This morning, as I was waiting for my car to be serviced, an older gentleman struck up a conversation with me regarding the magazine I was reading. He said he reads the same magazine and from there we found out we are both the father of twins, which gave us plenty to talk about.
In the course of the conversation, he divulged he is a retired Episcopal minister and asked me what I did for work. "Uhh...well, let me just say it's product marketing at Thomson Reuters." He wasn't satisfied by that answer: "What kind of products?", "Who do you have to work with?", "Do you meet regularly with other individuals or do you call meetings as you go?"
It was nice because it gave me the chance to articulate what I do. I also conveyed to him that I like the results-driven culture and the flexibility it gives me. That said, I continued, I like that I have a place to go for work and the separation between my work and home lives the workplace gives me. I believe that working from home regularly is insidious in that it blurs the line between work life and home life.
"It's funny you mention that," he responded, "because, as ministers, we're like the old family doctor in that we're on call for our parishioners 24/7. And so, the place where we draw the line between work life and the everything-else is always blurred."
"Well, I'm glad that I'm not important enough and what I do isn't important enough to require me to available like that," I said.
"Oh no," he said, "don't say that. What you do is your calling. I was called to do what I do and you were called to do what you do. In that sense, what I do is no more important than what you do and vice-versa. The President of the United States is no more important than the carpenter. They were both called to do what they do."
We continued to chat until he was called to the service desk. His statement that this is my calling initially made me feel validated - validation is always nice! - but when I thought more about it, I began to wonder: is this job truly my "calling"? Does it compensate me fairly? Yes. As aforementioned, am I validated by my boss and my colleagues? Yes. Do I generally enjoy what I do and, dare I ask, actually have fun from time to time? Yes. But, do I see myself doing this forever? Do I see this role evolving into something that is going to continually challenge me? Do I see this role making me an expert in something and someone people defer to? Do I see this role developing, sharpening, and honing skills? These are all questions I need to ask and answer for myself before I consider this my calling.
Of course, a job is just a job. The questions to which I answered "yes" above are just as important as the questions to which I don't have an answer. And just like the perfect house, the perfect job is most often elusive. We compromise with ourselves on what's more important and go for those criteria. And just like a house from which you can move, you can always switch jobs. So, I guess what I'm saying is the calling is more than the job. Does the job fulfill enough of the criteria that you need to heed your calling?
Personally, I don't know what my calling is. It's something I'm still listening for. But, there are a million quotes out there about how the journey is or teaches you about the destination.
MSL
Friday, December 19, 2014
Monday, November 24, 2014
What I Want; What I Need
I have always had a hard time differentiating my wants from my needs. For me, they are often one in the same. It's not like this is exactly harmless. I am a father of three; should my wants or needs ever come before those of my children? Well, is my airway constricted? No? Then, no.
I don't know why I have this problem. I'm an educated, successful, grown-ass man. Yet, too often I let my id take over, like I am a child. I want pizza for lunch; I need pizza for lunch. I want to smoke; I need to smoke. I don't want to help out around the house tonight; I don't need...you get the idea.
It is a matter of self-control. I am not ignorant to the fact that I was raised without any. So, as an adult, I am learning how to have self-control. It sounds crazy, I know. But, from my perspective, denying myself anything seems like a baffling ordeal.
Ironically, this lack of self-control comes from the fact that I have always been deprived of some very fundamental things. Having my wants met is a matter of survival. I have been given a surplus of wrong things, and been denied some right things. I'm not making excuses. I am accepting it so that I can step around it.
How am I doing this? Mindfulness. I'm not going to provide a traditional description of mindfulness. You can look that up yourself. But, for me, it's the practice of stepping outside of yourself and trying as hard as you can to make an objective evaluation of your current state. It's a powerful arrow in your quiver. And it's also really fucking hard to master. But, like that one shot out of ten that gets you on the green, when you get a taste of it, it'll keep you coming back.
I am at that point where I am getting tastes with an occasional spoonful. I am starting to be able to evaluate the status quo and starting to be able to take ownership of the things that work and things that don't.
How am I doing it? Meditation helps. But, with a wandering mind it's really hard - and not to mention boring - to pay attention to nothing but my breathing for 10 minutes. I have found that the biggest obstacle to mindfulness is an inability to accept who you are and what you bring to the table.
I used to think I was a useless piece of shit who brought nothing to the table. Weirdly, I also had delusions of grandeur, with the accompanying sense of entitlement, at some points. This is no longer the case. I know that I am a good person who does good things, but I am also only one person. I have learned the dangers of isolation and learned how sad it makes me to live life by myself. I have learned that I have many people who love me unconditionally and some who don't and that life is better spent with the former group.
This isn't all I've learned, as some of it I can't articulate. But, it's enough for me to wake up every morning and smile. Knowing you have what you need is a powerful thing.
I don't know why I have this problem. I'm an educated, successful, grown-ass man. Yet, too often I let my id take over, like I am a child. I want pizza for lunch; I need pizza for lunch. I want to smoke; I need to smoke. I don't want to help out around the house tonight; I don't need...you get the idea.
It is a matter of self-control. I am not ignorant to the fact that I was raised without any. So, as an adult, I am learning how to have self-control. It sounds crazy, I know. But, from my perspective, denying myself anything seems like a baffling ordeal.
Ironically, this lack of self-control comes from the fact that I have always been deprived of some very fundamental things. Having my wants met is a matter of survival. I have been given a surplus of wrong things, and been denied some right things. I'm not making excuses. I am accepting it so that I can step around it.
How am I doing this? Mindfulness. I'm not going to provide a traditional description of mindfulness. You can look that up yourself. But, for me, it's the practice of stepping outside of yourself and trying as hard as you can to make an objective evaluation of your current state. It's a powerful arrow in your quiver. And it's also really fucking hard to master. But, like that one shot out of ten that gets you on the green, when you get a taste of it, it'll keep you coming back.
I am at that point where I am getting tastes with an occasional spoonful. I am starting to be able to evaluate the status quo and starting to be able to take ownership of the things that work and things that don't.
How am I doing it? Meditation helps. But, with a wandering mind it's really hard - and not to mention boring - to pay attention to nothing but my breathing for 10 minutes. I have found that the biggest obstacle to mindfulness is an inability to accept who you are and what you bring to the table.
I used to think I was a useless piece of shit who brought nothing to the table. Weirdly, I also had delusions of grandeur, with the accompanying sense of entitlement, at some points. This is no longer the case. I know that I am a good person who does good things, but I am also only one person. I have learned the dangers of isolation and learned how sad it makes me to live life by myself. I have learned that I have many people who love me unconditionally and some who don't and that life is better spent with the former group.
This isn't all I've learned, as some of it I can't articulate. But, it's enough for me to wake up every morning and smile. Knowing you have what you need is a powerful thing.
Friday, October 17, 2014
The 4 Train
The next stop is: Brooklyn Bridge/City Hall. Please stand clear of the closing doors. BING BOONG!
Crowded but not bad. I don't need music today. I don't get service between City Hall and 14th Street, anyway, so I would only get, what, one song? It's fine. Hmmm...this is moving pretty well for Fulton Street to City Hall. I might get to Grand Central early. I guess I can go to the bathroom and get some hand sanitizer, maybe I'll...
This is: Brooklyn Bridge/City Hall. Ladies and gentlemen, please be careful of the gap between the platform and the train.
Hmmm...doesn't look like too many people are waiting. Slowing... stopping... Oh...hmmm...a lot of people are are waiting to get on my car. Eh, no problem. Train is moving. So it's a little crowded.
The next stop is 14th Street/Union Square. Please stand clear of the closing doors. BING BOONG!
BOOM! What the fuck, bitch? I know it's crowded, but common courtesy, please! Look at you with your thick-rimmed glasses, flannel-ish shirt, stylish skirt, and ankle boots. Dressed up, self-impressed hipster. Eye roll. Anyway. I hope the train still rolls.
Canal Street.
Spring Street.
Stop.
No problem. I can go to the bathroom on the train they have hand sanitizer.
"Eguirhfhfgjhgpfdfghghfgjf...SOIGOTTHECHARGEDISMISSED!..djfcksahdjfhsafhskljdfhskldfhs."
God, motor mouth, shut the fuck up. Oh, it's that hipster bitch. Go figure, she's a lawyer.
"Ehfdfgklhkldkfjsklfdjsjfs...ICAN'TCUZIHAVEANAFFIDAVITTHATDAY!..sdfkhcniwehiujrncsl."
We get it. You're busy. You're a lawyer. You have a boyfriend who is much more attractive than you. Now, please, shut the fuck up. Oh good, we're moving.
Bleeker Street.
Astor Place.
Crawl.
This is: 14th Street/Union Square. Ladies and gentlemen, please be careful of the gap between the platform and the train.
They're probably getting off. She seems like the kind of person who lives around Union Square. God, there are a lot of people waiting to get on this train. I hope a lot of people get off.
The next stop is 42nd Street/Grand Central. Please stand clear of the closing doors. BING BOONG!
Shit, net zero. SHIT! Motor mouth and her boyfriend are still here. SHIT! I just got pushed right next to them. God, how does this guy tolerate such a wound-up, type-A bitch? He probably keeps on kissing on her to shut her the fuck up.
"Ghuefhrklifdskhdeiurnd...YOUWANNAJUSTSWITCHTOTHE6ATGRANDCENTRAL!..siddjkhfvoe."
FUCK. They're getting off with me. She's the type of person who will just ram through me again to get off, despite the fact I'm getting off. Well, no way. I will win. I will get off first.
Ahh, we're moving. Brace yourself, boy. It's almost go-time. It's like "Saving Private Ryan" and you're cruising to the beach somewhere between 23rd and 28th Streets.
28th Street.
33rd Street.
Crawl.
Stop.
Crawl.
This is: 42nd Street/Grand Central. Ladies and gentlemen, please be careful of the gap between the platform and the train.
"Pardon! PARDON! Excuse me!" I plead, as the bullets rain down on me. The voice, that grating, galloping voice, fades out. I let out a heavy, exulted exhale and climbed the stairs. Move. MOVE! Jesus, tourons.
"You look familiar."
"Yes, Matt LePage and you're but not anymore."
"Yes! Wow. Yeah, I'm getting married in June. How are you?"
"Good, you?"
"I'm well. Where are you commuting from?"
"Wilton."
"Oh, great! My brother lives in Weston, so I'm familiar."
"Yeah, Weston's a great town. OK, so, I have a train to catch."
"Yes, please catch your train."
"OK, bye."
Ugh, not even a "Good seeing you" or "I'm sorry, but I have to run" or "Let's grab a coffee and catch up"? What the hell is wrong with me? What the hell does she think is wrong with me? I have 15 minutes. I have plenty of time. I could crawl, still make the train, and have a seat, to boot. Did this wretchedly self-absorbed conversation have such an effect on me that I am still carrying it and just can't tolerate people in general for a certain grace period? Ugh, I'm gonna message her on Facebook.
Moral of the story: keep going to psychotherapy and ALWAYS listen to music on the subway.
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Choosing to Let Go
"I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me... but it's hard to stay mad, when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst... And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life..."
I love this quote from the movie "American Beauty" said by Lester Burnham (Kevin Spacey). In case you haven't seen it - if you haven't, I suggest you should - the movie centers around Lester and his quest to take his life back from who he perceives as the toxic people around him - his wife, his daughter, his boss, the company he works for.
This movie is one of my all time favorites and has always resonated with me, despite Lester's and my struggles being very different. I actually struggle with anxiety and depression which manifest as a vacillation between emotional paralysis, self-destructive behavior, and intense episodes of self-loathing and self-doubt. Phew, that felt good.
