Titanic's 100th Anniversary: My Grandfather Had a Ticket and a Dream

Article first published as Titanic's 100th Anniversary: My Grandfather Had a Ticket and a Dream on Blogcritics.

As the excitement and interest about the infamous ocean liner Titanic and the 100th anniversary of its sinking reaches a zenith this weekend, I have been thinking about my own family story about the great ship. All families have stories that are told and handed down, and one of my grandfather's great tales was about his ticket to sail on the Titanic, an opportunity which he felt would fulfill all his hopes and dreams. Pop was set to sail on the great ship on April 20, 1912, away from all he had ever known and toward what he felt would be a grand future. Of course, fate had other plans.

Growing up on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, Pop lived in a tenement apartment with his eight siblings and his parents. The youngest of four sons, Pop got to go to school while his older brothers never did; they had to work as soon as they could get out on the street and do something to earn money. Pop's decided advantage was learning to read and write, something that would give him an edge in the years to come.

Pop had a fascination with the sea in large part due to his father Anthony, who worked as a longshoreman on the city's docks. Pop would go and watch his father working, see the ships great and small, and wish for the day he could cross that ocean. While many of his family and friends spoke about the dream of coming to America, the grim reality that he saw all around him was nothing like the hopeful stories that had inspired them all to come to the USA in the first place.

Unfortunately, Anthony died at thirty-five years old while working on the docks. Pop said it was probably a heart attack, the work being so horrendously arduous and the hours incredibly long. So what little money was coming in from my great grandfather's salary was now gone; therefore, Pop's school days ended and he too hit the streets looking for work after having just completed third grade.

The gritty streets of Pop's New York in the late 1890s must have been an amalgam of every possible horror known about that period and a hell that cannot be imagined. From all the gruesome stories Pop told, his real New York made something like Martin Scorcese's film Gangs of New York seem like a church picnic. Pop saw all the cruelty, the poverty, the squalor, and the inequity that existed, registering it deep down but pushing forward because he had no other choice.

Flash forward to early 1912. Because Pop could read and write, he had secured a job as an assistant for a Doctor Martin who lived near Gramercy Park. Pop's duties included driving the doctor all over the city to various appointments, luncheons, and functions. He also took care of the doctor's papers and mail, and his salary of ten dollars a week enabled him to buy some nice clothes and help his mother.

Pop still dreamed of getting out, away from this fractured world just like his childhood friends actor Jimmy Durante and singer Eddie Cantor, who had escaped the neighborhood. Pop got his first shave at sixteen from Durante's father, and while in the barbershop that day Jimmy's brother Robert, a New York City cop, came in and impressed Pop in his uniform with the shiny buttons. Pop asked him why he became a cop, and Robert told him it was either that or become a crook. Knowing their neighborhood, Pop knew how true those words were.

As he was driving Martin everyday, they spoke about many things. One of the biggest topics in those early weeks of 1912 was Titanic. In an age before TV and radio, this ship's story still had somehow consumed the interest of people everywhere. Pop had been reading everything he could about the ship, and he would tell the doctor about the amenities that would be on board: the electric lights, the elevators, the lavish suites, the swimming pool, and the heated cabins. Martin wondered if he should get tickets for his wife and him, and Pop said that would be a grand idea. The doctor later revealed that he had inquired about the cost for the first class quarters he wanted, and four thousand dollars was too dear for him.

Of course, the well educated doctor and the poorly educated employee talked about the ship from their own perspectives. When Martin said something about, "The name alone is an incredible case of hubris," Pop was not sure what he meant. The doctor had said something about Greek mythology, and this inspired Pop to hit the library to look up "hubris" and read all about the Greek gods, especially the Titans. When he went back and spoke to the doctor about Cronus and company, his boss was impressed.

They continued to speak about the ship and its legacy and eventual curse: it was supposed to be virtually unsinkable. Since ships were the airplanes of that day, imagine if we were told by an airline that a plane was not capable of crashing? This captured Pop's imagination because sinking ships were a reality; he had seen the salvaged wrecks being towed into New York harbor as a boy when he stood alongside his father on the docks. Ships big and small had gone down, sending goods and people to watery graves. The possibility of an unsinkable ship was so alluring, so powerful, and that mystique hovered over Pop's every thought about the famous ship.

In late March of 1912, Pop had worked a straight twenty-four hours taking the doctor to all his emergency appointments during a heavy snowstorm. Martin had always admired his work ethic, but he felt this extra effort deserved some kind of reward. A week later the doctor got in the car and presented Pop a little gift for all the hard work he had been doing: a third class ticket for passage on the Titanic. "Maybe I can't go, Dave," he said with a hand on Pop's shoulder, "but nothing should stop you."

Pop said he was speechless, just staring at the ticket that he could never have afforded; to save $36 would have been impossible for him at that time. Martin knew Pop had a dream, and it was much bigger than being a chauffeur for him. Pop thanked him profusely, went home excitedly, and showed everyone the ticket. During the ensuing days, he prepared for the adventure that lay ahead of him by going to the library, reading all about London, and thinking about how his new life would unfold after he got off the great ship in England.

By the time Pop saw the infamous headline on the front page of The New York Times about the ship sinking, he was shaking as he stood at the newsstand with the paper in his hand. It was as if all of his dreams had hit that iceberg too, sinking deep to the bottom of the icy sea forevermore with the ship that had captured his imagination. How could an unsinkable ship sink? he wondered. Of course, people have been asking that question over and over ever since.

He made his way down to the docks where his father had worked and died, and he saw the eventual arrival of the Carpathia with the haunted surviving passengers, changed forever by the tragic loss they experienced out on that icy ocean. Pop took the ticket from his pocket, shed a few tears, and threw it into the water; he knew the dream was ostensibly over. Wealthy New Yorkers like Isidor Straus and John Jacob Astor had died on that ship, and now this poor New Yorker would never have the chance to set sail on it.

The next day Pop went back to the Durante's for a haircut, and he asked the barber if his son Robert could help him get a job. He became a New York City cop, and later that year he met my grandmother at a dance. They fell in love and were married three days later. Pop always said it was love at first sight, but Nana joked that looks were deceiving, yet they remained married until her death in May 1972, just a few months short of their 60th anniversary.

Pop moved out of the neighborhood, building his own house in Queens where my father and his brother would be raised. Pop lived a life he never imagined when living in the tenement. Never mind the Titanic; he had a place that he could call his own with a bathroom and yard. He must have thought, with apologies to Titanic director James Cameron, that he was indeed king of the world.

Many years later as an old man he would tell this story with dry eyes. He had come to terms with what happened long ago, and even felt in many ways that the sinking of the ship saved him from making a big mistake. His idea to sail to England and work his way down to Italy was not planned out, and he may never have made it. He could have ended up trading a New York slum for a London one, and what good would that have been? He seemed happy but also felt a great sadness for those lost because, as he said, "Most of them who died on that ship were poor just like me."

My grandfather had a dream to sail on Titanic, but it was never meant to be. His one regret after all those years was not keeping the ticket. I said that would have been worth something, but he said he would have never sold it. He would have framed it and hung it on the wall in order to always remember that fate had other plans for him.

Photo Credits: Discovery.com, NY Times

Ten Years After 9-11-01: Still A Day That Will Live in Infamy

Article first published as Ten Years After 9-11-01: Still A Day That Will Live in Infamy on Blogcritics.

I walk into Windows on the World; my eyes are drawn to the skyline. The sun is brilliant this day; everything inside the restaurant is glowing preternaturally. I don't detect the odor of the fine breakfast food, but I see the waiters and they are gimping along with their trays. The people are all at the tables eating, but there seems to be nothing on their plates.

I sit at my table and lift my copy of the New York Times. A bus boy pours some water in my glass, but his hand is shaking and the ice and water run all over the table. I look up at him and he is like a holograph; I can see the skyline right through him.

