Note: I wrote this at about 4:45am on May 2nd as a way of trying to process what I had just experienced. After reading it again this afternoon, I feel it might be worth sharing. I present it here with few edits from my original draft, leaving the repetition, grammatical errors and run on sentences in as they reflect the emotional and hazy mindset I was in while trying to capture everything I was feeling on paper. I wrote this for myself but share it here so others may get a glimpse of what it was to be there that night.
Earlier tonight, I went to Ground Zero to witness what was sure to be a victory celebration in the face of Osama Bin Laden’s death. I had only been to Ground Zero once before, at age thirteen, just a few months after the attacks. The feeling tonight was quite different than my last visit to be sure.
I went with conflicted emotions, feeling in one part that going and joining the ruckus would be a cathartic experience which would alleviate some of the long pent up grief and aggression I’d had since 9/11/01. Still, the other part of me that was no longer 13, who understood the world just a little better than my 2001 self felt that there was something not quite right about reveling the death of an enemy, especially given that his death, while symbolic, really accomplished nothing on the practical level.
Still, I went because I felt it was important, I went because I realized I had a unique opportunity to be in New York City on the day they finally killed Bin Laden and if I hadn’t gone, I would look back and wish I had. So I went, not sure what I would find at 3am. I got off the subway and even from blocks away I could hear the cheering, I followed them to find a rowdy crowd chanting everything from “USA! USA!” to “FUCK OSAMA! FUCK AL QUAEDA!”
I didn’t do much chanting, feeling it more appropriate to simply walk around the crowd with my fellow Americans, and also to observe. Sure, I joined when “God Bless America” broke out over the entire crowd and put my hand on my heart for the Star Spangled Banner, got goosebumps when the bagpipes, (yes, there were bagpipes) played Amazing Grace, but I didn’t do a lot of chanting. It seemed juvenile and insensitive. There was something not quite right about there being a party in the streets here, at this place.
Most of the chanting was being led by a crowd of drunk guys all decked out in American flags and gear and while I appreciated their patriotism and partially was invigorated by their spirit, as much as I loved the “America, Fuck Yeah!” attitude, I didn’t feel it was the best way to honor the dead who had met their end just yards away.
In spite of all this, I did enjoy myself. I felt great to be able to be there tonight. I remember walking through the crowd and thinking “This is a moment in history, man.” And I was glad I could be there. It felt good. I wouldn’t say it felt victorious, but it felt good to celebrate a small step forward in America’s quest for safety in this new world with a crowd of patriotic and excited Americans. It was fun. I walked and cheered and sang for a while until I’d had my fill. And when I did, I walked out of the crowd and gave a look back at the big empty hole in the skyline and the crowd that had come to celebrate and I nodded my head. Appreciative of the chance to have been a small part of a historic moment, and to show my respect to those who had never lived to see it.
The experience of being there effected me, of that there is no question, but what happened next was what brought it all home.
I walked down Broadway, looking for a cab when I passed the church graveyard that neighbors ground zero on the other side. There, leaning into the tall fence of the graveyard, looking through it to the space where the towers had been, was a well dressed young man with a briefcase by his feet. He was holding on to the railings and his posture was not quite right. As I got closer I realized he was crying. He was sobbing quietly yet uncontrollably, his shoulders shaking as he tried to hold on in spite of what was overcoming him. For him, this night was not a victory, it was a rehashing of his tragedy and despite the chanting and flag waving going on down the street, he was still in agony. The pain of his loss had not been lessened with the death of their murderer.
I paused for a moment and that’s when it hit me. In spite of all the catharsis, the patriotism that was happening in the crowd, in spite of the victory of killing one of the worst villains in our history, the three thousand people are still gone. I don’t know what connection that man had to 9/11 but I can only assume his stake in it was closer than my own. Sure, I was saddened and scared that day, but I didn’t lose anyone the way he had. I couldn’t understand his pain and I was honestly glad I never had to.
Yet at that moment I felt tears well up in my eyes and a lump rose in my throat and I too let out a sob. Bin Laden’s death doesn’t change the destroyed families, the lost loved ones, they are still gone. This man looked only a few years older than me, he had still been a kid when he lost whoever it was that day. For me, seeing him like that was enough to bring the tragedy back to the front and I couldn’t help but be overcome.
I was stricken with grief for the man at the cemetery and for the few of my friends who had lost parents in the towers. Who would surely be forced to confront their tragedies over and over as the days events and mentions of 9/11 would dominate headlines, tweets and facebook statuses for days to come. For every family who lost someone and for all who mourned those who died in the 9 years since the day that changed everything, all this would do would make those wounds fresh again.
I rode back in the cab in a far more somber mood than when I had left for the celebration. I realized that yes, Osama is dead and, as an American I feel that’s a victory, but the man at the cemetery still has his loved one to mourn, Osama’s death doesn’t make that go away. Osama’s death doesn’t change the fear and paranoia that has split this country in two. It doesn’t change the three wars we find ourselves in with no way of getting out and it doesn’t bring any 9/11 victim or fallen soldier back.
I’m glad I went to Ground Zero but I’m sorry we have reason to celebrate this so called “victory” at all.
When I look back on tonight, I’ll remember the cheers, the jubilation and the renewed patriotism we all felt in that crowd, but what I’ll remember most is the image of the man at the cemetery. I’ll think of what he and all of us lost nine years ago.
While the death of Bin Laden is a significant symbolic moment for us all, the greatest and most symbolic tribute we can give the memories of 9/11’s victims is to never forget them.
God Bless America.
Protect our troops.
Good night.
May 2nd, 2011
4:53am
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For further insight, I encourage everyone to read my good friend Peter’s blog posting on this issue. He has far more reason to comment on this than I, and his words are profound.
Read his post on his reaction to the death of Bin Laden here:
