Never Forget. Ten Years Later.

Never Forget. Ten years later and I’m swirling with mixed emotions. To many, the phrase has become a cliché; a weary disclaimer that we all support because it’s polite. Kind of like sending that “Happy Holiday” mass- text and feeling satisfied because it’s the “thought that counts.” I guess the gesture is nice, but there’s a resounding sense of detachment to it all. Looking around and reflecting on my last ten years I’m even more emotional.

I started September 11^th 2001 unlike most in that I was watching the towers before sunrise. An amazing beacon across the harbor, I recall staring at Lady Liberty and the nearby Twins. It was about 4 am and I was headed home from Red Hook, Brooklyn after enjoying a Monday night out. Working for the NYPD, that Monday and Tuesday was my “weekend” – they were part of my squad 1 rotating days off.

Glancing passively at the skyline, I enjoyed feeling as one with my great hometown. It chills me to think today how that clouded thought was my first “Never Forget” moment. Though still enamored with my hometown, the missing link in the skyline still hurts me to this day. The abysmal failure of redeveloping the site keeps the wound fresh, even though no architectural replacement will ever seem suitable.

Being one of the first of the evening shift to arrive at my stationhouse, I was immediately deployed not to Manhattan, but to Bensonhurst for a street evacuation. At the busy shopping district on Bay Parkway and 86^th Street, in the midst of the greatest crises in modern times, some genius decided to place a suspicious package, complete with a duct taped aluminum foil box and exposed wires, on the front car of an elevated subway train. Evacuating the busy stores, rerouting traffic, bus routes and diverting others from the perimeter of this bomb scene takes an enormous amount of personnel. Sadly I was sent there instead of to Manhattan where my later-arriving colleagues were deployed. I will also never forget the snowflake sized World Trade Center ashes peppering my uniform as I argued with Chinese fruit vendors to close up shop on an otherwise clear and beautiful day.

Soon after clearing the fake bomb I was sent to secure another subway hub until well after midnight. After a 16 hour day, hearing reports of tens of thousands possible trapped victims, and a confirmed report of another nearby building collapse, I was tired and angry. I felt powerless in what my assigned duty was. So I went home, slept a few hours and immediately raced to Ground Zero to help out on my own time.  

I maintained this schedule for a few days and encouraged close friends at work to come help out too. Preparing for physical labor after 12 to 16 hours on one’s feet was a hard sell to many, but many still accompanied me, making greater sacrifices to their already complicated family lives. With site experience, I was able to safely guide my colleagues through the labyrinth of makeshift paths on the pile and through neighboring buildings. At one point, as I was stressing to my brothers  the need to walk clear of surrounding sidewalks, a few large panes of glass had come smashing down like a guillotine from the floors above. To me this was terrifying! One firefighter nearby had been severely injured from the floor to ceiling office windows in the financial district as they became jarred loose in the night winds. I will never forget how the sounds of shattering glass stopped us in the bucket line. When the windows smashed into the ground, the high pitched sound would overpower the generator motors buzzing constantly in the night. Fortunately, the fire fighters had organized among the mass confusion in the first few days, and went building to building 30 stories high and remedied all the broken windows at the site. 

Within a week I was finally assigned to the bucket brigade on straight time. By this time, I think the job understood asking for volunteers was preferable to ordering thousands of police officers to stand witness to the atrocities being unearthed. Some people just can’t handle that kind of exposure…I guess none of us can without some traumatic results.  But It finally made me feel useful.  After all, I was one of the few that had access to the area, and In the back of my mind I was still hoping to find the remains of my friends who perished.

September 11^th, 2001 was my last scheduled day off for many weeks. Twelve hour work days became the norm and our new way of living began. Often we would volunteer at Ground Zero just to break the monotony of locking down the city. Overnight the job changed in more ways than one. It was like working in wonderland. The public was overly nice to us-even rewarding on many occasions. Random strangers would say, “thank you” and even offer to buy coffee or lunch. Even internally the job turned pleasant. “Use your discretion” supplanted the phrase “zero tolerance” which was beginning to take foothold, and has since become the hypocritical motto of the job today. The public loved us, and I was beaming with pride to call myself a Police Officer.

The required hours did get old quickly. After a month straight I needed a break. The stress, demands, media saturation…The stories of loss and suffering, of orphaned children and other collateral tragedies was the lesser strain. The nightmare of seeing and smelling horrifically burned, severed, and decomposing remains was overwhelming. I will never forget how even months later, the distinctive odor of Ground Zero permeated lower Manhattan and downtown Brooklyn. Anyone who has smelled a dead body has an enduring recollection in his mind, but this was different. Trapped in our work gloves and soiled uniforms was the unmistakable odor of decomposed bodies combined with the smoke and cindering asbestos ashes from the World Trade Center. The distinctive smell encompassed an area up to Chinatown and was aerated through the underground subway tubes into Brooklyn.

The fortunate victims were incinerated, others had little chance of survival after two 110 story buildings collapsed like a house of cards, condensing into a four square block, four story tall crime scene. In a twisted sense, the modern architecture was a blessing. I could not imagine the magnitude of devastation if the towers, which were colossal among the other buildings around it, had toppled sideways creating a chain reaction.