I look at the newspaper and see the date: September 11, 2011. The headlines are illegible, as is the text of the stories. There are pictures on the front page that are all blurry. I look at my watch and note that it is 8:45. I think I have a meeting or something that I must get to; I start trying to signal the waiters, but they turn their backs on me and stare out the windows.

I open the paper to the next page and I can make out some of the letters. "Tenth Anniversary..." and the rest is a blur. I hear a familiar voice and look up. My grandfather is standing over the table with a cigar in his mouth. "Hey, Pop," I say, as if twenty seven years haven't passed since he died. "Want some breakfast?"

Pop shakes his head and points to the exit door. "You have to get out of here."

I fold the paper and look up again and he is gone, but at the same time the building starts rumbling like an earthquake is hitting the city. The table shakes, my glass topples over, and the floor beneath my feet is turning into gelatin. I look at the exit door and run as Pop suggested. I throw open the door and step out into the sunshine and the blue sky is all around me. I start falling and look back, but there is no building at all. I am falling toward the earth, and I see a crowd of people below me. I see them all standing there dressed in black, and I notice the footprints of the towers. I want to scream but I cannot, and I continue to fall towards the earth, but then, as is always the case with this dream, I wake up.

After all this time and space between then and now, I am still haunted, still hurting, and still looking for answers. People have moved ahead and on with their lives, and their ability to do so is admirable. Many people who lost loved ones have remarried, or gotten divorced, or moved away from New York City, and some have died. Out of necessity and despite things beyond their control, these people have dealt with 9-11, but many of us still have not found peace and perhaps never will.

I still mourn the loss in my family, of old friends, and the devastation of my city that I love. I cannot look at the skyline and not think about what happened. I see an airplane overhead (a sight that once used to make me think of travel to exotic places) and I get agitated and nervous. In the street I find myself looking up, watching the buildings and wondering and waiting if they too will fall. On the subway or bus every package or backpack seems sinister; the passengers could be terrorists. There is a feeling of unease, of things falling apart, and I have no sense of equilibrium or any hope that it will get better.

I hear the naysayers all the time. "You have to get over it," is frequently said. "There hasn't been an attack in ten years; what are you worried about?" This is another good one. "Snap out of it!" is yet another, said more vehemently than when Cher spoke that line in Moonstruck. Perhaps a smack on the face should follow those words. None of this matters though. If you are a New Yorker you have been scarred, and all the time in the world won't hide the evidence, but we can take great pains to cover up and conceal this from others, which only makes the hurting get more intense.

I have much for which to be thankful, and I never forget that, but 9-11 is omnipresent for me in this city. Maybe if I could pull myself away, perhaps live in Fiji or Bali or someplace like that, I would be able to move on. I do fear that out of sight will not be out of mind, and I could go to the ends of the earth, but I would still have my dreams and nightmares, and there would be no denying that it happened and changed my city and my life forever.

We mark the tenth anniversary collectively. There are ceremonies, prayer services, and gatherings to commemorate the day. All this is well and good, but it is also hard to ignore. The media pounds the message home day after day, so to escape the onslaught is nearly impossible. I believe it is good to do all those things because we never want to forget what happened, but it is also painful to remember for many of us. We are the ones caught in a constant struggle; we wish to honor the memories of those lost, but in doing so we lose a little piece of ourselves each time.

I want my children to remember the day and to understand what happened, so I try to confront it as best as I can. When my daughter asks, "Why did we lose Uncle Steve that day?" it is an incredibly more difficult question than "Where do babies come from?" or "Why is the sky blue?" I can talk to her about it, and in doing so it helps me cope, but it still doesn't stop the pain or the tears.

So this year is the same as last year but infinitely more difficult; ten years of my life and your life and everyone's lives have been spent in the shadow of 9-11. Some pretend it never happened, but then they could find themselves like I am in my dream: up in the air and ready for a big fall. In this case I know I am like Humpty Dumpty; nothing can put me back together again and make me the same person I was on September 10, 2001. I have to live with that, accept that, and try to move on.

September 11 will always mean something to people. To those who wanted to hurt us, it is a holiday. To New Yorkers it is a day of infamy, right up there with December 7, 1941 or November 22, 1963. We who lived through that day know where we were when we heard about it; we will never forget how that day started and how it ended.

As the years go by there will be less people who can say they lived through 9-11. It is our sacred duty to carry the torch, to tell young people about it, and make sure that no one ever forgets. There is a beautiful memorial that will open to the public in New York City, and that will always be a reminder, even after we are gone. Those of us who knew and loved those who died will one day die too, and the voices who tell the stories will change, but the stories will remain for all the generations to come.

Ten years have gone and many people will gather for the ceremony, and many more people will watch the proceedings on television, but the most important audience will be those lost. They are watching and listening, so we had better never falter and never stop marking the day, because if nothing else they have a right to know they are remembered now and until the end of time.

Hurricane Irene Is A Spoiled Sport

Article first published as Hurricane Irene Is A Spoiled Sport on Blogcritics.

Well, if you spent your hard earned money to visit New York City this week, you probably are grumbling right about now. It's not bad enough that you had to experience our earthquake, but now we are throwing a hurricane your way. What's a tourist to do but stay in the hotel room and watch CNN, at least until the power goes out?

This weekend is especially bad news for local sports fans. The New York Mets have cancelled today and tomorrow's games against the Atlanta Braves at Citi Field, so if you came into town for this and have to be back at work on Monday, you are out of luck.

The Yankees did not escape Irene's wrath even though they are out of town. Their doubleheader against Baltimore is postponed today, and the games will definitely not be rescheduled in any way that is good for the Yankees since they will lose one of their two remaining days off to make them up.

Irene also postponed the New York Giants and Jets showdown at the Meadowlands in New Jersey. This game was perfectly scheduled for 7 PM tonight, but now it will be played on Monday night. Too many viewing parties were disrupted because of this, and if the power goes out, all those six-foot heroes and other party snacks are not going to last until Monday. Many dejected hosts and hostesses will no doubt have their knives and forks working overtime this weekend to take care of that.

Irene has also disrupted the action at the Barclays at the Plainfield Country Club in Edison, New Jersey. It seems like Sunday's final round will be washed out, and conditions are not likely to improve enough to do anything on Monday.

Other sports events that have been canceled or postponed include the Red Bulls game against the Los Angeles Galaxy on Sunday, The Staten Island Yankees Sunday home game, the Brooklyn Cyclones Sunday home game, and racing at Monmouth Park and Yonkers Raceway.

Finally, and probably the saddest thing to report is from the US Open, where Arthur Ashe's Kids' Day had to be cancelled. This includes all activities and the stadium show. This is a great day that promotes the sport and also gives children opportunities to meet the players and see some of their favorite musical artists perform.

Hurricane Irene is turning millions of people's lives upside down this weekend, and she has obliterated the sports schedule. Oh, and don't think you're going to be able to sit down and watch games being played out of Irene's reach, because in all likelihood Irene is going to knock down trees and cut out power.

I have already planned to do what good old Abe Lincoln used to do: read some good books by candlelight. Hey, I wanted to catch up on my reading anyway.

Photo Credits-
Harrison Frazar - AP
Arthur Ashe Kids' Day - Getty Images

New York City Going Green: 70 Chevy Volts Purchased

Article first published as New York City Going Green: 70 Chevy Volts Purchased  on Blogcritics.

If you have nothing better to do, you may wonder what gets New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg to Queens? The occasional NY Mets game he attends? A flight out of JFK to one of his secret vacation spots? The answer would be yes to both of these, but he also came to Queens recently to advertise the city's 70 newly purchased Chevy Volts.
Standing in the Sanitation Department's Maspeth repair depot, Bloomberg was beaming with pride as he spoke about the green machines the city has purchased. The vehicles will be used by several agencies and will be strictly for non-emergencies only, so don't expect to come to New York and see cops pursuing suspects in their Chevy Volts.

