A West Side Story

My son and I chose not to get visitor passes that would have given us access to the 9/11 Memorial at Ground Zero. For him, it was about imperialism and hypocrisy and the crass monetization of a terrible human tragedy. For me, it was about not wanting to freeze my ass off waiting in a ridiculously long line.

I don't have any regrets about our choice, just as I have no regrets about foregoing a show with my mom and her friend so I could spend an afternoon aimlessly wandering the streets of New York with my son. No doubt the sight of the thousands of names on the massive tombstone would have moved me to tears. The sight of the gaping hole where the towers once stood, even ten years later, still takes my breath away. The growing "Freedom Tower" sparkles with the promise of peace and prosperity, but it is difficult for me to get past the waste and the grief.

Lower Manhattan looks a lot different these days. The perimeter of Ground Zero is no longer draped in makeshift tributes, the neighboring Trinity Church is no longer shrouded in a dark cloak of mourning. The once gritty landscape of the waterfront to the west glistens now, the dilapidated skeleton of the West Side Highway has been replaced by wide open gardens and a river promenade and beautifully sculpted paths. The streets surrounding Ground Zero are filled with camera toting tourists, the sidewalks are lined with sleek new hotels and shops. As I sat last night in a candlelit fifth floor lobby that vibrates with live music and sexual energy as it overlooks the 9/11 crater, I felt guilty, as if I was somehow dancing on a mass grave.

Time marches on, and moments that define a generation inevitably become ancient history, a chapter in a textbook. What we thought would always be sacred, hallowed ground has become, once again, a thriving center of commerce, a place where folks can read blurbs about what happened here and then scurry across the street for a glitzy lunch.

I reminded my son, now twenty-one, that he informed me in the weeks after the towers fell that he would one day join the air force. Time has marched on for him as well, and his cynicism about all governments, including our own, at least gives me the comfort of knowing that he will never voluntarily put himself in a flight suit and risk his life at war. I can be as patriotic as the next guy, but it would be tough for me to happily sign on for that kind of loss.

We gradually made our way north, our conversation moving seamlessly from political debate (more like a one-sided rant on his part, with occasional nods or defensive objections from me) to safer ground. A talented and passionate writer, he posed a question his professor had tossed his way: "Why do you write?" He urged me past my initial responses -- it's therapeutic, I'm narcissistic, it gives me clarity -- and made me realize that, yes, I write for those reasons, but for something more as well. Writing connects me, not just to my small band of readers, but to people in general. I love discovering that my mundane thoughts may have touched a nerve in someone else, that another person has similar concerns, similar questions, similar dreams. Writing -- and reading -- fosters understanding, and, ultimately, as my son suggested, writing and reading make us better people.

My very cynical and often contrarian son graduates from college today, and he has chosen to participate in the ceremony, even though he thinks such things are, well, bullshit. I would have supported his choice either way, but I am not so secretly thrilled that he has chosen to walk with his class. Several months ago, when he insisted he would not do so, he felt certain that graduation ceremonies were just worthless dog and pony shows for parents, a prize for the thousands of dollars they've spent on tuition. He told me yesterday how much he values the time he spent here, how much he has learned. His participation today is, naturally, thrilling for his parents, but gratifying for him as well. That is true cause for celebration.

I have no idea where the future will take him, and neither does he. Who knows, maybe when I visit him in New York a few months from now he will overlook his distaste for what he considers to be crass commercialization and choose to visit the 9/11 Memorial after all. His curiosity might just get the best of him. No matter what, he plans to keep writing, not just because he thinks it will make him a better person, but because he enjoys the way his writing connects him to himself and others.

He sometimes thinks he should choose a different path, something maybe a bit more lucrative. Maybe one day he will. But for now, I hope he continues to do what he's been doing, with no regrets.