Picking it up

In an effort to kickstart my lacking physical fitness, I’ve started taking the stairs out of home my home subway station.

You should know that the 181st A train is situated about 14 miles* below the surface of Washington Heights, so we not talking about one or two short flights up and out. (*it maybe a little less than 14 miles… but it may or may not be reasonably close to the center of the earth, five or take).

As I started up the stairs the other evening, I could see about halfway up an MTA worker was standing on one of the landings and woman one landing up from him, looking back in interest. The worker was holding some industrial-sized tongs, and a bag. The tongs looked large enough to extract a festering rodent from such a stairwell, and from the looks on his and the onlooking lady’s face- that’s what I assumed we dealing with. But I couldn’t see the floor of the landing from where I was.

I should mention that the stairway is divided by metal bars, railings, interconnected from top to bottom in a way that to switch between sides of the stairway after committing to one side is not something easily done or recommended. I’m not one to risk bodily harm, or extreme subway schmutz on my clothes (or both) to test my prowess on such a feat. I mention this because the lady watching the scene play out was on the other side of the stairwell, while the worker eyeing the whatever-it-is was in mine.

(You might think you know where this going- but I just said I wouldn’t try to climb over the railings, and I’m sticking to it. Even if meant some rat innards may soon be sticking to my shoe. So this not that story.)

As I near the landing in question, the lady’s attention remains as wrapt as the worker’s reticence to perform his duty. A few more steps, and just before the landing comes in to view I ready myself for carnage, maybe a rotten smell, or perhaps just a rat on its back, frozen in time and rigor mortis. Maybe it’s some human feces, that’d be tong-worthy, although i think I’d have smelled that one a few landings ago. Or perhaps just food mess of some kind- he would’t to pick that up with his hands- but would that have cause the woman to remain above and gawk? Well imagine my surprise, my relief when as I reach the landing what the worker is reaching for with his tongs is a discarded, seemingly used syringe and hypodermic needle. That’s not something you see every day- anymore anyway.

There was time when needles were commonplace in subways stations. That recent, but bygone era when you couldn’t walk down the street without bumping into some smack-riddled addict stumbling down the street. Now, I’m sure this wasn’t that at all. No, just a diabetic who, having overdid walking up the stairs, needed a shot of insulin to themselves the rest of the way up, and then in the process of put the needle in their portable sharps container carelessly missed and dropped it in the stairwell. That’s the story I myself, and the only thing I pick up is my pace to head up the rest of the stairs and into the night air.

Anger at 17

Another September 11 is upon us. When I think of of September 11, I remember all the lives lost, all the acts of heroism, the immediate unity we all coalesced under. And I remember the awful time that followed here in New York City. The tragedy itself, the immediate grief, and the painful aftermath are all rolled up into one for me when September 11 is mentioned.   

Let me state for the record, I didn’t lose anyone on September 11. The closest I came at the time to even knowing someone who did was a co-worker at my new job (which I started on September 12, a day later than I was supposed to have) who lost her mother.

But I did live here. I lived through that time, as all of us did who lived and worked here. I remember the eerie quiet in the city the in the days just after. I remember the overwhelming smell that stuck to the back of your throat. The odd haze that hung over the skyline and down city blocks. How it seemed we were all walking around in a daze.

I don’t state this as badge of experience. I realize that my experience was not unique, that my direct connection could have been so much worse- as it was for many. My geographic proximity to the tragedy by no means earns me some sort of participation trophy. And yet, the phrase “never forget” drives me to anger. As if anyone one of us who waded their way through the aftermath of that awful day needs to be reminded to NOT forget. For a lot of us that live here still, we aren’t really afforded the option of forgetting. I remember September 11 every day. When I get on the subway. When a group of sirens blares louder than normal. When I see random National Guards armed with assault rifles posted in public places. When I look out my window at work at see a plane seemingly flying lower than usual. It always takes me back to that time. That any number of mundane daily activities, like going to work, can be putting yourself in harm’s way. So yeah, I don’t forget. I’ve never forgotten.

However, as I’ve stated, and apparently need to remind myself: this tragedy doesn’t belong to me by any stretch. Everyone is entitled to their piece of it, to their own pain. And while I am entitled to my anger, I don’t need to be angry at someone else’s grief. It doesn’t matter if you lived around the corner from the Pentagon or in North Dakota - this was a crime committed against America, against humanity. If you count yourself among either of those groups you get to process your pain how you want. If “never forget” is your tribute to the heroes, the lost- if it’s what you say because you don’t what else to say? You’re allowed. Because what else is there to say? Today should be about love and continued healing. I’m still working on that, I guess. And after seventeen years, I suppose that’s what makes me angry.