New York Part 6: Two Lights

Or, how I managed to spend the weekend in New York on the Tenth Anniversary of 9/11 and hardly noticed.

I don't want to say it's because I'm shallow, that I don't care, that I wasn't thinking about it before and after. I was. It seems odd to me that someday soon we'll be teaching this to high schoolers, like World War II, JFK and Vietnam. There's probably no way to teach the level of paranoia and uncertainty that afflicted the global consciousness in the aftermath. People kept asking whether I went to Ground Zero or whether I planned it out that way, but I hadn't. It was just a date that worked for Meg, and she hadn't thought of it either. At the party, I didn't think it right to start pressing these New Yorkers for their memories. The thought crossed my mind, but by the time I was talking to them moment passed. It was early in the night and one pointed over the backyard fence at the beams of light from Ground Zero, "Hey, 9/11!" Like it was some fucked up version of a surprise visitor you weren't sure was going to show up.

"You know, this is the last time they're going to light those," someone said. "It costs $800,000 just to light them, (or some incredible figure) and the money was only set to last ten years." A conversation ensued about health care for rescue workers. I didn't say so, but no, none of the Canadians I know envy the American Health Care system.

I left on the 11th. The most I saw was a few streets being blocked off. I got up at 9 and by 10 was on a subway to Manhattan. I stood outside the subway station, hugging Meg and finding no adequate way to really express my thanks for the weekend, simply said "Thank you so much. It was great meeting you." That's all you can say.
Again, here's one of those things I would like to have planned better. Maybe I could've taken an extra day and gotten an overnight bus back. I could have hung out in the city again, seen some of those things I missed. Admittedly, I wouldn't have wanted to drag my bags all around the city again, but when I was planning the trip I wasn't thinking of that. I had only a couple hours to get food and some souvenirs.

I told Meg where I was going and she told me where to change trains. Then when we got to Manhattan the Subway decided it wanted to start hitting local stops (New York train logic again!) so I managed to get off just a couple blocks away from where I was going, the same spot where I was dropped off Friday morning.

Of course, this is one of those cases where what I was doing and what I was supposed to do didn't line up. I thought the bus was leaving from the same spot as it dropped me off, but I was thankfully smart enough to double-check my ticket, and it turns out there was a whole different bus area several blocks over. That could have been embarrassing. After getting my bearings in the city, I found my way to a cafe to grab a sandwich and some Cokes for the road, and dodged into the first gift shop I saw to grab some trinkets: a magnet, keychain and bottle opener, and a t-shirt. I opted for a Brooklyn one. I figured I earned the right to wear it.

On the way home, I took advantage of the Bus' Wi-Fi to check Twitter and Tumblr. Of course everyone was talking about it. Why wouldn't they? It's important. I was reading, later, about the late comedian Bill Hicks, how he would do material about his family and childhood, despite having no real animosity: he picked at the wound to keep it fresh. And with something like 9/11, that applies. It's that whole "Never Forget" thing. I read some really incredible stories about the human spirit and, if not always heroism, at least perseverance. I didn't have any of that, of course. I was just living a struggle for normalcy.

I was 14 at the time it happened. It was my second week of high school. Imagine that. You're already uncertain enough about the future and then this thing happens without any precedent and your entire track of what you thought life was gonna be like -- which you barely had any concept of already -- gets switched to this other course. And I'm up here in Canada, and we felt it. Like everyone, we had the same struggle to process it. I got to class and my drama teacher, Mr. Rosser, sat down with us and in a very serious hushed tone, sat with us and told us about this thing that just happened, and nobody was sure exactly what it meant yet. I remember being in North Bay visiting my Grandparents and Uncle and Aunt, a month later for Thanksgiving. I was alone in the car alone with my dad and winter had come on early that year, (well, in the North anyhow) and we were in his 1991 Buick Century driving around the backroads toward Kirkland Lake looking for something to do, and the only radio station we got was CBC and there was this very stern-sounding news announcer talking matter-of-factly about how the jets were taking off for Kabul, and it was so fucked up and heavy.

Between the two moments, my grandparents had been on vacation to Las Vegas. They were constant travelers. The main topic of conversation was how quickly things had changed, how difficult security was, of course. That was the lens through which we viewed the whole thing: how did everyday life change? What was now different? Not, are we in danger, will they attack again, just, how long does it take to get on a plane? Of course. I learned later in journalism, local impact is always important, even if it should be dwarfed by the larger story. Driving away from the hotel/restaurant that night, my dad and his girlfriend discussed how off Grandma seemed that night, she seemed very tired, compared to how ably she usually dominated every conversation. Maybe she was showing her age. We found out not long after that she had cancer. They never traveled again.

They gave her a very conservative estimate and she outlived it for two good years. Unlike certain other relatives, I don't really remember the last time I saw her. It was one of those cases where you weren't sure it was going to be the last time. I remember the morning she died. The night before I had acted in a play I had written (as a group, but I was the dominating creative force) for my Grade 12 Drama final project. It went really well. I knew immediately the next morning what had happened, I recognized my dad's knock on my door, because although he didn't live with us I just knew his knock, and I knew the only possible reason he could be there at that time.

It was January. A few months later, Mr. Rosser was organizing a trip to New York for all the drama students. I had initially declined, didn't give it a thought, because I wasn't sure how to pay for it, I wasn't that close to anyone else who was going. Unfortunately, as the trip approached, I became very much involved with the drama kids, and it was sorta lame that I hadn't even tried to go on the trip when it was time to sign up back in the fall.

Then at Easter, when we visited North Bay again, Grandad dropped an envelope in all of our laps. Grandma had left us each a certain amount of money. I didn't know what to do with mine until I caught wind that there was a cancellation on the New York trip. And that's how I ended up taking my first extended trip outside the country. So all along, there's been this strange connection between that side of my family and the city. At the wedding last weekend, my Grandad's cousin Mary, one of the few we have left from England, talked about how jealous she was that my brother and I were going: her husband, Ron, who has the same relationship with her as my Grandad did with my Grandma (he barely gets a word in edgewise, although when he does he's a bit more sarcastic than my Grandad was,) wouldn't go.

This isn't a particularly inspiring or meaningful story, but I guess what it means to me is the way it's become part of our life, sewn into the fabric of our experience. The way our lives have long since rebuilt themselves secretly around it.
As we pulled out of the city toward the Lincoln Tunnel, I turned my iPod to the Strokes' Is This It, to see me off from New York. The title track of the album is cynical, weary, sarcastic and skeptical, but the answer I came up with as I got a last look at the skyline was, "Yes, and I'm glad I got this much."

Twelve hours later, I was back in Toronto, making my way to Union Station from Yonge and Dundas. I thought about how strange Toronto now felt, because I was quickly on a street by myself. Well, just me and some crackhead banging furiously on windows.

Toronto: It's very clean.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto