Christmas in New York ~ December 23 & 24, 2001
Arriving
We tumble off the train and move forward in fits and starts. On the Main Concourse at Grand Central Station, words and footsteps echo. If I look up to admire the vast ceiling sprinkled with stars, I’ll stop the traffic flow. So we keep moving, searching for the subway to Times Square. We walk deeper into the bowels of the station. Everything around us is concrete and orange light and litter and screeching metal. When a train barrels past it brings with it a hot, fumy smell.
From behind a pillar I hear a song. Someone is playing a trumpet. The notes bounce off the walls and resonate all around us. When we climb onto the subway car, though, the doors seal away the music. We’ve packed ourselves in quite nicely, though some of us are stuck standing. Near me a girl of about 10 is resting her head on her mother’s shoulders. "There are so many people, it’s scary," she whispers.
"I know," her mother whispers back. She smoothes her hair again and again, as the train begins to move.
Central Park
The city looms to on either side as we walk down winding paths, past gnarled trees. Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop. Horse-drawn carriages prance by on a thoroughfare. Each one is decorated a little differently for the season, with bows and wreaths and flowers. Red-nosed couples or families sit under blankets and watch us.
There are rocks everywhere. I never knew that about Central Park. They are great climbing rocks. Kids see them and start running, ready to attack the mountain. One mother is yelling, "Get down from there NOW!" Her son is dangling off a ledge about 20 feet from the ground, a big grin on his face. The mom looks at me with exasperation that hints of a smile.
There is a skating rink. It is so crowded that if you happened to fall, you’d probably just tip into someone else and bounce back up. No one seems to mind anyway. They are laughing or chasing each other or trying to stay balanced.
Last-Minute Shopping
We walk into Macy’s and for a moment, I stand and look. Ahead of me, above the shoppers’ heads, are countless arches of garland. They are clustered with glittered fruit, ornaments, and ribbon, and attach at each end to golden angels that hang from pillars.
There is floor after floor of anything you could ever want to buy. We take the escalator, which is wooden and ancient. I’ve never seen anything like it. As I get off, I see a woman in her seventies standing and admiring the endlessly moving stairs. Then she takes a picture.
Outside FAO Schwartz teenagers wearing Red Cross T-shirts are handing out hot chocolate. A line stretches from the front doors and out behind the building. A man squawks out through a megaphone, "Come on over, folks! The line’s moving quickly."
Inside is a crush of people and children. "Look! Cotton candy making machines!" Someone exclaims behind me. I see lots and lots of teddy bears, a room dedicated just to Barbie Dolls, and Lincoln Logs.
A man tending to his three children loses sight of one, a little girl of about three, for a moment. I watch her drift into the masses of shoppers, her eyes widening in fear. She begins to cry. Just as I head over to help her, another woman stops and asks her what is wrong. She beckons a store employee to help.
There is so much to see. I wish I could play. But there are so many people that I am sweating and it’s hard to see in front of us. So we head back into the crisp December afternoon.
The Church
At St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the ceiling arches far above us. There is a smattering of people inside. Some walk in and immediately light a candle. Others rush down the aisles to get to the front. Cameras flash. I see a man holding a little dog.
Others have obviously come in for just a little while for a respite from the cold and to rest their tired feet. Many people are sitting in the pews, straight and gazing ahead, as if they are waiting or hoping for a mass to begin.
And some have come to pray. I see them from the corner of my eye. I feel guilty watching and invading a private moment. They sink to their knees and bow their heads, oblivious to the constant din of voices. There in mid-afternoon as children run by laughing, they hold their conversations with God.
The Movie
We decide to go to the movies across the street from our hotel in Times Square. "Lord of the Rings" is playing.
We have to take three escalators just to get to theater number 12. Many people are already seated. We squeeze past at least 10, apologizing at every step, then sink into our seats.
I like the movie but find my mind drifting at times. There are many characters to keep track of and I’ve never read the books. Still, I’m mesmerized by the special effects and the story.
There is this moment toward the end when the main character thinks about the hardships he is enduring. He is close to giving up. "I wish I had never been given the ring," he says. "I wish all of this had never happened."
"We all do," his mentor tells him. He continues with something like, "There is nothing you can do now except take the time that has been given to you and try to make a change. It’s up to you to change the world."
I hear sniffles in the darkness around me. At first I think it’s just one person with a cold. But then I hear more, and I see several people nearby quickly wiping their eyes. I realize that the words have either struck a chord or hit a nerve with the people around me.
How we all wish none of this had ever happened. Most of us are silent as we pour out into the lobby, and then the night. The sidewalks are wet. They reflect back thousands of lights, chasing away the darkness, keeping the streets alive.
The Subway
It’s the morning of Christmas Eve, and I’m riding the subway alone. Dan is still buried under warm blankets in our hotel room.
The train is quiet and far from crowded. As we start moving, a black man with a white beard steps in from the car behind us. He’s holding a saxophone. As we rush ahead into the darkness, he begins to play. Inside I sing with him.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas.