At baseline, my happiness level is much lower than most people's. I have people and things who make me happier: my wife, my kids, my work. Recognizing this, I have spent the past few years actively pursuing happiness; what I perceive to be this paradigm of contentment which has always seemed to elude me.
I read self-improvement articles constantly. I have explored Buddhism and all all sorts of "isms". But, I can never seem to even partially grasp anything I read or explore. That spikes my depression and anxiety and I end up worse than how I started. It's maddening and infuriating.
When it's bad, it's bad. I feel like a punching bag and my mind is getting a good workout on me. It doesn't stop and no matter how hard I try, I can't turn it off. It was one such acute episode of this last year which convinced me I needed help.
I got on meds and recently started going to psychotherapy. While it's helping, I'm still far from well. I know this is a long-term journey that, graphically, when it's all said and done, would have an upward trend. That said, even upward trends have deviations from the norm, some of those total anomalies. Last night, arriving home late from an intensely frustrating Board of Ed meeting, which followed my Ground Zero experience yesterday afternoon, my mind started spiraling out of control. I was emptying the dishwasher and started getting really freaked out that I still had all this stuff to do, despite it being so late, and I was obsessing over what exactly I was going to eat today.
"I need to have vegetables with my lunch. But, I don't want vegetables. God, you're so fucking pathetic. If you don't want to be fat anymore, eat better. Jesus, why can't you do that? Why don't you have any self-control? And stop checking Facebook at work. Successful people don't do that. You want to be successful, right? Do you think Steve Jobs spent as much time as you do futzing around? No, the articles say work straight for 90 minutes and then take a 20 minute break. You probably won't do that. You'll just end up checking Facebook or Twitter. Just do better."
Imagine not being able to turn this off. Imagine knowing this is bullshit. That you are smart and accomplished. That you're working for a reputable company that is a world standard for media and information workflows and that you've been asked to join them in an effort to change the paradigm of not only the way they do business, but how the industry does business. You want it to stop. You tell it to stop, both audibly and inaudibly. But, it doesn't. It just keeps digging and scraping. It reminds me of MG-42 machine gun fire you take in Call of Duty.
While this isn't my daily experience, it happens enough for me to know I am not well. I know it has triggers (see above). I know I can be mindful of those triggers and talk them out with my therapist or R. (Thank you, sweetie, for talking me down last night) R made a good point: I know I'm not happy and I think I know what I need to be happy, so I chase this magic pill - figuratively - that will POOF! make it all better.
One of the things I read that always made me more depressed and now just makes me roll my eyes is that we can be happy simply if we choose to be happy. That might work for some, but for me, and at the risk of speaking out of turn on behalf of other depressed people, we simply cannot do that. We literally have a chemical imbalance in our brains that precludes our being happy at the drop of a hat. It's not an excuse. It's science.
That said, we can make the choice to work to become happy. We can see a psychiatrist and/or a psychotherapist. We can work through our issues, getting down to the most fundamental feelings we have, we can work on getting around them, or we can simply just talk. Even just talking to someone objective who you know will not judge you helps.
One of the things R imparted on me last night is that I should just let it go. Not necessarily push it away or just stand back and let it buck and kick unbridled in my mind. But, to hone in on it with someone who's not experiencing it and highlight what's really behind it. In my case, it was some stress I have been carrying for the past week, my experience at Ground Zero yesterday, and finally the agonizingly late meeting. As an analytical person, this type of root cause analysis was just what I needed. And it enabled me to let it go.
While I will still meditate, be mindful, and reflect on how I can do better - as a husband, father, employee - I am going to stop reading the self-help poppycock out there. While it might work for some, it doesn't work for me and causes me to set unrealistic expectations that don't help me and that I never realize. I have realized that when I focus on the WHY, the HOW is a lot less daunting.
Be well.
