blog was written in response to a brilliant article by Michael Tallon about the students from the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida. The link to his article is below. This photo of Emma Gonzalez is from the article.)
Several days ago, the word “shithole” was spewed from our nation’s capital and rocketed around the world. This was in reference to certain countries, certain populations, certain kinds of people. While this latest insult to humankind has been ricocheting through the world’s consciousness, I have been working on my annual love stories concert to be performed next month at the Provincetown Playhouse in NYC. The Heart of the Matter, which I am creating with poet/bassist Larry Roland, is an hour of stories and poetry about the human capacity for love. Not romance, but the fierce love that creates connection, holds life sacred, and preserves the world.
I’ve the good fortune to be staying this month in a small condo on Florida’s Gulf coast. At around 2 PM yesterday, while working on the love stories program (and fending off thoughts of shitholes and such), I was suddenly compelled to get up and leave the computer. Without changing my clothes, not even putting on lipstick, which I generally do to face the world, I grabbed my wallet and my keys and headed out. I walked down Gulf Boulevard to JD’s, my favorite bar and restaurant and there I lived “the heart of the matter.”
JD’s sits on a narrow stretch of barrier beach between the Gulf of Mexico and Florida’s Inter-Coastal Waterway. On the front veranda of the old wooden building perches a ten-foot high, blue and pink wooden octopus with a smiling mermaid hanging out on one of its tentacles. When you enter JD’s, you are in a world of free-form funk with a slight buzzy edge to it. The restaurant is festooned with permanent Christmas lights, fishing nets and tons of seashore kitsch.
There are three rooms: the piano bar up front, a laid back dining room in the middle, and the Back Porch, a bar which rocks, even at 10 in the morning. What Happens on the Porch Stays on the Porch proclaims the sign next to the list of all-day happy hour drinks. The Back Porch is where I hang out when I go to JD’s. There is something magical about the place, which attracts a community of fun loving and pretty open odd balls. It is a safe space to go and listen to great live music, dance with or without a partner, and to meet some good folks. I always feel better about human beings when I go there.
So yesterday I walked over to the street behind JD’s to check out what kind of music was coming from the Back Porch that afternoon. Drums. Not a drum set, but Congas. Heart music, masterfully played. All right! I stood outside, watching the drummer through the window. Yeah, some fine music being offered up by a big man, his voice, his hands and his drums sending sweet sounds into the air. I went in and stood against the door to get my bearings, to get a sense of who he was and who was hanging out on the Back Porch that afternoon. It felt really good.
I looked to see where I might sit down as there were no empty tables. An African-American couple was perched on wooden stools at a high, narrow table. On the other side of the table, there were three empty stools. I walked over and asked if I could join them. Warm vibes and welcoming smiles greeted me. We were joined about an hour later by two Puerto Rican sisters recently moved to Largo from the Bronx. With them was their colleague, an Irish-American, Special-Ed. teacher. So there we were, the five of us, talking, dancing, sharing food and drink, sharing laughter.
When Red, the drummer, launched in to “Sweet Home, Alabama,” I kicked off my shoes, got up and began to dance. No one was on the dance floor but me. No one joined me. It was me and Red and the music. When the song was over, there was applause from around the room. I bowed to Red, turned around and bowed to the assembled Back Porch regulars and sat back down with my new best friends. The waitress came over and told me a man wanted to buy me a drink. I hesitated, then accepted and went over to talk to him. He was in a motorized wheel chair but said that when he is in his manual wheelchair, he dances. I said, “Well, maybe we can do that next time.” A young woman at the bar grabbed my hand and said, “You dance so fucking good!” She and her boy friend and I danced together a bit later. I told her that she danced “fucking good” too.
Now here’s the thing: we were all kinds of people-different ages, different backgrounds, different “colors.” We were a rainbow perched on our wooden bar stools, sharing stories, photos, even a few minutes of on line conversation with one of the Perez sister’s children and their new puppy up on the Quantico marine base in Virginia. I write all this because the instant community formed in that Back Porch safe space gives lie to the “shithole” image of America smacking us around at the moment.
So what’s this got to do with the “heart of the matter?” I like to quote Anne Frank. She wrote in that precious diary of hers that she believed that human beings, in their hearts, are really good….that “in the end it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end.” At the heart of the matter is love.
