My
family moved out of the Bronx when I was five
years old, yet I have been brought up to
think of myself as a New Yorker. Visiting the
city, when I put my foot to the city's
pavement it is as if I am Antaeus and
vitality is restored to me, drawn out of the
city of my inception, the seed of my identity
and character. I love New York.
I have been to the top of the World Trade
Center three times. The first time was a
snowy night in March of 1978. I was still
married to my first wife and we were the
guests of dear friends who invited us to
dinner. Perhaps because of the weather,
someone had canceled their dinner
reservations at Cellar in the Sky, a
restaurant with a waiting list that extended
months long at that time. Our friends had the
foresight to anticipate a cancellation and
called.
Cellar in the Sky is - was - a restaurant
within a restaurant. Windows on the World,
the primary restaurant, occupied the 107th
floor of the World Trade Center. Cellar in
the Sky was enclosed inside the Windows on
the World, forsaking the view, but offering a
prix fixe dinner with a different wine
matched to each course, and included in the
price. That snowy night nothing was to be
seen through the windows but snowflakes
falling up. It was the first time in my life
that I walked into a restroom that was
occupied by an attendant. His presence
embarrassed me. It seemed demeaning to have
someone stationed where the air is usually
foul. Of course this fellow required a tip. I
wasn't sure how much to tip for being
humiliated by having someone else to turn on
the spigots at the sink I was expected to use
and then stand by with a washcloth. Well, the
restroom didn't actually smell bad; it was
scented, marbled, and larger than my parent's
living room.
The second time I visited the top of the
World Trade Center was when my present wife's
family came from Britain to visit. A truism
for many New Yorkers, you don't usually visit
the Statue of Liberty or the observation deck
of the Empire State Building (and later,
after 1972, the World Trade Center) until the
day comes when you are entertaining guests
from out of town. It was the first time I had
been up to the observation deck. The group of
us next walked out onto the roof, the world's
tallest outdoor promenade. (The brochure said
"highest" promenade, but any
promenade on the 13-storey Potala Palace at
Lhasa is evidently at least 10,770 feet
higher.) We stood on a large, square platform
that seemed to be floating high in the sky
over Manhattan. It was eerie for me. Even the
pushy wind made me feel insecure.
My last visit to the top of the World Trade
Center was when Ms Keogh (my more significant
other) was attending a conference on Estrogen
Replacement Therapy held by Columbia
University. I dropped her off in the morning
and was waiting for her that afternoon at the
bar on the 107th floor, drinking Tanqueray
and tonics while eating excellent sushi. I
have written about that experience,
elsewhere, "[the] view is unimaginable
for those of you who haven't been there or in
similarly high structures, and just how many
of those can there be? … At that height
one expects to be flying and not still
anchored to the earth. The floor to ceiling
windows allow you to walk right to the edge.
Place your nose against the glass and beyond
your toes there is nothing to obstruct your
view down. The building is a sheer drop for
over 1300 feet. Of course the glass prevents
you from leaning out. I don't care how thick
the glass is, I find the experience daunting
and have to stand back a foot while bracing
my hands against the window frames.. To the
south the bay was clear of fog and I could
see toy ships making trails in the water.
Extending my arm, I could hide the Statue of
Liberty behind my pinkie."
On the second of September 2001, we saw the
World Trade Center for the last time. I was
driving my mother and Ms Keogh into New York
City. My niece and her boyfriend were
visiting from California, were already in the
city, and we were planning to connect with
them on the sprawling staircase of the
Metropolitan Museum of Art.
We were on the New Jersey Turnpike's approach
to the Holland Tunnel for the view. I usually
enter the great city by the Lincoln Tunnel.
Ms Keogh has a two-person show coming up in
October with her colleague, Lisa Mahan. Ms
Keogh's entries for the show are to be a
series of local cityscapes, works she is
presently painting. The Manhattan skyline was
to be included. My choice would have been the
Empire State Building and the Chrysler
Building in midtown. I've always thought the
World Trade Center ugly, a blotch on the
skyline. Still, Ms Keogh wanted the World
Trade Center in her painting, with the Statue
of Liberty at the other end of the long
panoramic scene.
When the downtown and Ms Liberty came into
view on the far side of the Hudson River, I
pulled the car onto the shoulder and stopped.
Despite the perils of traffic, in the name of
art, Ms Keogh climbed from the car and
snapped shots using two different cameras.
Seeing our activity on the side of the road
inspired a passing car to pull over and also
take pictures. We then drove on to a
marvelous Sunday afternoon in New York.
On the eleventh of September, thousands of
innocent individual lives representing more
than eighty nationalities, different races,
different ethnic groups, people with
different causes and opinions in their minds,
were subjected to terror and then brought to
death. My older sister called me from
California within a few hours of the World
Trade Center atrocity. The city of our birth
had been attacked - not a military target,
but a diverse cross-section of the world
engaged in the pursuit of their livelihoods.
We feared our own Nation's response. We
worried how this could further hamper the
Palestinians' cause and were anxious for the
welfare of Muslims living in America. We
talked of the possibility of our country, the
most powerful empire ever to exist, and now
in conservative hands, how we might overreact
with a vast retaliation. At the same time,
there was no consolation for our loss.
Revenge can never restore us.
Although as the crow flies we live sixty-five
miles from the catastrophe, distant friends
and relatives called to be reassured that we
didn't happen to be visiting the World Trade
Center that day. Or else they called because
with so many suffering the loss of a loved
one, they wanted to exercise the fragile
privilege still remaining to them. Everything
but an embrace felt more trivial after the
destruction. I'd cling to Ms Keogh and she
would feel fragile in my arms as I consider
the dissolving mass of two gargantuan
buildings. Even my ex-wife emailed me from
Japan. She felt equally violated and
disconsolate. Although she was born in and
was again living in Tokyo, yet New York City
was an intimate part of her life.
The next couple of clear-blue days, when I
stepped outside from time to time to view the
beautiful sky, the sky was empty. There was
not a single plane nor a single contrail.
Even now, more than a week later, planes
remain fewer. Mail is taking longer to reach
me.
The afternoon of the calamity, I drove Ms
Keogh into Center City Philadelphia to her
job at Planned Parenthood. We both suspected
the offices to be closed, and she tried to
call, but calls would not go through. All
circuits were busy. We went into the city to
bear witness to the day. Her office was
closed, the museums closed, the libraries
closed. Before going home, we stopped at the
Oxford Valley Mall to pick up a second batch
of remaining photographs that were being
developed, the very cityscape view she was
planning to interpret into paint, that
included the World Trade Center. The malls
were closed.
The original title of the two-person art show
was to be a pun on their names, Keogh and
Mahan, "Chaos and Mayhem", that
title being my contribution. Now, because of
the tragedy, they have changed the name of
the show to "Urban Scenes", and
yesterday afternoon Ms Keogh was pasting new
labels to cover the old title on a thousand
publicity postcards.
Consider the journey of the masses trying to
escape tyranny and oppression and starvation,
arriving to New York City seeking freedom and
opportunity. My grandparents left their
shtetls, where the future held no promise,
and merged with the vortex that delivered
them onto the streets of New York City, the
city of refugees, where they thrived. All
those many people and their descendents, and
new ones who continue to come, these huddled
masses yearning to breathe free, gasped on
the 11th of September at the slaughter of
innocents by an implacable evil in the city
of refuge.
Lamentations
3:16-18
He has made
my teeth grind on gravel, and made me cower
in ashes; my soul is bereft of peace, I have
forgotten what happiness is; so I say,
"Gone is my glory, and my expectation
from the Lord.'' |
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