The interesting thing about this purchase is Bloomberg's assertion that it will save the taxpayers money. Most people know the Volt is an expensive investment, with a cost of around $40,000 per vehicle; however, Bloomberg noted that the federal government has subsidized most of the vehicles, and ten of them will be leased for $1 a year for two years.

Well, that deal is not available for us regular folks, but those who wish to purchase one can get federal tax savings up to $7,500. That still makes the car pretty dear at around $32,000. Add to that that you are limited to how far you can drive these cars under exclusive electric power, and that is why Bloomberg said that none of them will be used for more than thirty-five miles a day.

While many New Yorkers like myself want to see the city go green, we have to wonder how this will truly impact our lives. Bloomberg claims each car will save the city 4,000 gallons of gas over the years, coming to about $15,000 in savings for each one. They will not add to air or noise pollution either.

What is the ulterior motive here? Well, besides giving Chevrolet and GM and enormous advertising opportunity, the Mayor does hope that citizens will take a chance on getting an electric vehicle too. The city has even launched a green web page (Drive Electric NYC) that will give people information and resources about the cars purchased and other ways to go green.

Obviously, Bloomberg's ultimate goal is to have all city vehicles eventually be electric, and this includes buses. He has also hinted that the single biggest source of traffic problems in NYC (yellow taxis) would eventually need to be an all electric fleet. Imagine the possibilities! Now if they could just do something about those pedicabs and horse drawn carriages.

Photo Credit: City of New York

One of the Last New York City Phone Booths

Article first published as One of the Last New York City Phone Booths on Blogcritics.

It is hard enough to find a pay phone these days in New York City, much less an actual phone booth. When I was a kid these iconic glass and steel structures were all over the streets and a symbol of this town, much like their bigger British red cousins found on the streets of London.

The New York City booth came complete with a folding door and a convenient metal shelf where one could write notes, place a package, or just lean an elbow. These booths provided not only a place to make a private call in public, they also seemed to be something of a respite from the maddening crowd rushing by.

The advent of the cellular phone has seriously diminished the presence of pay phones on the streets of New York, but the phone booths started disappearing well before we all had our individual communication devices in our pockets. That is why I was happily surprised to come across an actual, old-fashioned phone booth the other day in the borough of Queens.


Located in the comfort station at Alley Pond Park, the booth is missing the door. The ceiling fan was not functional (all the booths had a fan that was operated by a small switch located above the phone box), but the phone actually worked - which is not the case for many of the remaining pay phones in New York City. I stood there staring at it for a few moments, not only appreciating its battered beauty, but also realizing that it is one of the last of its kind.

Later on when I showed the booth to my daughter, she wondered "What the heck is that?" I wanted to explain the history of the thing, but instead I joked and said, "It's where Superman used to change into his costume." She looked at me like I must be crazy, and if I didn't know better I'd say that she was right.

One Hundredth Anniversary of The Triangle Shirtwaist Fire

Article first published as One Hundredth Anniversary of The Triangle Shirtwaist Fire on Blogcritics.

Time has a way of making people forget even the greatest disasters. As the years pass, there are fewer people remaining who actually remember events such as the attack on Pearl Harbor or the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. In terms of disasters, many times the memory is kept alive by survivors or their families and friends. For example, we will mark the 100th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic next April. No survivors remain, but books and films have long contributed to the continuing of the flame of memory. Indeed, no survivors remain from what was known Triangle Shirtwaist Fire, and that terrible event happened one hundred years ago today in New York City.

At a time when the mayor and governor of New York State both seem to want to lessen the strength of unions (because of what they say are necessary budgetary considerations), the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire is a vivid reminder of why workplace laws and unions were strengthened in the first place. The need for labor laws became magnified by this event, and even the New York City Fire Department began seriously working on fire prevention as part of the necessary and compelling work that they do.

Those of us who remember September 11, 2001, will recall New Yorkers staring up at the sky and watching an incomprehensible event. Besides the fire and smoke pouring out the Twin Towers, many people dropped from the sky to the pavement far below that day. They chose to escape a horrific death from fire and smoke by jumping out windows. The many bystanders witnessed these falls from the sky, stunned by the swiftness of the bodies dropping and the sound of their crushing against the earth.

The Triangle Shirtwaist Fire was the 9/11 of that time, and the cause of the blaze has never been discovered. Many poor immigrants worked in this building in lower Manhattan. It was a Saturday, and the young Jewish and Italian girls working in the shop made female shirts in a business known as the Triangle Shirtwaist Company.

My grandfather who was born and grew up not far from where this fire took place, remembered the incident well. At the time he was driving a horse-drawn ice wagon, and he recalled the commotion and the smoke on the upper floors (actually the eighth, ninth, and tenth floors). Inside the male tailors were using fire buckets ineffectively against the blaze; outside the water from the fire hoses didn't make it up that high; neither did the ladders on the trucks.

Pop remembered many people jumping, their hair and clothes on fire, and he said that everyone on the ground seemed powerless to help those inside. The girls and other workers (200 or more of them) were trying to find a way out. One problem was that there were two small elevators that could only hold a few people at a time; the other was that the escape doors to stairwells were rushed but were either locked or jammed.

Certainly this story is about deplorable working conditions, people trapped on upper floors in tight quarters with no means of escape. Obviously, there were no sprinklers or fire doors or water hoses like we would find in buildings today. All of the things we expect to see in modern skyscrapers developed from the reaction to what happened on this terrible day in Manhattan.

My grandfather recalled having many deliveries to make, and the crowd became overwhelming as more people poured into the area on the heels of firefighters arriving to attempt to fight the blaze. In an effort to make up time and get out before he became trapped, he got his horse to go around the crowds of people and headed away from the scene of the disaster to make his deliveries. "I knew there was nothing I or anyone else could do for those poor people," he said, still seemingly moved by it when he told me many years later.

One hundred forty-six people died that day. The building was supposed to be fireproof (according to the standards of the day) but, just as the Titanic was supposed to be unsinkable, it didn't stop either from becoming a deathtrap. Families of the victims sued the owners of the company, getting little but small monetary satisfaction. Just as the Titanic disaster forced safety changes on cruise ships (like having enough lifeboats for everyone on board), this fire did the same thing for factories. Because of what happened, New York State did enact laws to protect workers in sweatshops like this, and the event would strengthen the push for unions to protect workers and get them health coverage.

The building is still there and is used by New York University today. The Titanic rots away on the bottom of the ocean floor. Both were major events early in the 20th century and were cases of people dying unnecessarily because of poor or nonexistent safety measures. They are also inexorably linked to New York City; one happened right in its heart; the other was bound for our waters but never made it here.

One hundred years have gone by since that day, and hopefully we continue to learn from disasters like these. Still, with a mayor and governor who are looking to cut the strength of unions in this city and state, we have to wonder if this solemn anniversary is in some way not a reminder of a dark past but a grim warning about things we thought would never come again.

Photo Credits: Cornell.edu

Marking the Anniversary of the First World Trade Center Attack

Article first published as Marking the Anniversary of the First World Trade Center Attack on Blogcritics.


Those of us who remember can think of February 26, 1993, as just another ordinary Friday, until we learned of the bombing of the World Trace Center in Manhattan. That night instead of watching my usual Knicks game, I was flooded with images both surreal and disturbing as news reports tried to cover every angle of the attack. I remember seeing the words "Terror at the Towers" splashed across the screen and thinking how could the world have come to this.

This first attack on the WTC, of course, seems nothing more than a footnote in history now, but it should never be forgotten because people lost their lives too. Also, it was a wake-up call that we Americans failed to heed, leading to the more remembered and far more devastating attacks on September 11, 2001.

Perhaps because the response was swift, there was no major loss of life, and the buildings seemed invulnerable after this attack, we quickly fell back into complacency. While New Yorkers especially remember the day, it always seemed like something we did our best to overcome. Even the perpetrators were caught and put on trial and sent to prison, so the story seemed to end there.

But, as we all well know now, the story does not end. Those backers of the terrorists who carried out the attack knew this was the target they wanted, and eight years later they would strike on a beautiful blue sky Tuesday morning and change our city, country, and world forever.

