Clues About Character

By Carrol Vaughn

 My Reflection on 9/11 and someone I never met

He was just another commuter on my train, the Long Island Railroad. Another person just trying to get a seat and sleep before a busy day in New York City.

I arranged myself diagonally in the five seater across from him. There was no applause but I clapped for myself , proud that I had gotten such a great seat. He had unknowingly assured me a good ride into the city even though he barely acknowledged me. His bulk meant that no one would want to squeeze in next to him, thus giving me plenty of room to stretch my legs. His long legs led to knees which rested on the edge of the seat next to me. Surely no one would want to disturb this sleeping giant with "Can I get in there?"

So I placed my purse on the seat, careful not to touch him, and began to relax.

This became a ritual that was played almost daily,   over and over, month after month. In the morning , when the train screeched into the station, I would quickly glance through the dark tinted glass to see if my "seat buddy" was there. With the quickness of a jungle cat (or an obnoxious commuter), I would position myself at the door and pounce on that seat. Anxious  to be comfortable and envious of the Giant who was always already asleep.

Sometimes when I did not fall into a sleep-induced coma, I would stare at him. I was curious about him .I wondered why he was always sleeping. I wondered about his ethnicity . Was he were Irish? He had a ruddy complexion and sturdy chin. His wedding band was thick and embellished, yet simple. Yes, he probably was a good and decent partner.  He didn't really seem friendly and I wondered about that. I thought it could be me, I am always ready to smile and always making new friends. But he didn't seem to be buying. I tried a couple of those half smiles, just because it was polite and 6:30 in the morning.

I also thought we could be separated by the large abyss of race. As a Black woman having grown up on Long Island, I've come to know many white people that did not know many of their black neighbors personally. Long Island remains largely segregated today and there are not many places where people who are different can really get to know one another. Sadly, this is reflected in our schools, our neighborhoods and our churches. It really exists everywhere in a quiet way, never rustling loudly and never provoking much action. If you are fortunate to work in a diverse environment or live in one of the few racially mixed school districts, as I do, then your white neighbors get to know you. And vice-versa. As I board my morning train, I feel rare and unique, as there are only a few women and even fewer men of color on the platform. Some of the white commuters are very friendly and always anxious to exchange pleasantries. This is refreshing and I join in with idle banter. But no matter how riveting the conversation may be, I quickly abandon all chatter as the train pulls in with a simple..."Have a nice day!" My focus is now where I will sit and how I will sleep.

This morning the sleeping Giant was awake and when I slid into the seat we made eye contact and both said "Good morning". I decided he might not be so bad, these white folks were finally coming around ! I would continue to remain vigilant in sizing this guy up. A few days later the conductor interrupted our bliss with demands to see tickets and everyone commenced digging. Today, my seat mate was not wearing his monthly pass in the vinyl ticket holder around his neck and grudgingly produced his wallet.  There were more clues about him! And they were visible for a moment. He was a father, I saw the photo of his children smiling at the Sears photographer. Boys,girls? I wasn't sure. My eyes glanced quickly at the modest amount of credit cards. I smiled inwardly. No crazy shopping sprees for this guy on a lunch break. But that was good, being a homeowner and parent you learn that credit cards are for hot water heaters and soccer cleats.And then I saw it .The shiny badge! It flashed brightly for a moment and then he put the wallet away. He was a cop! I stared at the sleeping man. I felt certain now that he was a good guy. Despite Rodney King and despite everything else I knew, I felt at ease. Safe.

The poor guy probably worked a lot of hours..just in case they needed the hot water heater. Just like my husband. Extra sleep was a luxury. I closed my eyes and enjoyed being in good, trusting company. 

The monotony of commuting is only broken by bright flashes of life that come in the form of trips or visits or parties. We live with expected predictability like the arrival of that train and the sleeping cop being there, sort of saving my seat. A simple good morning and a quick nap. The quiet assuredness of daily life.

And then it was September 11^th, 2001. And nothing would ever be the same again.

Not the way I looked at my world or how it viewed me. In a matter of one day, everything I knew was changed. People who hated this country had destroyed so many lives and killed thousands. Two commercial airline jets were hijacked and crashed into the World Trade Center towers here in New York City. Suddenly, the buildings were gone...people were gone. Soon jobs would be gone . Everything. Everything changed.

And suddenly a President that I had doubted was declaring war against evildoers and we were all afraid. We were numb at the staggering pictures of the thousands who were lost when we watched in horror as the two towers collapsed. We are still reliving the nightmare. Some of us have gone to memorial after memorial and complete strangers will talk to you now about that day. The racial abyss had narrowed somewhat and we all stood on common ground. We now had fear in common. We Americans. Sleep did not come easy to me for a while and a glass of red wine has truly become medicinal. As I am overloaded with news reports and articles about September 11^th, I am amazed at the waves of pain and the tears that still come so easily as I read about the people who died such horrible deaths.

So it is shocking and horrible to me to turn a page in my local newspaper, Newsday and see the large color photograph of my seat buddy smiling at me surrounded by his beautiful family. I am stunned . He was lost that day in Tower II and he was not a policeman. He was a fireman. His name was Doug and he was a strong and undoubtedly brave man.

Like the hundreds of other fireman who arrived on the scene. He went into the burning towers as others were running out.

And I know no abyss of race, no second thoughts of fear could have kept him away. I rode with a hero everyday .And even though I did not know his name, I know his character. And yes, he was a father and a good husband his grieving wife said in the article. On that point I had guessed right. The quiet assuredness of daily life will probably never be ours again in this lifetime. And even though firefighting is a dangerous job, knowing that Doug died going to work is scary. Knowing that I was so close to a hero gives me great comfort. I wish I had known as much about him in life as I now know in death.

I looked around the other morning and no one seemed to notice the Giant was not in his seat. But I did and I prayed quietly to myself for Doug and for the ease with which I used to nap.

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