Thankfully, there was a scheduled vacation I had overlooked, and jumped at the opportunity to get away when I could. I booked a last minute vacation to Toronto, by myself just to escape for a bit. I kept the flight short because I was not sure if I could fly again. (To this day, I cannot look at a plane flying through a clear sky without envisioning the impact. I guess I can add that trauma to the other life threatening scenarios my unconscious mind regularly disturbs my sleep with since I’ve become a Police Officer. Recruiters should put that in the law enforcement career brochures)

I remember Canadian customs officials giving me an uncharacteristically hard time at the border. I have visited our little sister to the north many times and all they ever required was a driver’s license, if at all. I should have expected a change since our hijackers entered America via Canada on that fateful day. When asked where I was staying I had no answer, no plans, no reservation, and no available reason to check off on my customs documents. My purpose of travel was neither business nor pleasure, but therapy. When asked why I was visiting Canada, my answer was, “Because I just need to get the fuck out of New York.” They toned down their rhetoric upon learning I was a Police Officer.

Ten Years have now passed and I’m swirling with emotions I would have never predicted. Armed with the knowledge of events and a deeper understanding of how the world works I’m more saddened than satisfied. I’m dissatisfied the world’s most wanted man took ten years to take out. American intelligence knew the region of the world where Bin Laden was, yet he had continued running a multi-million dollar international terror network. Oddly enough, Bin Laden flourished because of America. We had successfully financed, trained and armed him and his army of followers a few years prior in Afganistan. We called his group “freedom fighters” then, and he was armed, evil and still unknown. I’m angry now that President Obama is making the same mistakes In Libya and Syria. I’m angry that we do not learn from our screw ups in the past.

I’m saddened about our Middle East policy of sponsoring peoples and governments that do not like us or our ways. Ten years later and there is little progress, intense casualties, and greater animosity toward America. We are funneling money toward people who do not want, nor appreciate our ideals and will never govern themselves adequately. Meanwhile our own country is suffering the worst financial crisis anyone alive has witnessed.

I’m angry that President Bush ordered officials of the federal Environmental Protection Agency to intentionally lie to New Yorkers about toxic air levels in lower Manhattan.  Downtown residents and first responders were encouraged to return with little risk to health and safety.  In the ten years since September 11^th, more than twice the number of NYPD personnel have perished.  As of today, fifty more from the NYPD (beyond the initial 23 victims) have had a scientifically linked illness directly tied to toxins from Ground Zero. I do not even know the FDNY or civilian casualty cases. The Bush cover up, now widely reported, is beyond an impeachable offense bordering on treason.

I have moral questions rooting in my mind for years as well. Do I have the right to question God, or any higher power pulling the strings? Is it fair that I should bury my friend who stood next to me at ground zero? Just today I held Robert Zane’s toddler in my arms at a remembrance ceremony; a child he only met while terminally ill from his hospice bed.  Am I right to feel guilty for encouraging him to come to Ground Zero? After all, He was one to always give of himself when he can. I know he would have gone without my encouragement, but the memory of him standing next to me, on the pile, in the days after 9/11 weigh deeply on my conscience.  Wiser people have consoled me with the notion of fulfilling one’s “mission” on Earth. Is it fair to suggest that the victims of 9/11, and after, all accomplished their mission?  

I will never forget the moral dilemmas that cross my psyche. What higher power allows me to live and why? I have no children, nor do I forsee any. I do not contribute to any tithing. I have turned my back on developing significant and lasting love for the cause of mirth. How is it that a foul mouthed, thrill seeker can navigate a hedonistic path with impunity, while better men than me have seen the face of God? Can it be fair that after factoring personal losses, lapses in judgment, and tragedies, living through the last decade has also been the best years of my life? At nearly forty years old, I recognize the most memorable days in my life are behind me; and I’m cool with that. Do I have the right to feel this way? Should I also have the right to embrace such great experiences in the shadows of Ground Zero ?

Finally, I will never forget the course and direction the rest of my life must take, personally and professionally. The course has substantially changed, but the mission has not.  Embracing a life of public service means having to adapt, but never diminish the ideals that made us put the uniform on initially.

One reason I accepted this job is because I knew I can do it better than the cops that I interacted with during my adolescence. Growing up on the streets of Brooklyn with a large, loud group, I was no stranger to getting my face pressed into the bricks…weekly. To the credit of the ‘Old School cops’ of the 80’s they knew better than anyone what enforcement was worth their effort, and what was a waste of time and resources. Contrasted with today, the overwhelming majority of empty suits (both police officers and supervisors) I work with couldn’t tie the shoes of the cops I grew up running away from. They still have warm hearts and a great spirit, but they regularly cheapen the integrity of the uniform. More than half of the uniforms on the job today do not even have the experience of living and working through September 11^th. They just do not know what it means to Never Forget.

Maintain your integrity. Preserve the sanctity of the uniform, and do not cheapen the sacrifices of the deceased by embarrassing them professionally. Remember the respect we get today is largely built upon the souls of the 3,000 plus that perished in the last decade. Never forget or tarnish the values of those that sacrificed their lives helping others. Respect what you do. Do it with reverence and NEVER FORGET there are others working very hard to take our great way of life away from us.