John DiGiovanni, Robert Kirkpatrick, Stephen A. Knapp, William Macko, Wilfredo Mercado, and Monica Rodriguez Smith (pregnant with her first child) died that day in 1993. It could have been many more had the terrorists had their way and toppled one building against the other. We cannot forget these people lost, and it is fitting that when the 9/11 Memorial opens this September, their names will be included with those killed in the 9/11 attacks inscribed in bronze for all eternity.

Many people, including myself, can only wonder why February 26, 1993, didn't do more to shake us out of our collective slumber. Maybe we were too involved in other things, or perhaps it is the way of the world to ignore such events because we want to believe they are isolated and do not affect us personally.

An anniversary is usually considered a happy event, but not in this case here. I didn't know anyone who died in 1993, but I certainly did on September 11, 2001. So did so many other New Yorkers and citizens of this nation. Now we can never forget - ever. As long as we live we can give voice to what that loss did to us, but sometimes I wonder if anyone is listening.

As we approach the tenth anniversary of 9/11, my greatest fear is that we will fall into a complacency as deep as the one after the 1993 bombing. If we allow that to happen, whom do we blame when the next big attack comes?

9/11 was a case that caused most of us to say "Never again." The 9/11 Memorial is going to be a very visible reminder to everyone of what happened, how many people were lost, and a permanent fixture in the American consciousness. My only question is after ten years, how many of us are still saying "Never again," and if we're not, what words will we utter if the unthinkable happens on our soil again?

Photo Credit: ABC News

New York City's Hell Gate: Bridges Over Troubled Waters

Article first published as New York City's Hell Gate: Bridges Over Troubled Waters on Blogcritics.

People have long known about the Bermuda Triangle as being a dangerous place for ships and boats, but New York City has its own version know as Hell Gate. This name was earned because this narrow straight, where the swirling waters of the East River push against the churning ones of the Long Island Sound, had very dangerous conditions and claimed hundreds of ships over the years going way back to when the Dutch called the place New Amsterdam.





There were (and still are) many jagged rocks along the shoreline on both sides, and the clash of river and water from the sound make a whirlpool with no safe harbor that would have challenged Odysseus as much as the Strait of Messina between Sicily and Italy that legend says the ship destroying monsters Scylla and Charybdis called home.



Hell Gate remained a ship captain's nightmare over the years until the Army came in during the late 1800s, blasted rocks, and tried to make navigation of this waterway safer. One could say they were mostly successful, but the greatest disaster of all took place in June 1904 when a ferry known as the General Slocum caught fire in Hell Gate, floundered, and then eventually became grounded. Over a thousand people (many women and children) died that day, and the waterway once again lived up to its name.




On a recent very cold, bright winter's day, I went for a visit to see Hell Gate. You can get there easily by car or take the N train to Ditmars Boulevard and 31st Street; it is a quick walk to where Ditmars Blvd. ends and Astoria Park begins. Walking through the snow covered park there was a chill in the air, but the view is spectacular where the imposing Hell Gate railroad bridge hovers over the northern tip of the park.




As it is today, the water still seems to be swirling and churning like a whirlpool, but there are no imposing rocks lurking under the water as in the past. There are still dangerous looking rocks on the shoreline. Looking north under the railroad bridge, one can see Wards and Randalls Island on the other side.



Looking south from under the railroad bridge, one can see the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge (once known as the Triborough Bridge) with the cityscape of Manhattan behind it; the troubled waters of Hell Gate lie underneath these two bridges.



It was a quiet day and I waited as long as I could in the sub-freezing temperatures, but no ship came through the water as I stood there. In a way, not seeing any ship navigate its way through the narrow passageway kept the legend alive for me, and I could just imagine the fear the old ship captains had going through these tempestuous waters with those rocks being so close on both sides.



Tourists should note that on a spring day this would be a lovely place to visit, with the park containing playgrounds and having a beautiful view of the river, bridges, and the city. A picnic would certainly be in order then, but on this day it seemed fitting that the park was as quiet as a graveyard overlooking the water where so many ships were lost.



Hell Gate remains an interesting and solemn part of New York City history, and it is worth a visit to see the view and experience something different in between shopping, Broadway shows, and dining out. As for New Yorkers who may have never ventured out to Queens, this would be a good excuse to do so, and don't forget your camera.

Another Snowstorm in New York City: Raise the White Flag

Article first published as Another Snowstorm in New York City: Raise the White Flag on Blogcritics.


It's official: there's a record snowfall in New York City this January. An additional fifteen inches fell in Central Park during this latest storm, bringing the total to 37.1 inches for this winter. Since the normal snowfall for the entire winter in NYC is 22 inches - and we still have a long way to go even if the groundhog sees his shadow or not on February 2 - this weather is making life miserable for most of us (unless you count the smiling and happy kids). Even Mayor Michael Bloomberg conceded defeat this time and rightly declared a Snow Emergency and closed the schools.

So I am raising a white flag. Mother Nature, you win. I am humbled by your awesome power and the majesty of your brushstroke. Going out early this morning, everything seemed to have been imbued with white in artistic spattering, as if the old Gal dabbed her hands across window screens and storm doors. The patterns of the blasts of ice and snow were intermittent, as if almost down intentionally to shatter light and bring focus on a particular cluster of frosty images of cold, crystalline beauty.

There is no doubt a message in all this to we city dwellers similar to the one sent by Klaatu in the film The Day the Earth Stood Still. We may think we are invincible, that we are immune to the universe around us, and can go on doing whatever it is that pleases us at the expense of all things natural. This is a reality check. Mother Nature is telling us "I can stop you cold. I can put you in the deep freeze and let you stew. I can close your airports, shut down your transit, and send you back to the Dark Ages if I like."

Today it seems that way. Everything has stopped again. There is beauty and majesty in the hush that is thrown over the city, one that is usually like what the poet William Wordsmith described as the "world that is too much with us." The ever moving, non-stopping metropolis is polarized and encased in ice. We are forced to reckon with the unimaginable concept that we are vulnerable, mortal, and at the mercy of something much greater than ourselves.

I walked back home when I found the corner store shuttered. Humbled yet again by this winter, I have to make my own coffee, forgo the comfort of readily available bagels and muffins, and deal with my kids brimming with excitement. They know so much more than we do, but sometimes we're reticent to recognize their wisdom. They want to play and, if just for today, I'm going to forget the worries of the world and dive into that snow with them. Oh, and I may even share with them my secret snowball making technique. Sorry, can't divulge that here.

So today the world is white: a stark and stoic reminder that we all better not take Mother Nature for granted. Those of you old enough may recall that old margarine commercial's iconic line, "It's not nice to fool with Mother Nature!" I think most of my fellow New Yorkers will definitely agree with that at this point. We raise the white flag, Mother Nature. You win. Now, please, give us a break!

Blizzard of December 2010: Apocalypse Snow

Article first published as Blizzard of December 2010: Apocalypse Snow on Blogcritics.

I know Apocalypse Snow is the title of a film about skiing, but it just seemed apropos as I look at what has happened to New York City in the last few days since the big blizzard hit. Other appropriate titles could range from Dawn of the Dead and The Walking Dead (in reference to the city's response to the storm). No matter how you look at it, people died and suffered and someone must be held accountable.


I've seen footage from television cameras in helicopters passing over the city, and you would think Manhattan was in a completely different time and place than Brooklyn or Queens. This is where the mounting anger and frustration come from in a very understandable way. I saw abandoned cars and a city bus in a short walk yesterday, but the panorama offered by a camera in a helicopter indeed invokes images of those doomsday films: abandoned cars and trucks every and anywhere, deserted streets, and a feeling like the authorities long ago repaired to their well-supplied bunkers while the populace was literally stuck in their tracks and left to fend for themselves.