I say amen to that. And I also say, if you start to lose hope, head for the Back Porch. And if you can’t find one in your neighborhood, create it.
P.S.: As I didn’t take any photos yesterday, here is one I took in Salvador, Brazil at a festival in the Pelourinho. Drums, dancing, people gathered to celebrate life.
The bones of my 1881 apartment building have been exposed. A structural shoring-up demanded of the landlord by the City. The subway below shakes the building. One September day in 2001, a low flying plane also shook the building. I remember a day many years ago when a section of my living room wall tumbled in.
Periodically our notorious landlord is forced to “improve” the building, or at least make it safe to live in. They replace the old red bricks with grey blocks. Sturdier, I am sure, but the history is lost. This month, chunks of an internal wall are being replaced by cinder blocks. But some of the bricks hold on. “We’re still here,” they silently proclaim, “crumbling but still standing”
In old buildings, the walls hold memory. In old people, memory, too, is held, not just personal, but societal, historical, spiritual. I’ve been in this building since 1971. It holds memory of me, or at least I imagine that those original bricks do. Over the years there have been periodic replacements of structural elements along with the change in the tenant society from old Italians to young artists to young wall street types and now to a frequent roll-over of NYU students. But some of us old ones are still here, two neighbors even longer than I. We are still here. And miraculously, so is this shaky tenement.
I like old buildings in old places. Rome. Jerusalem. And yes, Greenwich Village. There is a felt sense present, both horizontal and vertical. The time line spreads out awareness and adds deep layers to experience. At least for me. At least for me.
This Summer Solstice I awoke early, early enough to go out into the garden and, if not to sing the sun rise, at least to sing the sun’s appearance through the trees and over the house next door. I go out often to sing up the Sun, though not as often as some folks who know in their hearts that we co-create life with all of nature and that if someone doesn’t sing the sun up each morning, it might not return. Serious business, living on a fully alive planet earth in a fully alive and interconnected universe.
So there I was in the garden singing a song to the sun. As I began, “Morning Sun, Morning Sun; Come my way, come my way,” I was joined in song by one of the large crows that visit the garden for a splash-about in the birdbath. Well, they don’t really splash-about. They stand at the edge of the bowl, an imposing presence, dipping their big beaks into the water.
Anyway, that morning, when I was singing in the garden, a crow started to answer me. Or perhaps he was bringing me a message. Some bit of Crow knowledge. Maybe he was simply commenting on my voice the way we comment on theirs. So I sang “Morning Crow! Morning Crow! Come my way, come my way.” He did not come my way, but did put out a loud “caw caw.” So I continued the song. “Morning Crow, Morning Crow! You deliverin’ a message here today?” Another squawking “caw” and he flew away.
I don’t think of myself as a bird person. But I do try to pay attention. And I remember to pay attention especially when I’m out in nature. That is why we all need to spend time out there, to practice paying attention.
Here’s an old story of mine about a bird. I was walking down Highway 1 in Big Sur, California some years ago, heading from my cousin’s cabin where I was staying, to do a work exchange at Esalen Institute about a mile south along that gorgeous stretch of California Coast. I was enjoying the early morning air, filled with the scent of wild fennel, my eyes feasting on the Ventana Wilderness rising up to my left and the cobalt Pacific down below to my right, when I noticed that over my head was a red tailed hawk which had flown low and had begun to circle me. It was so low I could see its feathers, its beak. I just stopped dead in my tracks. I watched it as it reeled and circled. Then I started getting a little nervous and thought: maybe this guy is looking for lunch in my hair! I wasn’t too sure. The Hawk circled and circled. And circled.
You know how we human beings always have to be some where? We are so busy- busy all the time and that morning I was on my way to work. So, I thanked the bird for the gift of its presence and I walked away from that circling. I walked out of his circle.
The hawk flew on ahead of me and when I got down the road a ways, he began to circle me again. This time I stood still. I had no where I had to be but there. I watched until that hawk had finished with me. When he flew on off, I bowed and walk on down to Esalen.
That is a story I’ve told various times, the last time being this past Saturday night for a Solstice program I gave in a small amphitheater in Elena Gallegos Park on Sandia mountain overlooking Albuquerque, NM and the Rio Grande Valley. The sun was setting in its New Mexican, fireball form over the mountains west of us. There was a breeze, which kept the gnats at bay. We were up there to honor the Sun, the Light, and all our Relations. That is, the animals, birds, rocks, rivers, grasses, trees, even those gnats!
