9/11 Five Years Later

I love New York. In fact, although I was born and proudly raised in New Orleans, I have always considered myself to have been separated at birth from Manhattan. My first visit there was as a child and I instantly fell in love with both the city and the Yankees. I would rather live no place else on Earth. I do not live there, but I still wish I did. So, five years after the heart-breaking events of 9/11 I once again stood outside the security fence at Ground Zero, and, with tens of thousands of strangers, relived the pain of that day. I leaned against the fence and listened to the widows recite the names of those murdered that day, and heaved as they added their personal comments to their lost loved ones. I personally thanked firefighters and police for their service. I embraced servicemen, both active and veterans, for the same. I consoled civilians who cried unabashedly, and wiped tears from my own eyes constantly. There is no place I could be but at Ground Zero on 9/11.

The spectacle was not without contention. The boys from Loose Change were there, as were a number of other associated conspiracy theorists. They ranged from teenagers and twenty-somethings who still live in their parent's houses, to ex-hippies still fighting the Vietnam War. Several hundred of them wore black t-shirts espousing the myth that the events of 9/11 were an inside job. They passed out the supposed documentaries based on half-truths and distortions, all the while berating passers-by for being sheep to the current administration. In a sickeningly ironic twist of fate, members of the NYPD had to shield the knuckleheads from mourners, so as to prevent things from escalating to violence. Men and women in blue had to safeguard people who openly minimized their friends and colleagues murder. Inside I seethed and hoped for an excuse to react badly to their nonsense, but finally decided, with some difficulty, that I would honor no one lost that day by validating the conspiracy idiocy with any vocal or physical response.

It was not easy for me to stand outside the fence and do nothing but listen. I am prone to action. Do something, even if it is wrong, has always been my mantra. I wanted nothing more than to lash out at those responsible, and hold those that had lost so much. A baby-faced combat veteran of both Afghanistan and Iraq echoed the sentiments of a marine who served in Vietnam when he gestured at the protestors and said, "They're just kids. Don't let them get to you. What matters is that those who still suffer know you care." This soldier, still a kid himself, then hugged me and thanked me for my service as an infantryman nearly twenty years ago. The dichotomy was striking, and poignant. I admit I watched him walk away in his desert camouflage and distinctive red beret with pride swelling in my chest for the connection he and I share.

Finally, after many hours spent walking the fence around the site, I headed back to my hotel room with a heavy heart. A couple of blocks away I encountered a white-haired, obviously Irish Captain of the FDNY, resplendent in his immaculate dress blues. I approached him and said, "Captain I wish I had something profound to say to you, but all I can think to say is thanks. Somehow that just doesn't seem like enough." With a light in his eyes that I could not have managed on a good day, he took my extended hand, embraced me and said, "Your presence and thanks are all any of us have ever wanted. Thank you, sir, for having served." Even now, recounting the exchange, I am choked up with emotion. I am never prepared for the resolve New York's Bravest exhibit. I am never prepared for the strength the now single mothers show. I am never prepared for the emotion I, and those like me, experience when in the presence of such strong souls. It pains me to be there and witness the grief of those who have suffered personally, and profoundly. It cheers me to know though, that men and women, Americans all, such as this exist, and come next year on 9/11, and the year after, and the year after that, there is no place I would rather be than in the company of heroes both alive and lost. For me, come 9/11, there is no place I can be but in New York.

For me, it is not so much about the nineteen Islamists terrorists who caused the death and destruction, but rather about the memory of those we lost. I will never forget them. In my wallet I carry a piece of paper with the name Dennis Mulligan written on it. He was a firefighter with Ladder 2 who rushed into the burning towers because he had been trained to save lives. When everyone else was running away he, and the brave men of his ilk, ignored the orders to retreat because they knew scared people, unprepared for disaster, needed help. I never met Firefighter Mulligan. I do not know where he was when the towers collapsed. I do not know his family, nor who he was with when he died. I do not need to. I saw his spirit in the aging veterans, the young paratrooper, the old man wearing the God Bless America t-shirt, and a woman wearing a dark business suit who leaned against the fence, quietly, throughout the recitation of names. Firefighter Dennis Mulligan embodied all that is good about us that day, and, though I cannot pick his face from the sea of those we lost, I will never go a day without thinking of him. Fare well brother. You, and those with you, will never be forgotten. http://nyc.gov/html/fdny/html/memorial/wtc/mulligan_dennis_ff_lad002.shtml