The horror stories also mount: a young Brooklyn mother-to-be, in labor and bleeding in the vestibule of her apartment building, waited for a response to 911 that came ten hours too late. The baby died after they were both taken to the hospital. A Queens woman calling 911 about her ill mother was forced to wait hours for a response and the mother died. Another Brooklyn woman called about her stricken father who had died, and she had to wait overnight with the corpse in her apartment until an ambulance could arrive. Are unplowed streets to be blamed for these things, or is it more pernicious: an almost total breakdown of the system meant to serve and protect New Yorkers?

These are just some of the stories; there are many more, including passengers on the A train being forced to wait in a tunnel for seven hours. Anyone who has been in a NYC subway car knows that seven minutes is a long time to be in a crowded car, but seven hours? This is ridiculous. Then to rub salt in the wounds, after this and many other incidents where buses and subways were stuck or not running, the Metropolitan Transit Authority announced fare increases to go in effect as a New Year's gift to beleaguered passengers.

If I didn't know any better, I would think the character Gru from Despicable Me was running this city, but at least he is revealed to have a soft side and to actually care about people in the end. Here Mayor Mike and company seem content to let people stew (or is it freeze?) in their homes and apartments, with their cars stuck out in the streets. Even senior citizens, reliant on the Meals on Wheels Program, are trapped without food and waiting for expected daily meals that never come.

So, yes, this does seem like a city that is being run by an ad hoc committee instead of an administration (and especially a mayor) who has been on the job long enough to be able to handle things like this. If people start evoking the name of Mayor Lindsay (who after a big blizzard in 1969 basically did about the same thing to Queens and the other outer boroughs), they would be right on the money. Lindsay, who had presidential aspirations, was finished after that bungling of the storm clean up. Perhaps this will once and for all put the final nail in the coffin of Bloomberg's notions of running for higher office.

I know this storm hit a large area of the nation, and it has been a difficult time across the country, and many millions of people have been affected. Any time you shut down JFK, LaGuardia, and Newark Airports for any length of time, it is going to hurt people all over, including people on other continents waiting for flights that never came or planes that could never take off.

Here in our little corner of the world we have had to suffer, and if people can blame George W. Bush for Hurricane Katrina and President Obama for the Gulf Oil Spill response, then surely we can all rise up and blame Mayor Bloomberg for this horrendous response to the blizzard of 2010 here in New York. People are angry, and the Mayor says he is angry too about the response to the storm. Well, instead of playing it like the Queen of Hearts and calling for heads to roll, maybe the Mayor should look in the mirror, mirror on the wall.

 

Blizzard of December 2010: Surviving Cabin Fever

Article first published as Blizzard of December 2010: Surviving Cabin Fever on Blogcritics.

There is always a point after a big snowstorm that everyone starts getting what is known as cabin fever. When I hear that term, I always think of a log cabin covered with snow with only the top of the chimney exposed and the smoke drifting up into the snowy air. While we are not that snowed in, we are kind of trapped in some ways and have had to think of things to make the best of it.

The problem in New York City is that Manhattan always gets the best attention during snowstorms. Mayor Bloomberg was on television telling people to take mass transit and go to a Broadway show, go out to eat, blah, blah, blah. If Mr. Mayor ever made it to the outer boroughs, he would find that not only are the streets not plowed, but that many subway lines and bus lines are not running either. Sure, we'd love to see a show, but how are we going to get there?

I ventured out today to get coffee, only to see cars, taxi cabs, and even a city bus stuck in the snow. Plows can't get down these streets with vehicles in the way. It is a frustrating situation to be sure. What was worse is that my local Starbucks was closed and completely covered with snow over the windows and doors, so I had to trudge back home and make my own coffee.

Still, getting out and walking was good for me. I got to breathe the cold fresh air, and I also saw that many other people still hadn't even been out yet because their front doors were still covered with snow.  At least I had made it outside.

Later in the morning my daughter and I went back out to have some fun. I did some more shoveling as she scouted for the arms for our snowman, and then she started finding the best packing snow to commence the creation of the base.
I joined her and we fashioned a snowman we called "Mike" in honor of the mayor who forgot that Queens and the other boroughs besides Manhattan existed. When finished, Mike seemed a pleasant enough chap, but his biggest attribute was silence. I always wince when Bloomberg speaks, so I wish he would take a cue from his namesake snowman now and then.

We then prepared snowballs for the snowball fight of the century. I was no match for my Lauren's onslaught of carefully aimed volleys, and then had to capitulate after she caught me off guard with one last shot to the kisser. She packs a mean snowball and has quite an arm and pinpoint accuracy.

After this contest was over, we made our snow angels. This is an art that depends on many things, mostly the depth and quality of the snow. Finding virgin snow is much harder on the second day after a storm, with all the varmints running around the yard (in this neck of the woods, varmints are squirrels, raccoons, and birds). Still we were lucky to find a good patch of snow on our patio and the angels came out quite nicely.

Since my son was sick with a bad cold inside, we decided it wasn't fair to enjoy ourselves too long without him. Besides, the cold was really starting to get to us, so we put our shovels away, bid adieu to snowman Mike, and headed indoors for cups of warm soup, English muffins, and hot tea.

As the day waned, the cold wind blew harder, and even cabin fever seemed preferable to the frosty bite of the outdoors. Besides, we have it much better than those poor folks in the old days in that cabin with the lone chimney sticking out of the snow. We have cable television with hundreds of channels - even though the last few days it seems that all we watch are either Nick Jr. or Disney. We have our computer connected to the Internet for our amusement and entertainment, and we have a video cabinet stocked with an infinite number of movies from which to choose (though we have had to watch Johnny Depp in Alice in Wonderland and Despicable Me too many times to mention).

So there are ways to avoid cabin fever, like getting out and taking a walk or playing in the snow, but there is also a time when you must acquiesce to its presence and accept your circumstances. Pop a log on the fire, make some hot cocoa, and sit back and relax. Before you know it you'll be back at work and school and wishing you could do something like this, so enjoy it while you can!

Blizzard of December 2010: Being Snowed in and Loving It

Article first published as Blizzard of December 2010: Being Snowed in and Loving It on Blogcritics.

Everyone remembers big blizzards the same way they remember where they were when John Lennon was shot or they heard OJ Simpson declared innocent. These events are markers in our lives, but absolutely nothing is the same as a really big snowstorm - at least to those of us who don't live in Minnesota or Canada or other places where twenty inches of the white stuff is no big deal.

Here in New York City and the surrounding area, a few inches of snow causes the red flags to start flying. Traffic snarls, trains crawl, and people slip slide their way to work and school. If the snow is any deeper, everyone assumes catastrophe is only moments away and the city starts shutting down. People clear milk, bread, and eggs off the supermarket shelves, and the streets become deserted.

There are bonuses involved in this. If the snow comes during the Christmas season with the city covered in lights that twinkle through the snowflakes like so many millions of stars, well then it is an added bonus. There is absolutely nothing so romantic as walking along a New York City street with the lights blazing through the snowflakes holding the hand of the one you love.

Of course, with kids in the picture romance takes a back seat to fun and games. My kids watched the snow through the window all day yesterday, and as of this morning (it has abated to just flurries right now) there are about twenty inches deep of play land out there that is just waiting for sleds, snowball fights, and the most abominable snowman we can build. Of course, the shovel awaits dear old dad as the kids romp, but it is still great fun.



My grandfather liked to talk about the great blizzard of 1888, which still stands as one of the largest ones to hit the city. This came in March of that year, effectively shutting down a city that at the time did not have the means to battle such a huge storm. New Yorkers were trapped in their apartments (in the days before television and radio) without much to do, so it is not surprising that my grandfather was born at the end of that year with a slew of other blizzard babies.

My father recalls the great snowstorm of 1947 (falling on December 25-26) that stopped the city cold. He tried to get home from work, but his subway train got stuck in Jamaica, so he had to walk the rest of the way. That's not something one forgets. He said he had to shovel "for days" and the city was closed down.