"I need to have vegetables with my lunch. But, I don't want vegetables. God, you're so fucking pathetic. If you don't want to be fat anymore, eat better. Jesus, why can't you do that? Why don't you have any self-control? And stop checking Facebook at work. Successful people don't do that. You want to be successful, right? Do you think Steve Jobs spent as much time as you do futzing around? No, the articles say work straight for 90 minutes and then take a 20 minute break. You probably won't do that. You'll just end up checking Facebook or Twitter. Just do better."
Imagine not being able to turn this off. Imagine knowing this is bullshit. That you are smart and accomplished. That you're working for a reputable company that is a world standard for media and information workflows and that you've been asked to join them in an effort to change the paradigm of not only the way they do business, but how the industry does business. You want it to stop. You tell it to stop, both audibly and inaudibly. But, it doesn't. It just keeps digging and scraping. It reminds me of MG-42 machine gun fire you take in Call of Duty.
While this isn't my daily experience, it happens enough for me to know I am not well. I know it has triggers (see above). I know I can be mindful of those triggers and talk them out with my therapist or R. (Thank you, sweetie, for talking me down last night) R made a good point: I know I'm not happy and I think I know what I need to be happy, so I chase this magic pill - figuratively - that will POOF! make it all better.
One of the things I read that always made me more depressed and now just makes me roll my eyes is that we can be happy simply if we choose to be happy. That might work for some, but for me, and at the risk of speaking out of turn on behalf of other depressed people, we simply cannot do that. We literally have a chemical imbalance in our brains that precludes our being happy at the drop of a hat. It's not an excuse. It's science.
That said, we can make the choice to work to become happy. We can see a psychiatrist and/or a psychotherapist. We can work through our issues, getting down to the most fundamental feelings we have, we can work on getting around them, or we can simply just talk. Even just talking to someone objective who you know will not judge you helps.
One of the things R imparted on me last night is that I should just let it go. Not necessarily push it away or just stand back and let it buck and kick unbridled in my mind. But, to hone in on it with someone who's not experiencing it and highlight what's really behind it. In my case, it was some stress I have been carrying for the past week, my experience at Ground Zero yesterday, and finally the agonizingly late meeting. As an analytical person, this type of root cause analysis was just what I needed. And it enabled me to let it go.
While I will still meditate, be mindful, and reflect on how I can do better - as a husband, father, employee - I am going to stop reading the self-help poppycock out there. While it might work for some, it doesn't work for me and causes me to set unrealistic expectations that don't help me and that I never realize. I have realized that when I focus on the WHY, the HOW is a lot less daunting.
Be well.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Ground Zero
Today I learned I hate tourists. Not all tourists. Not even for the obvious reasons. Let me explain.
To me, tourists are like pigeons; they're just a part of the city. I generally ignore them and am not generally annoyed by them. Are there instances where they're in the way when I'm trying to get somewhere? Certainly. Are there instances where I have to jump out of the way of a photo? Yes. Do these things bother me? Not really. It's part of commuting to and working in the city, especially Downtown. Not to sound glib, but it is what it is.
When I quit smoking, I decided that once a day, sometimes twice, given the time, I would take a walk. New York is, after all, a walking city, so why not take advantage, take a break, get some fresh early fall air (even if it is interspersed with diesel fumes), and replace my bad habit with something good? The loop around City Hall Park and by the Brooklyn Bridge is perfect, but it's gotten stale. Broadway down to the water and back is great, but it's too long and too crowded. Today, I decided to take a loop around Ground Zero and come back. Perfect distance. Perfect day. Perfect amount of time. I mapped it and set out into the glorious afternoon sun.
I stepped out onto Fulton Street - which I have learned is wide by Downtown standards - and headed down to Church, hooked a right onto Church, and ran smack dab into a tour group with matching red hats. I meandered through them and subsequent groups, crossed Vesey, cut left and inside another tour group into a mass horde of more tour groups, smaller groups of European tourists, and PATH commuters. It was a game to me. I snaked through group after group, hitting the brakes, looking for my hole, and swoop! Repeat 10-15 times.
