It is the last Sunday of September 2001. I am in the lobby of a Lower Manhattan building greeting area residents who have come to sign-up for American Red Cross assistance because of the impact of the 9/11 attacks.
My post is the front door, where I make sure these survivors have the documents they need. Then I direct them to the basement to be processed by the trained Red Cross Team -16 experienced folks in their 60’s, 70’s and 80’s from Kansas, in New York for the first time. These friendly, energetic volunteers have been working with NYC residents for the past two weeks.
It is the end of the day; I head downstairs with my completed daily form. The Kansas volunteers have folded up their individual tables and are talking in small groups. They are waiting, as they have every day since they arrived, for the van which will drive them back to their hotel. Suddenly, the local NYC Volunteer Coordinator speaks.
“LADIES and GENTLEMEN, May I have your attention?
I have just been informed that Jack our driver will not be coming this evening to pick us up with the van. This means that we need to get ourselves back to midtown. Tonight, we’ll take the Number 1 to the hotel.”
For a moment, there was not a sound in the room. Folks started looking at each other, shrugging their shoulders and shaking their heads. The van was the only mode of transportation they had known these last 14 days. Someone finally spoke the question on all their minds: “What’s the Number 1?”
The NYC coordinator realized this group of Midwesterners did not have a clue about the City’s public transportation system.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the Number 1 is one of our subway lines and a great one for us because it stops just a block from the hotel.”
The reaction was instantaneous. People began gasping for air, grabbing their chests, leaning against nearby poles as if to keep from fainting. It was a strong, visceral response. Terror and shock were beginning to overcome this band of Kansas volunteers as they were processing the news: they would be traveling on the New York subway system. My God, I wondered, what on earth do people back in Kansas think happens on the subway? I answered my question as soon as I asked it: Mugging, mayhem, and murder!
Almost as quickly as they lost their composure, this team regained it. One by one, the awareness that they were turning into frightened visitors struck them. They had, for a moment, lost sight of their purpose: they were dedicated volunteers whose mission was to serve the harmed people of this great city. They had come a long way to be of assistance. Something like a subway ride was not going to be their undoing, no matter what they had heard their entire lives about the subway.
There was a lot of gulping and clearing of throats. People were brushing off their sweaters, shaking their heads and intentionally standing up straight. A murmur swept through the crowd. The Kansans started to speak.
“Yes, why of course.”
“Sure, we can take the subway.”
“No problem, happy to do so…”
There was a lot of head nodding, smiling, and hand waving.
When the room had reclaimed its sense of purpose, the coordinator simply said:
“OK then, here we go! Keep your eyes on me.”
I smiled as I trailed behind. They reminded me of a group of little ducklings, flocking together and sticking close as they waddled their way to their uncertain journey. In two blocks, we reached the big red sign that beckoned folks underground: “NUMBER 1 LINE”. As they descended the subway stairs, my smiling and chuckling changed.
Barbara, this is bravery; this is heroism. These Midwesterners are not big city people. They have traveled more than a thousand miles to help New Yorkers recover from a terrorist attack. A tremendous amount of uncertainty about the safety of the City prevails. These volunteers are setting aside their personal fears and anxieties and, with grace and determination, facing that most daunting of experiences: riding a New York subway.
Thank You Kansas!