As I watched the television among a roomful of people that day, I had no idea that I was staring at the city that would, in less than four years, become my home.  All I could see was chaos and destruction, lives forever changed, hearts broken.  And yet my life’s path was headed straight toward that island. On September 11th of every year since 2005, the downsides of living in Manhattan all melt away as I am overwhelmed with the pride of being a New Yorker.

By the time I got here, the smoke had cleared and the debris was gone.  But this city would never be the same.  Thousands of people had vanished from its streets.  There were gaping holes, in hearts and on the ground.  But that wasn’t the end of the story.  St. Paul’s Chapel became a memorial in addition to a church, and in the process hosted visitors who would never have stepped inside otherwise.  The World Trade Center site went from being an area of destruction to construction (though the process has been a long, seemingly interminable one).  And then there are the changes that can’t be photographed or measured–the changes that occurred within the citizens of the city.  Chaos converted to hope.  Vulnerability turned into strength.  David Wilcox commemorated the beauty that was revealed in a devastated population in his song “City of Dreams”:

From the top of the towers
You could see past the narrows
Past our lady of the harbor
To the broad, open sea
See the curve of the earth
On the vast, blue horizon
From the world’s greatest city
In the land of the free

All the brave men and women
that you never would notice
From the precincts and fire halls
The first on the scene
Storming into the buildings
On the side of the angels
They were gone in an instant
In the belly of the beast

We are children of slavery
children of immigrants
Remnants of tribes and their tired refugees
As the walls tumble down
We are stronger together
Stronger than we ever knew we could be
As strong as that statue that stands for the promise
Of liberty here in this city of dreams
Liberty here in this city of dreams

All the flags on front porches
And banners of unity
Spanning the bridges
From the top of the fence
As we heal up the wounds
And take care of each other
There’s more love in this nation
Than hate and revenge

People come to New York to be identified with the character of this city, both before and after the horror of 9/11.  Frank said that if you make it here, you can make it anywhere.  Instead of living easy or out of touch, Billy gave into his New York state of mind.  And everyone’s favorite urban poet Jay-Z reminds us of the eight million stories in this city beyond compare.

And me?  I came here to prove that I could.  To say that I did.  I figured that would take about a year, and then I could return to my previously scheduled existence.  But here I am still, four years later.  It turned out that New York became more than just a line for my resume.  I arrived fresh from a six-year period of deconstruction provided by a holy wrecking ball upon my carefully-planned life.  I thought I was in for a break from all that, for some cruising through an alternate life before I returned home.  But I was home, the minute I crossed the Lincoln Tunnel.  It took me awhile to realize it, because I didn’t think home would involve tight spaces, seas of people, and financial impossibility.  I should have known better than to value the credibility of my own predictions.

Never underestimate the potential that lies within a pile of rubble.

I love all the things about my life that I never imagined could happen before it included New York.  Like how yesterday, a Monday morning, involved a walk through the Central Park Zoo watching the sea lions and overhearing the differences between them and seals. (Sea lions can walk and have bigger flippers.  You’re welcome.)  Or my ride on the train on Sunday, when I listened to a five-year-old girl expertly tell her younger brother that they were on the local downtown train but would have to transfer to the express at the next stop.  (When I was five, I was talking about glitter.)  Or the ab-cramping laughter I know is sure to follow when AC starts a story with, “SHUT UP.  Listen to what happened.”  Or the virtual impossibility of, among eight million people and two thousand miles from “home,” finding my best friend and true love in one man who knows AND loves me. Or the view from Brooklyn of a skyline that no longer holds two towers, but holds my story and countless others within its span.  A story written by a love that is big enough to include that skyline, every other one, and two beams crossing each other against a backdrop of darkness.   A story that may not be safe, but is truly beyond compare.