Let your heart be light.
From now on our troubles will be out of sight.
A man next to me in a suit and tie does not look up from the newspaper. Others gaze vacantly ahead. Their eyes tell me nothing. I listen and stare across out the window and see that another train is racing beside us. We are moving just slightly faster. It is so close I can see the faces inside each window.
The notes from the saxophone swell and wash over me. Suddenly I’m alone with the music and these brief flashes of other lives. I watch and see mothers and children, an Asian teenager, an older white woman; a black face looking back at me or through me.
This is New York, I think as we pull ahead of the other train and the faces vanish. The man finishes his song, picks up his instrument case, and moves haltingly forward. A young blond woman gives him a dollar. He smiles and thanks her and walks to the next car, as we barrel on toward 34th Street.
Ground Zero
Everything is different. It has been nine weeks since I was here last. The streets are streets again. Stores are opened. And the smell…that awful, electrical, dank smell, has diminished.
Of course life here cannot be normal. Normal must now be a dim memory for the people who live and work in these buildings. This is still a grim, somber place. But as I walk and watch, I can sense a change since October. I think it is acceptance.
On the ground floor of One Liberty Plaza, which once faced the World Trade Center, the shops have reopened. Starbucks employees are wearing Santa caps and are passing out samples on the sidewalk. Inside, people are milling about and ordering bagels. I ask for my standard Cchai and tell the woman to keep the change from my $20, as if that’s going to help business. Still, seeing the smile on her face makes me feel warmer than my drink.
Outside, I keep walking. There are people everywhere, with cameras, with their children, craning their necks to see the rubble. All any of us can truly see is the tops of cranes. You could almost pretend that this was just a big construction job going on; that is, those of us who don't really belong here.
I stop at a cookie shop. I don’t even want a cookie, but I walk in anyway. "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…" is blaring from somewhere. Two women behind the counter look up and smile. One is sliding fresh baked chocolate chip cookies off a sheet. Everything here is so warm and cozy and feels so nice, it’s almost surreal. For a split second I think of these two incredibly kind faces and imagine what they were doing on September 11. Then I’m embarrassed because tears have come to my eyes. I realize they are tears of relief that these people are here and alive and are able to smile. But I can’t tell them that.
"Um, I’d just like a chocolate chip cookie," I say, not really looking one of the women in the eye.
"Just one?" she teases. "You can’t have just one."
Back out in the cold I hold my cookie and my chai and watch other people see it all for the first time. Their eyes drift across the flowers and banners and pictures and teddy bears that still adorn some of the fences and building walls. Some wipe tears from their eyes or just stand in awe. These people are the minority, though.
There are less reverent visitors now. Some lean out of the windows of cars slowly driving by, pointing video cameras. Others try to sneak past barriers. A group of Japanese tourists are laughing and arguing about how to line up in front of the camera. One man is trying to capture Ground Zero as the backdrop to the picture.
I watch them giggling and feel anger rise within me. Then I see a police officer, a beautiful black woman in her thirties, watching them also.
"Does this bother you?" I ask her when they walk away. "All of these people, taking pictures?"
"No," she says without hesitation. "Everyone has to process this in their own way." She doesn’t sound resigned or even sad. I detect this strength about her that I wish was contagious.
Maybe it’s resilience. I see it everywhere, as I walk back to the subway. Recovery workers are greeting each other and laughing. Some of them hold surgical masks in their hands and are soiled with soot. They have seen unspeakable things. These days are long from over. But in this little moment, they are smiling.
Going Home
There has to be a seat somewhere, we are both thinking as we walk briskly past car after car. This is the 1:07pm train to New Haven, and everyone else in New York has decided to take it.
We walk and peek and walk and walk. Every seat is full. People are sitting on the floor. Others are squeezing through the doors with bags of Christmas gifts. I see a man holding a cat in a carrier.
In the last car, we are able to squish into two tiny seats across from a brother and sister. The boy, about 14, is engrossed in a Game Boy and simultaneously listening to music over headphones. His sister is working on subtraction problems in a workbook. That is, when she can sit still.
Another girl, maybe 12, gets on with her mother just as the doors are about to close. She has braces and a sweet quietness about her. In her arms she holds a plastic case with a parakeet inside.
In five minutes, the two girls become friends. "Your name is Katherine?" the older one says softly. "That’s my name!" The little one grins and swings her feet. "How many stops until we’re there?" she demands of her father. "Lots," he says in a voice that tells her not push it.
We burst out from the tunnel and into the light. Already the city around us seems like a different place; just gray buildings and bridges in the hazy distance, so I don’t look for long. And anyway, the man is collecting tickets.
"I’m having a bad day today," he says, but doesn’t sound like he means it, chuckling as he pushes to the back of the car.
The city is gone. When my eyes tire from reading I watch the girl with the bird gaze out of the window. She cradles what she holds instinctively and protectively in her arms, as if she’ll never let it go.
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