It is absolutely astonishing to see New York in the snow. The city slows down to an eventual halt, making it seem like a storybook New York from the old times. For a brief moment, before the plows start to rumble down the streets and the car fumes turn the snow black, there is a kind of hush only a snowfall can bring to the Big Apple, and it's the kind of city quiet that lulls one into a dream state that is intoxicating.

I remember a few great snowstorms during my lifetime, but especially the one of February 1978. I recall the winds had completely covered both the back and front doors of our house. Being a game kid who wanted to go outside, I remember telling my father that I'd jump out the window and then shovel the door out. He considered the options and then tossed me out the window into the cushion of white below. I loved that exhilarating feeling of floating through the cold air and going down into that snow pile, but it took me three hours to dig out that front door, and I would have much rather been sledding down the hill with my friends.

So now we have the great blizzard of December 2010 with which we will make new memories. Unfortunately, the roads are going to take a while to get plowed because technology can just do so much with tons of snow. In the meantime, I can't jump out the window like in the old days, but I will get out there with my kids and have as much fun as possible thanks to old man winter.

The Night John Lennon Died

Article first published as The Night John Lennon Died on Blogcritics.

It is inconceivable to me that it has been thirty years since a maniac came out of the night and assassinated John Lennon. What's worse is it happened in my city. This was the place where John and the Beatles first broke into the American consciousness, and now in this his adopted city he was taken much too soon. I still can't even believe that he is gone, but his enormous contribution to music and his amazing spirit certainly lives on and on.










The night before John died I had what I've always thought was a foreshadowing of his death. I was on the phone with my friend Ralph. He was in the Air Force and home on leave. We were talking about how we were going to get together the next night to celebrate his return, and I was sitting on my sofa looking up at the shelf on my wall, where I had the four individual pictures of the Beatles that came with the White Album in frames. As I was talking with Ralph the frame with John's picture in it toppled off the shelf. Nothing precipitated this event: no rumble of the subway below, no bus going by outside, no helicopter flying low overhead. It just fell.

At the time I thought it was weird but nothing else. When I got off the phone I got up and put the picture back in place, staring briefly at John's face and remembering when I saw him in Manhattan a couple of years before. It the only the second time I had ever seen him in person (the first being when he walked on stage during an Elton John concert at Madison Square Garden). He had been walking down the street, hands in pockets, rather nonchalant and happy. When I saw him he looked at me, and he knew I recognized him even in his sunglasses and hat pulled down a bit. He gave me a little smirk and something like a nod, and I wanted to say something, but my tongue was infinitely tied in knots, and it is best I did not blurt out something stupid. John kept walking and so did I, my hands shaking for blocks. I had just seen John Lennon.

The next night Ralph and I met some friends in a bar in Queens in the shadow of Shea Stadium, where John and his mates once rocked the house. We were there to ostensibly watch Monday Night Football, but the bar was filled with people and music. It was decorated for Christmas, and there was a jovial mood filling the place.

We all talked and talked. Ralph told us about life in the Air Force. He was stationed in Greenland and he couldn't talk about this and that. We started talking about high school and various teachers, and the night went by very quickly. As it started getting late, our friends who had to work the next morning left. Ralph was on leave and I was in college and had no classes on Tuesday mornings, so we sat at the bar and started watching the football game.

Only a few minutes had gone by when there was a special news bulletin that broke into the program. The announcer spoke stiltedly as she said that there was word that John Lennon had been shot outside the Dakota Building. He was being rushed to the hospital. Ralph and I just looked up at the screen, and everyone in the bar stopped and stared at the screen with us.

The game came back on for a time. Someone pulled the plug out of the jukebox, and the patrons all crowded around the bar and watched the TV waiting to hear an update. I don't know how long it was until the next news bulletin came on, but the grim face of the news anchor Kaity Tong told it all. Before she spoke, the room was so quiet, I could hear the taps dripping behind the bar.

She confirmed that John Lennon had died at St. Luke's Hospital. I felt myself shaking, worse than when I had seen John on the street; I felt like I was convulsing. Ralph hung his head and stared at his hands. Behind me I could hear some of the girls crying, the men too, and the bartender who looked like a professional wrestler complete with bald head and tattoos kept wiping the tears from his eyes.

There wasn't anything left to do or to celebrate. Ralph and I put on our coats, walked outside, and stood in the cold quietly watching a big city bus go down the street. Ralph seemed to snap out of a trance and turned to me and shook my hand. We parted without words because there was nothing left to say.
I went home to my room and sat on the floor, pulling all my records out of the cabinet. I threw Sgt. Pepper on the turntable and listened to John sing those prophetic words, "I heard the news today, oh boy..." I looked at all the albums spread on the floor, and I cried some more as I was shaken by the hopefulness of their early photographs.

I leaned my head back and stared at the pictures on my shelf, especially the one of John that had fallen the night before. I didn't know all the reasons why this felt like the loss of my brother instead of a stranger whom I had fleetingly met. John Lennon was a celebrity, one of the biggest stars of all time, and yet I felt like it was a personal loss. I had invested so much time and energy in the Beatles and then later John (and to a lesser extent the other Beatles) in his solo career.

To those too young (or too old) to understand, I can only say that John meant something personal to me. He had touched my life, and so many lives, with his work. Perhaps it was because we perceived he stood for something we believed in deeply, like his message of peace and love for the world that we got through his music. On a very big planet with very big problems, John seemed to stand for those of us who had no voice, and he spoke and sang what we wanted and needed to be heard.

Today, thirty years later, I stare at the skyline of the city I have loved all my life, and I know that John loved it too. He felt at home in New York, free to wander the streets unencumbered by the celebrity that had once threatened to overwhelm him elsewhere. Here John was free to be himself and to be what he saw himself as in the end: a New Yorker.

The world has changed in these last thirty years, as has this city. Today people will mark John's passsng in many different ways, but the way I shall remember him is not through public displays or even to watch reports about him on the TV or the Internet. The way I will remember him is to listen to his music, to appreciate what made him occupy that special place in so many hearts around the world.










So on this day I'm going to put on my headphones and turn up the volume. As I listen to his songs, I will not think about that night he died, but about the life he lived. And I will remember that one special day when two New Yorkers passed each other on the street, and in that simple everyday moment there was an acknowledgement of everything I had ever felt in a simple smirk and nod of the head that let me know that John knew what he meant, not just to me, but to everyone whom he touched in life.

You are still missed, John Lennon. In pace requiescat.

What Hate Looks Like: NYC Taxi Driver Slashed Because He's a Muslim

Article first published as What Hate Looks Like: NYC Taxi Driver Slashed Because He's a Muslim on Blogcritics.

I knew it would happen; it was not a question of if but when: a New York City taxi driver, Ahmed Sharif, was recently slashed by a passenger because he is a Muslim. You would think that Sharif would be filled with anger, but yesterday on the steps of City Hall he professed love for his city, for his country, and a desire to just live in peace.

Twenty-five years ago Sharif came to the United States from Bangladesh. His dream, like so many who came before him, was to come to here for a better life. Lost in all the hub-bub about the so-called Ground Zero mosque, is the people like Sharif who want to live here because it is supposed to be the land of the free, the home of the brave. Isn't it strikingly obvious enough that people from Muslim countries want to come here, leaving places of oppression for a fresh start in our country? It is a story told again and again over the decades. The "golden door" noted on the base of the Statue of Liberty beckons people from all over the world to seek the dream of freedom.

Sharif was driving his taxi in the city on Tuesday night, working hard to support his wife and four children. All was well until a drunken passenger, Michael Enright, a twenty-one year old student at the School of Visual Arts in Brewster, NY, got into Sharif's cab and asked him if he were a Muslim. Enright then reached around the security partition and stabbed Sharif several times. Somehow Sharif was able to get out of the car, lock the perpetrator in the taxi, and get the police who arrested Enright.