I continued on Vesey through a cloistered almost-tunnel, in typical Downtown early-20th Century architecture, and hooked left across Vesey onto West, which surprisingly was not as crowded as the first part of my journey. Once I passed 1 WTC and saw the park, my first thought was I realized where all these tourists I have been seeing since I started working down here have been going. It was like every single one of them, every one of them that has bumped into me, asked me for directions, walked by me speaking in a different language to each other, it's like they were all there. All at that one time. It was a true lightbulb moment.
I continued to meander and snake. Tourists of all size and stripe stood at the sides of the 1-acre pools - footprints of where the towers stood - taking pictures. Of the pools, of 1 WTC, of each other, of themselves. I thought about the time I came to New York in 1990. I thought about riding the bus down West Street with my parents and being confronted by this enormous silver monolith.
"Dad," I asked. "Is that the World Trade Center?"
"Yeah," he said. "That's one of 'em."
My ten-year-old self had never seen anything of that size and scale. I was blown away. And there were two of them! To stand between them felt like you were at the center of the world. That's what I thought about on 9/11.
I was never one of those people who got all emotional about 9/11, besides in the typical non-New-Yorker, non-Washingtonian sense: find the bastards who did this, hang them by their balls with meat hooks, and give any American who wanted to the opportunity to land one solid punch in their face. It was what I thought was the most fitting punishment. Yes, 9/11 was an affront to me as an American, but I didn't have to live with it and be reminded of it every single day. Even now that I'm working Downtown, my first thought was "Uggh, is it gonna be a zoo down here on Thursday?" (It actually wasn't)
But, I digress. Walking around those footprints, something stirred. Something dark, something mean, something depressing. And these people just flock here everyday to take pictures of it. I started to realize these were familiar feelings. I had them at Auschwitz, which is sacred ground for a Jew. Maybe I had more emotions about 9/11. Maybe I had empathy for New York and it's people that I never knew I had. I started to get angry - it's usually where I go when I get sad. I had to get out of there. OK, be cool. Just finish the loop and get the hell out of there.
As I walked on the east side of the Tower 2 footprint, three Spanish girls where trying to pose themselves for a picture. They weren't getting their act together. They were jabbering on about angles, and where to stand. I became incensed. As one of them put her iPhone up to take the picture of another, I walked within six inches in front of the phone, ruining her picture. "Gracias!" she said, sarcastically. Without turning around, I flicked her off and kept walking.
There were so many things I wanted to say and do that I was disappointed I only flicked her off. "Fuck you and your picture, you vapid touron!" was one of them. Knocking the phone to the ground and breaking it was another. The burning tingling was still roiling in my stomach as I turned to the south side. "I need to get out of here," I said to myself, barely audibly.
I turned right back on to West and almost had tears in my eyes. This is sacred ground to me, I realized, and is to many, many people. And tourists like these girls just wanted to get their selfies. It was a photo op for social media. They don't have these feelings of angst and sadness that I now know I have. And I hated them for it.
On the way back, I dodged people like I did on the way down, but this time it wasn't a game; it was with a purpose. St. Paul's beaconed me; "Come back to where it's safe." Fulton Street never looked more welcoming. As I entered my building, I exhaled emphatically. I was safe. All that was left to do was to ride the elevator up 10 floors, where I would be perched above the streets and the ambling masses.
To me, tourists are like pigeons; they're just a part of the city. I generally ignore them and am not generally annoyed by them. Are there instances where they're in the way when I'm trying to get somewhere? Certainly. Are there instances where I have to jump out of the way of a photo? Yes. Do these things bother me? Not really. It's part of commuting to and working in the city, especially Downtown. Not to sound glib, but it is what it is.
When I quit smoking, I decided that once a day, sometimes twice, given the time, I would take a walk. New York is, after all, a walking city, so why not take advantage, take a break, get some fresh early fall air (even if it is interspersed with diesel fumes), and replace my bad habit with something good? The loop around City Hall Park and by the Brooklyn Bridge is perfect, but it's gotten stale. Broadway down to the water and back is great, but it's too long and too crowded. Today, I decided to take a loop around Ground Zero and come back. Perfect distance. Perfect day. Perfect amount of time. I mapped it and set out into the glorious afternoon sun.
