THE
VigilanceVoice
Dec.
18--Tuesday--Ground
Zero
Plus
98
THE
RESURRECTION
OF
A
PATRIOTIC
TEAR
by
Cliff
McKenzie
Editor,
New
York
City
Combat
Correspondent
Team
Some
things
make
you
want
to
cry.
I
felt
sad
this
past
Sunday
when
I
watched
the
final
skeleton
of
the
World
Trade
Center
being
crushed
into
the
rubble.
It
had
stood
for
as
long
as
the
building
had
collapsed,
a
defiant
reminder
that
you
can
“kill
some
of
us
some
of
the
time,
but
not
all
of
us
all
of
the
time.”
The
twisted
steel
outer
skeletal
structure
that
had
been
the
engineering
marvel
of
constructing
skyscrapers
when
the
building
opened
in
1972,
now
was
being
mashed
and
pulverized
into
the
gaping
tomb
where
the
Terrorists
had
flown
two
fuel
engorged
jet
planes
in
their
attempt
to
cripple
America
with
fear,
intimidation
and
complacency.
Amidst
the
ruins,
a
lonely
Christmas
Tree
had
been
lighted.
It
was
a
bizarre
moment,
trying
to
bring
cheer
into
the
heart
of
the
holocaust.
That
made
my
tears
a
little
more
acidic
as
it
welled
in
my
eyes,
and
slowly
drained
down
my
cheeks.
“I
didn’t
want
to
see
that
come
down,”
said
my
friend,
Peter,
at
Starbucks
as
we
had
coffee
and
talked.
“It
meant
the
end
of
an
era.
It
meant
we
weren’t
safe
any
more.”
Peter
talked
about
his
complacency.
After
the
first
attack
on
the
World
Trade
Center,
security
was
heightened.
He
was
sure
nothing
like
this
could
ever
happen
again.
He
fell,
as
so
many
did,
into
a
state
of
assurance
that
we
were
“ready
for
anything.”
“It
bothered
me
so
much
when
they
flew
the
planes
into
the
building
and
it
collapsed,”
he
said.
“I
felt
like
a
fool
thinking
we
had
our
defenses
ready.
Now,
I
know
better.”
Peter
is
a
true
New
Yorker.
He’s
been
here
many
years.
I
haven’t.
I
came
from
Orange
County,
California
just
two
years
ago
Christmas.
I
hadn’t
absorbed
the
Twin
Towers
into
my
heart
and
soul,
or
let
it
become
part
of
the
marrow
of
my
being
as
so
many
had.
I
hadn’t
even
been
to
the
roof
of
the
1,368-foot
building,
or
seen
the
awesome
view
that
everyone
spoke
about.
My
attachment
to
the
Twin
Towers
was
born
on
September
11
when
I
was
at
Ground
Zero,
watching
them
burn,
watching
people
falling
or
jumping
from
them.
I
was
there
when
they
collapsed,
and
debris
shot
out
and
people
screamed
and
fell
and
many
died.
I
was
there
when
I
thought
I
would
die,
assured
the
Terrorists
had
blown
up
the
subways
and
released
a
deadly
biochemical.
I
was
there
helping
people
and
writing,
and
feeling
the
dull
thud
of
America’s
security
breeched,
and
the
dangers
that
represented
to
my
two
daughters
in
New
York
City,
and
my
two
grandchildren
who
live
and
play
and
grow
here.
So
when
the
scene
of
the
last
skeleton
of
defiance
was
torn
down,
I
choked
back
a
lump
in
my
throat.
Scenes
of
people
running,
screaming,
their
eyes
wide
with
fear,
their
sobs
and
words
of
“we’re
all
going
to
die,”
rang
in
my
ears,
flashed
in
my
mind.
It
brought
back
the
sadness
of
the
American
Flag
being
taken
down
from
the
American
Embassy
in
Saigon
and
the
people
clinging
to
the
skids
of
the
last
helicopters
taking
off
before
the
Viet
Cong
swarmed
over
it,
taking
possession
of
our
“soil”
and
grinding
their
heels
in
our
faces
as
we
retreated
from
the
quagmire
of
a
political
war
we
could
never
win.
It
reminded
me
of
the
spooky
feeling
I
always
feel
when
I
walk
along
The
Wall
in
Washington
D.C.
and
touch
the
names
of
my
comrades
who
died
in
that
war.
I
felt
the
reverse
of
what
Francis
Scott
Key
felt
when
he
stood
on
the
stern
of
the
enemy’s
ship
and
wrote
the
words:
“Oh,
Say
Can
You
See…”
which
has
become
our
National
Anthem.