Mayor Bloomberg invited Sharif, his wife, and children to City Hall. Bloomberg gave the children gifts and used the opportunity to talk about Enright and his disgraceful actions. Bloomberg to his credit did not use the occasion to discuss the mosque controversy, but it inevitably came up as a reporter asked Sharif if he felt the attack was because of the mosque situation. Sharif, showing a dexterity for handling reporters that more politicians should have, said, "We didn't have a talk about the mosque." Here's the case of a man who should be angry, should be outraged, but he handled the question well instead of fanning the flames.

Thankfully, Sharif is going to be okay, but the wounds he bears are not solely the responsibility of his attacker. Politicians on both sides of the debate regarding the mosque here in New York City are just as culpable, for they have used this controversy to stoke the fires of their own agendas, regardless of how much that enrages people and makes the issue hotter than furnace of hatred that caused Enright to attack Sharif.

Meanwhile, across the oceans somewhere in a dank and dusty cave, the architects of 9/11 and their minions are huddled around a fire and laughing their heads off. They couldn't have asked for a better gift than to have an American attack a Muslim on the streets of New York. One might say to the other how it would have been better if the cabbie had been murdered. Another might wish for a few more Muslims to be attacked and killed. The more the better for them. Nothing helps them more in their recruiting efforts. Nothing.

9/11 seems long ago now, but for many of us who lost people that day, it is always present. As William Faulkner wrote, "The past is not dead; it's not even past." New Yorkers will never forget 9/11, and no one in the United States should either, but in remembering those loved and lost, we also have to remember the essence of what makes this country great, making it shine like a beacon of hope for everyone else in the world.

We should take a good look at an innocent man like Ahmed Sharif. He is not responsible for those planes that ruined our city, or the mosque that people fear will ruin it too. No, Sharif is just a working stiff; like most of us, he is trying to get through each day, work hard, and get his little piece of the American dream. If someone tries to stop him or others like him from attaining that, then they are not any better than the terrorists who flew those planes on 9/11, but you know as well as I do that we are better than that. Much better. Now is the time to stop and show the rest of the world.

Obstructed View: New Skyscraper Will Alter New York Skyline

Article first published as Obstructed View: New Skyscraper Will Alter New York Skyline on Blogcritics.

The so-called Ground Zero mosque is not the only controversial building be planned here in New York City. There is a threat of a new building to rise very close to the Empire State Building at the site of the Hotel Pennsylvania on Seventh Avenue. Named 15 Penn Plaza, the building will be 67 stories and reach a height of 1,216 feet, bringing it close to the height of the Empire State's top floor. Depending on the vantage point of the person looking at the buildings, 15 Penn Plaza could very well block the view of the Empire State Building or be seen as almost on top of it.

Builder Steven Roth has the support of the City Planning Commission and Manhattan Borough President Scott Stringer, but he is opposed by the owner of the Empire State Building, Anthony Malkin. Also many New Yorkers, including this writer, are against the idea.

Many years ago when I was looking at apartments in Astoria in Queens, New York, the real estate agents were talking about many things: lighting, spaciousness, new cabinets, new appliances, high ceilings, and renovated bathrooms. The one thing though that stood out was when they talked about the "unobstructed view," which meant being able to see Manhattan across the river. All the other things seemed inconsequential if I had that lovely scene to look at every day.

New Yorkers like their "unobstructed views" of the rivers to the east and west, of Central Park, or of the cityscape, most notably the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building. We used to also have this love affair with the Twin Towers, and sometimes I catch myself still looking there for what is gone, and then I sadly remember what happened. New buildings will rise there, and we need and want that to happen. Those buildings will alter the skyline and be seen positively by most New Yorkers.

The city has had one terrible alteration to its skyline in 2001, and this would just be offensive to the aesthetic sensibilities of most of us. On talk radio here in New York, people are sounding off. Many people cite good examples: would Paris allow a skyscraper to be built next to the Eiffel Tower? Would London allow one next to Big Ben? Would Moscow allow it next to Red Square? Would Hollywood allow one to block the view of Hollywood Sign? Obviously it would not happen in any of these cases, so why should it happen here?

Malkin is not in this battle all alone. The Municipal Art Society is opposing the construction, and there is a poll on their web site to allow people to vote in favor of or against this new building construction. At the time I am writing this, 68% of the voters are against the building going up so close to the iconic landmark, and as the word spreads I am certain that percentage will get higher.

After 9/11, I think New Yorkers took comfort in the symbols we had left, and the Empire State Building was an old, defiant friend, a beacon that shone at night and glistened during the day. It reminded us then and still that we are New Yorkers, and we can handle anything thrown our way.

There is a serene beauty to the Empire State Building, a grace that seems to have long vanished from elsewhere in our lives. It deserves to stand tall and proud for all New Yorkers, unobstructed by anything, including the shadow of another building that can just as well be built somewhere else in the city.

 

Out of the Ashes of 9/11: Freedom Tower Is Rising

Article first published as Out of the Ashes of 9/11: Freedom Tower Is Rising on Blogcritics.

When I was a kid, I watched the World Trade Center in New York City being built. I could see it from my Queens rooftop. Armed with a pair of good binoculars, I could catch all the action, and it amazed me to see those two glass and steel marvels rising against the sky.

Of course, the World Trade Center's birth came from a death of the neighborhood that was annihilated when it was built. I do not recall the area because I was too young (ground was broken for the buildings in 1966), but my father well remembers that streets were shut down and over a hundred buildings demolished to make room for the 16-acre site. He even recalls buying a watch in one of the stores that were leveled. Shops, businesses, and apartments were eliminated to accommodate the massive project. The death of a little neighborhood in the big city occurred in order to spawn a complex with the largest buildings in the world (at least for a short time until Sears Tower in Chicago opened in 1974).

The World Trade Center rose in my childhood and dominated my thinking about the city I loved as I became a man. While I had been to the top of the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty, nothing seemed to compare to visiting the Twin Towers or "the Trades" as some people called them. Being in my nascent photographer stage, I took all sorts of pictures of the Twin Towers once they were completed. Sadly, like the buildings captured in those shots, those photographs no longer exist.

The two iconic towers could be seen from almost anywhere in this town, and they immediately became the recognizable symbol of New York City all over the world. Tourists flocked to visit the observatory, take pictures of the cityscape that flowed all around it, and dine in the premier restaurant Windows on the World. After visiting the top of one of the buildings, there was a feeling that you had touched, if not heaven, the closest thing to it in the sky.

I, like so many New Yorkers and citizens of this nation and the world, was left devastated by the attacks of September 11, 2001. Arguably, it seemed that no city had ever been so irreparably altered by an act of war as had New York on that day. While a few loons danced in the streets to celebrate in foreign lands, most human beings on the planet saw this as a terrible blow to not just New York but to civilization as we know it.

Indeed, the World Trade Center had not just been a symbol but a place where people of all nationalities worked and unfortunately many died. I lost a family member that day and two childhood friends, and the loss changed my life forever, as it did the lives of so many others. I was inspired to write a book of fiction in reaction to what happened, and it took me almost a year to even attempt to write it, and then another two and a half years to complete it. I took no pleasure in writing those words, but they ended up being therapeutic for me, and the book stands as something that came out of the horror of that seemingly beautiful Tuesday in September that morphed into the worst day in the lives of so many people.

Almost nine years later there is great noise and activity at the site as it seems that work is truly ongoing to build a new symbol of New York out of the ashes. One does not even have to go there to get an idea of the progress; a live video feed is provided by the Port Authority of New York for anyone to see what is happening there.

If you come to New York City, take the E train to the World Trade Center stop. When I ride the subway today, I cannot believe it is the same train system that I used to ride years ago. It is clean, relatively efficient, and free of graffiti that at one time covered the walls of every car on every line. Tourists who come here for the first time must be impressed by the condition of the subways these days and, quite frankly, so am I.

Once you come up the steps and walk toward the construction site, your view will be mostly blocked by a fence that has been covered with material to keep out prying eyes. If you look above the fence toward the skyline, you can see all manner of construction cranes and hear all the grinding, drilling, and pounding that tells you work is being done.