I stepped out onto Fulton Street - which I have learned is wide by Downtown standards - and headed down to Church, hooked a right onto Church, and ran smack dab into a tour group with matching red hats. I meandered through them and subsequent groups, crossed Vesey, cut left and inside another tour group into a mass horde of more tour groups, smaller groups of European tourists, and PATH commuters. It was a game to me. I snaked through group after group, hitting the brakes, looking for my hole, and swoop! Repeat 10-15 times.
I continued on Vesey through a cloistered almost-tunnel, in typical Downtown early-20th Century architecture, and hooked left across Vesey onto West, which surprisingly was not as crowded as the first part of my journey. Once I passed 1 WTC and saw the park, my first thought was I realized where all these tourists I have been seeing since I started working down here have been going. It was like every single one of them, every one of them that has bumped into me, asked me for directions, walked by me speaking in a different language to each other, it's like they were all there. All at that one time. It was a true lightbulb moment.
I continued to meander and snake. Tourists of all size and stripe stood at the sides of the 1-acre pools - footprints of where the towers stood - taking pictures. Of the pools, of 1 WTC, of each other, of themselves. I thought about the time I came to New York in 1990. I thought about riding the bus down West Street with my parents and being confronted by this enormous silver monolith.
"Dad," I asked. "Is that the World Trade Center?"
"Yeah," he said. "That's one of 'em."
My ten-year-old self had never seen anything of that size and scale. I was blown away. And there were two of them! To stand between them felt like you were at the center of the world. That's what I thought about on 9/11.
I was never one of those people who got all emotional about 9/11, besides in the typical non-New-Yorker, non-Washingtonian sense: find the bastards who did this, hang them by their balls with meat hooks, and give any American who wanted to the opportunity to land one solid punch in their face. It was what I thought was the most fitting punishment. Yes, 9/11 was an affront to me as an American, but I didn't have to live with it and be reminded of it every single day. Even now that I'm working Downtown, my first thought was "Uggh, is it gonna be a zoo down here on Thursday?" (It actually wasn't)
But, I digress. Walking around those footprints, something stirred. Something dark, something mean, something depressing. And these people just flock here everyday to take pictures of it. I started to realize these were familiar feelings. I had them at Auschwitz, which is sacred ground for a Jew. Maybe I had more emotions about 9/11. Maybe I had empathy for New York and it's people that I never knew I had. I started to get angry - it's usually where I go when I get sad. I had to get out of there. OK, be cool. Just finish the loop and get the hell out of there.
As I walked on the east side of the Tower 2 footprint, three Spanish girls where trying to pose themselves for a picture. They weren't getting their act together. They were jabbering on about angles, and where to stand. I became incensed. As one of them put her iPhone up to take the picture of another, I walked within six inches in front of the phone, ruining her picture. "Gracias!" she said, sarcastically. Without turning around, I flicked her off and kept walking.
There were so many things I wanted to say and do that I was disappointed I only flicked her off. "Fuck you and your picture, you vapid touron!" was one of them. Knocking the phone to the ground and breaking it was another. The burning tingling was still roiling in my stomach as I turned to the south side. "I need to get out of here," I said to myself, barely audibly.
I turned right back on to West and almost had tears in my eyes. This is sacred ground to me, I realized, and is to many, many people. And tourists like these girls just wanted to get their selfies. It was a photo op for social media. They don't have these feelings of angst and sadness that I now know I have. And I hated them for it.
On the way back, I dodged people like I did on the way down, but this time it wasn't a game; it was with a purpose. St. Paul's beaconed me; "Come back to where it's safe." Fulton Street never looked more welcoming. As I entered my building, I exhaled emphatically. I was safe. All that was left to do was to ride the elevator up 10 floors, where I would be perched above the streets and the ambling masses.
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