In
virtual
seconds,
the
Twin
Towers,
once
the
engineering
marvel
of
the
world—110
stories
high,
its
foundations
sixty-feet
deep
into
the
earth—became
no
longer
16
acres
of
power
and
might,
but
instead,
a
great,
gaping
wound,
a
ruptured
womb
of
security,
bleeding,
tattered,
ravaged
by
madmen
who
rank
above
Jack
The
Ripper.
It
was
a
sad
day
for
me.
I
thought
of
the
bravery
and
courage
of
those
who
died
that
day.
One
person
I
thought
of
heavily
was
my
friend’s
brother,
a
war
photographer,
Bill
Biggert.
He
traveled
the
world,
shoving
his
camera
in
the
faces
of
death
and
destruction,
always
eager
to
get
in
the
thick
of
it
all.
He
didn’t
use
telephoto.
He
liked
to
push
his
camera
full
frame
in
people’s
faces,
to
capture
the
angst,
the
sweat
drops,
the
pain
of
war
and
conflict.
Once,
he
had
even
photographed
Osama
bin
Laden.
He
had
been
in
many
wars,
many
battles.
But
his
ironic
death
was
to
be
in
Manhattan
on
September
11
as
he
shoved
his
camera
into
the
faces
of
firemen
and
police
and
emergency
workers
struggling
to
save
thousands
from
the
holocaust.
On
the
fateful
morning
of
September
11,
I
had
coffee
with
Emily,
his
sister.
As
the
Terrorist
plane
flew
overhead,
I
knew
something
was
wrong.
It
was
too
low,
its
engines
screaming.
I
grabbed
my
computer
and
rushed
down
to
the
World
Trade
Center.
Simultaneously,
in
another
part
of
town,
Bill
Biggert
was
grabbing
his
cameras
and
rushing
down
there
too.
“Be
careful,
Cliff.
God,
be
careful,”
Emily
said
to
me
as
I
rushed
off
toward
Lower
Manhattan.
I
survived.
Bill
Biggert
didn’t.
He
died
taking
pictures.
I
lived
to
remember.
I
lived
to
shed
a
tear
for
Bill
and
for
countless
others.
So
when
I
watched
the
skeleton
of
the
World
Trade
Center
being
torn
down,
and
the
lights
of
the
Christmas
Tree,
I
felt
a
sadness
that
men
and
women
who
have
seen
so
much
senseless
destruction
in
their
lives
feel.
It
was
a
hollow
emptiness.
The
same
emptiness
I
had
carried
around
for
thirty-five
years
from
Vietnam.
But
one
thing
held
me
together.
The
flags.
 |
Out
of
the
ashes
of
destruction
has
come
a
unity,
a
common
thread
of
Patriotism
|
Out of the ashes of destruction has come a unity, a bond, a
common thread of American patriotism that has justified in some
small way the horror of September 11. The sacrifice
of all those victims of the September 11th attack
has not gone for naught.
I see in the flags that fly a Spirit of Resurrection.
I see and feel that America has been awakened from years and
years of selfishness, and complacency and “me-ism.”
For the first time in my lifetime, the words E Pluribus Unum—Out
Of Many. One. has meaning to me. Many
died on September 11. But out of those unfortunate deaths
has risen one nation.
I feel a pride today in America. I feel a unification.
I feel part of other Americans as I have never felt before.
The bitterness in me for being shunned and spat upon when I
came back from Vietnam to a nation of hate and anger and recrimination,
has been salved by the new patriotism.
Just the other day on 39th and 5th Avenue
I saw an American Flag all twisted by the wind, snarled around
the flagpole. I was standing by my daughter’s Jeep
I had borrowed, looking at the flag, wondering if people still
cared about their country three months and some days later.
Then I saw a Hispanic man, probably an emigrant, coming up from
the basement of the restaurant where the flag stood.
He brought up a tall ladder. I sensed a moment of
tribute about to occur, and loaded my camera.
He climbed the ladder toward the flag. And, as I
clicked one picture after another, he untwisted the flag so
it hung proudly. Then he came down the ladder, put it
in the basement, and went back inside the restaurant.
I stood there for a long, absorbing moment. I thought
of the Resurrection of Patriotism. I thought about
a man from another country adopting America as his.
He had seen Freedom’s Flag all twisted and disheveled, and took
a moment out to right its power.
Then I felt another tear. Not of sadness as I had felt
on Sunday, but a tear of joy and happiness and pride that made
all the horror of September 11th bearable.
America had grown stronger.
I had grown prouder.
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