As I stood there on the corner of Vesey and West Streets, looking at the scene, I couldn't help but tip my head back and remember those majestic towers pressing up against the sky. At that moment a soft rain began to fall, and it seemed fitting that the clouds came rolling in off the Hudson River and cast an ominous shadow on the apparent progress happening below.

I walked away from the scene thinking about my son: his New York City will be one with the Freedom Tower dominating the skyline. He will hear the story about the watch his grandfather bought long ago in a store that had to be bulldozed to make room for the first World Trade Center towers. He will be told about his father standing on a black tar roof and watching with binoculars as the buildings rose toward the sky, and he will learn about 9/11 from his family and in school.

But he will never know what it was like to stand on the street and look up at the Twin Towers, just as I will never know what it was like to walk into a Mom and Pop electronics store and buy a watch in a place that one day would be Ground Zero, a place where time almost stood still for New Yorkers on 9/11.

No, his reality will only include a bright and shining beacon of hope and prosperity: the Freedom Tower. He will visit the 9/11 Memorial, perhaps read his Uncle Steve's name on a wall, and he will walk out into the sunshine and stare up at a skyscraper like I once did and think about heaven.

My wish for him and all our sons and daughters is that they will never forget 9/11 but be able to embrace a future where nothing like it will ever happen again.

Revisiting 9/11 Forevermore

Every year on this day, we are all New Yorkers.
-President Barack Obama

Suddenly, without warning I am here again, spiraling through the clouds and heavy rain, hovering over what they now call “The Pit” where once stood the buildings known as The Twin Towers. I see that since last year some progress has been made, but it seems incredulous that after all this time that things aren’t farther along than they are. How can this be?

I gain some control and can focus better through the raindrops; the people who have come to honor me and those like me are nowhere near where it all happened. They are removed and on the edge of things in a small park. I come every year because I desire it, and somehow when I want things they happen. I still don’t understand how it works, and I sometimes cannot believe I am even dead. I know I am but I still can’t accept it I guess.

The people who have come here are so valiant, standing in the rain with umbrellas and all sorts of raingear covering them. There are children holding flowers, mothers holding photographs, fathers holding signs with names on them and messages. There are wives who cry in the rain and with the rain and in spite of the rain, because their tears are endless as the seas and there is no eight years ago or today, but only a tomorrow without their beloved ones.

I see politicians whom I wish I could not see because these same people did nothing to protect and save me and my brethren. Why are they here now except to capitalize on some political points they can gain. Why can’t they let this day be pure grief and leave those people who are truly suffering alone with others like them?

Of course, the cameras are there and the news people who pretend this didn’t happen during the rest of the year, but they too are using the moment to their advantage, for ratings and whatever reason people without hearts do things. How dare they insult the intelligence and dignity of these good people with their cameras and phony expressions of sorrow?

I still have trouble dealing with that day, accepting that day, and going on with my, well, my existence after death. I am told by others like me that everyone is different after death. Some accept it freely, and those are the lucky ones. Others do not accept it or even do not believe they are dead. I am in this category. I still see myself at my desk, checking e-mail when the first plane hit, and I haven’t been able to reconcile things.

Once the initial impact was over and I had shaken the plaster and part of the cubicle wall off my body, I picked myself up off the floor and did what I always had done when something big happened. I called my wife. People were screaming all around me, smoke was pouring up from the point of impact, and debris hung in the air like confetti on New Year’s Eve. I dialed her number and spoke to her. She already knew because she was ironing clothes and watching TV. I said everything was going to be okay. I told her I was getting out of there and would be home as soon as possible, and that was the last time I spoke to her.

I had no idea about terrorists as I hung up the phone. I knew something terrible had happened from the way the building shook. Maybe an earthquake. Maybe a bomb like back in ‘93. I didn’t know what the hell happened but I was getting out of there, or so I thought. I remember grabbing my jacket and running to the exit door, but the black sulfurous smoke came pouring out as I opened it.

I was spinning and turning and then I remember nothing but the flash of neon light, and then I felt like I was falling forever, way beyond the edge of the building and through time and space and I kept thinking about those e-mails I hadn’t answered, about calling my wife back, and finding a way to get out and on the E train home to Queens.

So all this time has passed for people but nothing has really passed at all, for the dead or their living friends, lovers, and family. What happens seems like it just happened to me, in fact it keeps happening and then I am someplace else, with other victims and then I am free of all that and roaming the earth. Searching. I want to find my body, cram myself back inside it no matter how damaged it is, and find a way to hobble home. I think that my wife will accept me no matter how I look; my children will shower my battered face with tears, and my parents will love me as they always have no matter what.

I have been searching and am amazed at how time means nothing and everything. I can think I want to be someplace and I am there instantly. I have marveled at things I never saw in life, but I am humbled by people all over the world who have mourned me and others like me who died on 9/11. I am also revolted by those who celebrated the fall of the Twin Towers like it was a victory on a playing field. How shameful are these people? Well, wait until it’s their turn to die. They’ll see how it is.

I know the people responsible for what happened are not all caught yet. I’ve been there in Afghanistan and have seen our brave men and women fighting the good fight, but it’s not over. I know many people just want it to be over, but it is never over. All of you ridiculous people who bemoan water-boarding and all this other stuff, I have news for you: there are hundreds and thousands more of people just like those guys who caused the fall of the towers. They’re waiting to strike again anywhere and anytime, and you’re worried about their rights and care nothing about all those souls lost that day.

Let me tell you something. All you have to do is flood Afghanistan with soldiers, all the ones from that other war that is over anyway in Iraq. I’ve been there too and have seen the courageous soldiers fighting, but we need them over in Afghanistan now. All of them and more. We need to flood that country and occupy every area of it, push across the border into Pakistan whether or not anyone likes it, and crush these people now. If we do not, more buildings will fall and people will die and it will never end. Trust me, it never ends.

So I am here again. I thought about the day and I was here. This is how it works for me now. I flutter down through the rain, looking for my wife amongst the many. I hear the people crying, I see their tears mingling with the raindrops, but this does nothing to dilute their pain and suffering. They are reading the names on a platform. So many names and faces to go with them. I am one of those faces and I do not fade away with the years; none of us do.

I finally see my wife and children standing there under two big umbrellas. My son and daughter are so big now. She brought them this time after not bringing them before. It’s not like I haven’t seen them; I visit the house now and then to watch over them. It hurts me so that I cannot hold them, cannot brush the tears from their eyes, but I am there with them and kiss their foreheads as they sleep in bed, and I try to spoon my wife as she sleeps, still clinging to her side with the rest of the empty bed seemingly waiting for me. Well, Honey, I am there. Always.

The ceremony is over now and the people are walking down toward The Pit to a small pool, throwing in flowers of love and memory. The grieving is extraordinary, the comfort is in the process and I can see my children each drop a flower in the pool, followed by my wife. She sobs as she drops the flower, says a few words I can’t understand from where I am, but I do know what she has said. There was so much unsaid between us when I died, but I know it all by heart now anyway, for it has been revealed to me through her prayers.

Things end rather quickly and I am moving upward again, toward the rain and grey clouds, and I look down at The Pit one last time, knowing I’ll be back. This time of year next year, and the year after that, until the end of time. We on this side will never forget and we need you on that side to always remember. We are all energy now, floating together above the mourners and we intermingle, allowing each other’s thoughts to be heard.

There are thousands of us joined for a moment in time, and then just like that we shoot out in all directions, heading to all corners of the earth, parting ways but not company. We are all part of a club we never wanted to join, but we are members for eternity. I don’t even know where I am going, but I am still searching and hoping to find a way to accept.

Whatever happens I’ll be back. We’ll all be back because we have no choice. So, remember us not just this one day a year, but all 365 days of it. Please build these towers to show the world, and get them built faster and higher and do it for us. Get Bin Laden and any other person who would ever harm innocents, and show the world justice and remind them of our legacy. Do it for us all and never forget us. Never forget us because all we can do is remember and wait.