When I go to New York City, it always feels like the center of the universe. Last Friday, at the end of the red line, near Trinity Church, it felt like the soul of America. The subway stop is still called the “World Trade Center.” Leaving the dark tunnel for the bright afternoon sunshine, the new Freedom Tower looms overhead. Three thousand construction workers raising steel around the clock to bring the phoenix back from the ashes.
Two blocks away is Zuccotti Park. The Occupy Wall Street festivities are in full swing. Media, tourists, and police outnumber the protestors. There is more talk about the coming snow storm than taking over the stock exchange. Surprisingly, the topic of the day appears to be gas drilling in New York State, not stopping the banks. I suddenly realize the park is privately owned by Brookfield Properties and that I own the stock, subtracting from my protest credentials. Nonetheless there is the energy of a mystical vortex, as the drums beat, the video feed goes out to the world and letters, food packages and clothing pour in from around the country.
We walk another block and around the corner to the 9/11 memorial. Admission is by free ticket, downloaded from the memorial website. My spouse tracks down the name of her classmate, former East Washington resident and 9/11 victim, Angela Reed Kyte, takes a photo and says a prayer. I simply feel the power of the size and splendor of the twin waterfalls and infinity pools. I hope that the newly planted swamp oaks will survive the snow storm that will ravish the city over the weekend.
As the sun begins to set, we take the short walk to the Stock Exchange. The large bull statute is heavily guarded by police. Every Asian tourist wants a photograph. Somehow this symbol of power and finance, highlighting the one industry in which we still excel, feels like the source of everything that is right and wrong with America.
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