I was sixteen years old entering third period of junior year, coincidentally my American History class with Mr. Jones. When my childhood friend Chris came running up to me to tell me the Twin Towers were falling to the ground, and that planes flew into them. We as a group of friends regularly messed with each other back then so I of course didn’t believe him. I brushed him off, laughed, and continued on into class. Upon entering class I quickly, and soberingly realized what Chris came rushing to tell me was in fact true. That day, and the next few days did not feel real. It was as surreal as anything I have ever experienced, and perhaps may ever experience.
I’m a New Yorker. I’m from Jersey, but New York is my city. It’s where I learned about life. I love it there; even today with all of its current problems. I briefly lived in Los Angeles, but it always felt like a vacation and never quite like a home the way New York always did, and always will. I cut my teeth on the East Coast. I proudly grew up taking the train regularly from Jersey to New York. Always looking for some good old fashioned suburban teen trouble in the big city, as a young kid from Jersey should do. Innocent mostly, and just your basic coming of age stuff, I regret nothing, and would do it all over again. And, it was not just waiting for the weekend kind of debauchery. It was the good old cutting school on a weekday; lying to my parents about visiting a college kind of fun to be had. Pretending to take a “College Day,” as the adults called it. But, what was really happening was of course shooting into the city with my older friends, never having college on the mind. We would usually start by drinking some cheap beer in a park purchased from a bodega shop owner who gladly sold us under-aged. Then we would sneak into punk shows, and subsequently afterwards try to get into all the cool trashy punk bars on St. Marks or in Alphabet City. We would party, listen to shitty music, and try to score with chicks till whenever we ran out of money. Well the key part was partying till you almost ran out of money. It was always extremely important to have some scrap leftover for train fare, pizza, and maybe a coffee to sober up, maybe. Usually not leaving The Big Apple till around 3 AM. Grabbing that slice on the way out of the city in Penn Station, and catching the train home. Always, and impressively if I do say so myself still going to school the next day for a 7:30 AM homeroom. It was a special time, and a special place.
Most of these special times happened post 9/11. We were young and dumb, and never thought twice about another attack. Now fast forward my young and dumbness to 2020 and I am now thirty-five years old and as one would hope when they become an adult; I’m in a much different place in my life. I’m settling down, and fun to me, and my own personal goals have been re-defined in many different ways. I’m looking to start a family. Be the Dad that embarrasses everybody when we all go out to eat. The Dad, and Husband who obsessively reads the New York Post to stay in the know, as a caring head of the household should do. The Dad who cares far too much about the few and far between moments of Zen when I get to sit alone in relative silence on the front porch listening to the Yankees (Baseball on the radio is Shakespeare) on the radio with a cold beer, and some chips. Preferably Budweiser and Salt and Vinegar, if you were at all wondering.
And, well, now as an adult who wants these special moments with a family, and cherishes the idea of them; I have begun to think about these personal goals with reverence over most other things in life. The kind of reverence that has brought me to deeply feel for maybe the first time in my life that I am beginning to remember, mourn, and reflect 9/11 with the gravity and sincerity it so deserves. In fact throughout today I have been scrolling through still images of firefighters that day, videos of the President on the rubble speaking to the first responders, and simply reading about families missing their Mothers, Fathers, Siblings, and Friends; which of course has all brought me to tears multiple times today. Now that I am at a place in my life seeing a family unit, and a home as the ultimate goal I could not imagine it being torn apart by such a despicable act of gutless evil.
With that being said--I’m going to honor New York and the fallen today the way I have always enjoyed New York and the way she has always been special, and good to me. Good Music, A Cold Beer, and The Yankees. With that I want to leave you with an anecdotal tribute about one of my favorite fellow New Jersey Natives who saw New York as his home city as well.
James Gleick the author posted on Twitter a remembrance for Anthony Bourdain after his sad and unfortunate suicide, a day or two after I believe. It’s short, simple, and like most things Bourdain would say and/or write it’s fucking spot on, cuts the fat, and hits you right in the gut.
“I was on a panel with Anthony Bourdain in Sydney ten years after 9/11 when a questioner asked us whether the attacks weren’t our (Americans’) own fault. While I mulled my answer, he replied:
“Fuck you, and fuck the horse you rode in on.”
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