I began to tell my Big Sur Hawk story. I pointed to the sky, directing my listeners’ eyes to the hawk which had honored me that glorious morning so long ago in Big Sur. I lowered my arm and eyes and I noticed that the audience’s eyes stayed looking up. Some began to point. I looked up again. There above me was a red-tail hawk circling, right then, right there. The story of my California memory turned into the story of that New Mexico moment.
Had this hawk come to listen to the story about his California cousin? He stayed till I finished it, then flew away. Was he simply curious about the gathering of two-leggeds sitting on stone benches listening to the speaking, singing, and dancing one in front of them who was pointing skyward? Or was he, perhaps, bringing a message? I do not claim to know the answer to those questions. I merely report what happened.
I live in lower Manhattan, a mile and a half north of the World Trade Center.
From the almost floor to ceiling window in my kitchen, I have a fabulous view – unobstructed- south east, south, south west. From that window, in 1971, I watched the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center go up. On September 11, 2001, I watched them collapse.
That morning, I was at my computer, trying to sort out which of the many NYC mayoral candidates to vote for in that day’s primary, when a low flying aircraft—sounding very much like a roaring demon set free from the underworld—flew directly overhead, shaking the foundation of my one hundred year old apartment building. I thought it was some idiot helicopter pilot showing off. It was not. And that plane, the first of four we’d be seeing in the news that day, didn’t just shake my building—it shook the world. The war was in my backyard.
While the horror and chaos of Ground Zero unfolded, we New Yorkers poured out of our apartments and began to do what we could to set things right. I have lots of stories about all that. Here is one.
The day after the attack, I went over toward the Hudson River, a few blocks to the west of me. The road along it, West Street, had become a major highway for rescue and recovery vehicles. I found myself at the corner of Christopher and West. That corner is iconic. Decades ago, it was the old water front… replete with gangs, including the notorious Hudson Dusters; then it became..and still is… the destination of the enormous Gay Pride Parade, Christopher Street having been a center of Gay culture for years. But in the aftermath of the attack, the open spaces on either side of West Street became a bustling center for sorting and distributing food, drink, medical supplies, clothing, and other needed items for the rescue, recovery and clean up crews. And the street was the main artery downtown.
As I walked down Christopher toward the River, I heard cheering and whistling, and clapping. When I got to West Street, I discovered several dozen of the local folks standing at the corner, cheering on the workers going to …and coming from Ground Zero. Some of them had signs: “Thank you! ” “God Bless You!” “We love you!” So, I joined them.
Shortly after I got there, I watched a National Guard unit roll by. I stood cheering with my Greenwich Village neighbors as the army made its way down West Street to Ground Zero. To be cheering the army as it rolled into NYC was odd enough; but to be standing at that iconic corner, which in the old days had been known for its “leather bars” and less than straight prostitution, to be standing there, cheering the US Army…was mind blowing.
And then this vision: rolling south was the biggest piece of heavy machinery I’d ever seen. Not a tank, but a huge earth mover. And who was driving this down West Street? A young African American soldier, a woman, her hair in intricate cornrows. And with a free hand she gave a thumbs up to all of us who stood cheering and clapping. This small woman in army fatigues, driving this enormous bull dozer. I never cross that street at that corner without remembering that moment and that soldier.
For weeks and months, people stood at the corner of Christopher and West….cheering the fire trucks, police, military vehicles, sanitation trucks, all the vehicles going up and down the highway. There was only one piece of business at the south end of that road: the “Pit,” the Trade Center site, Ground Zero. And since then, each year on 9/11, a group of people stand on the median strip of that road, holding thank-you signs and waving flags and clapping. And still the police, fire, sanitation and anyone who understands what those folks are doing there, honk in response. The corner was officially designated by the City as Point Thank You. There is a sign there for the tourists to read.
As for me….When I am in NYC on the morning of 9/11, I go out to the end of the Christopher Street pier and sit quietly. I look at the river and harbor, I look at the Statue of Liberty, I look at the empty slot in the sky line….now with its new tower filling some of that gap. And I breathe. Then I join the group at Point Thank You and wave and clap and cry. It is a good thing to do.