 |
| New York, New York. |
Years ago I worked for a local paper out west, relocating to Denver because my then-husband was flailing in the Big Apple, and I wanted to help him if I could. I knew I'd always come home, because my ancestors helped built this town, but also because I never felt like I had to run away from here. Anyway, I was young and ready for adventure at points as yet unknown. The day I said goodbye to Manhattan, I went to Rockefeller Center, Tiffany's and St. Patrick's Cathedral. I remember I leaned on the railing that hung over the empty off-season ice rink, and I said softly to myself "I'll be back", and I meant it.
On the day of the 9/11 attack, I watched in mute silent horror as a plane hit a tower in my beloved city, on a huge bank of tv's in The Denver Post's newsroom. An editor alerted us to the news story coming over the wire. Our studio was right next to The Pit, a slew of desks manned by the enormous editorial team. At first we thought it was a small plane blown off course, because that sometimes happens over the windy tempestuous skies of New York. Years ago, a Yankee ball player with a private pilot's license sheared off course over the East River to do just that: slam into a building unintentionally due to high winds over the river. We talked about the plane crash in the design studio, with me as the conversational lead, because I was the only native New Yorker present with city experience.
Then someone came running in to the studio again "Another tower's been hit! Two planes! It's an attack!" He was smiling and excited. We ran into the newsroom to see the second tower burning and in flames. I put my hands up to cover my mouth. Someone next to me said "She's from New York" and from then on it was like a nightmare in slow motion, because that's how slowly I saw the towers crumble and fall. I cried out I think "no no no no!!" but I don't really remember. The next thing I can recall is that I sat at my desk, numb and shaking. There were no "sorries" from my co-workers, no handshakes, no pats on the back, just a group of out of towners silently walking around me. I said (mostly to myself) "You have no idea how many people just died. You have no idea how big those towers are, how many people they hold, the scale of them unless you've been there and seen it for yourself. You just watched thousands of people die, live on television." I remember the newsroom buzzed with the news, with talks of editorial awards already in the works, layouts being hastily made, phones ringing, people running around, high fiving each other.
This kind of break from the norm is the stuff that news programs dream of, and this event was no exception, except for one person there, and that was me. I tried to talk with another employee I knew; he had a smirk on his face about American retribution, some lefty speech about our comeuppance ready to fly off his lips, solid in the comfort that he had an Asian wife at home, smug in his practiced anti-"The Man" stance, so common of the stereotypical liberal media type used to free lunches and union coverage. After I started talking, the smile slowly faded from his eyes, and finally he realized he should have the decency to be embarrassed, looking down at his desk, bowing his head in shame. Back in the design studio, our ineffectual manager (who rode his way to the top slowly and very gradually, by simply being an union employee who never left his first job out of school) tried to console us: "Ok, OK. I know it's upsetting, but lets' try and get back to work." Right. Because I give two fucks about the garden ad that just crossed my desk. I don't think so.
A few months later, The Denver Post and The Rocky Mountain News announced that their competitive practices and union shops had bankrupted both papers. Thanks to a US Constitutional Amendment that preserves Freedom of the Press, both papers would consolidate all departments except the editorial ones under a new company called The Denver Newspaper Agency. They offered employees total contractual buyouts; a year's salary paid upfront and health insurance for six months also paid by them, the result of many hours of union negotiations. Later that day, the VP of Production and Design, a handsome, kind, and intelligent older man I'd always liked, stopped by to tell me that the kind of people who left were the kind of people who knew they would make it; it wasn't the worst people who left first, it was always the best, and then he walked away. I was the first person at The Denver Post to opt out of my contract and take the buy out deal on the table. Within a year, I moved back to Brooklyn, with their money in my pocket.
This story from my life is my gift to you, New York.
