You guys all know how much I love my city, how I’ve said on more than one occasion New York is ingrained in the very fiber of my being. That there is no where else I can envision living and raising my family. There are so many reasons why I love this place, too many to count honestly. But one of them, one of the biggest, most important reasons is this: I have seen terrorism up close, I have experienced it in a way that I pray none of you have. I have been afraid, furious, exhausted and saddened by it. But here’s what I’ve never been…I’ve never been a coward toward it. I have never run from it or locked my doors to it. When my city, hell, my backyard was crumbling, my first instinct was not to run but to help. HOW DO WE FIX THIS? We help. Look for the helpers. History will write this time in our children’s and grand children’s books…what do we want it to say? Do we want it to say America cowered, gave in and refused to help or do we want it to say America helped? I have the great privilege of living in a city where I am reminded of my good fortune every day. I have the advantage of seeing Lady Liberty, standing strong and proud in the harbor symbolizing the very thing we take for granted…our freedom. We have to stop finger pointing, yelling and blaming. This is exactly what they want. We have to find a way to take a stand, embrace the people who are truly being terrorized and help. This is not about religion or politics, or race. This is about facing evil and overcoming it with good. The God I have been acquainted with taught me that. If you want this war to stop, then do something. Educate yourself about the needs of our country and volunteer. Give back to the very community that supports you. Teach your children that you can all make a difference.
BELIEVE it. I do.
A the base of the Staute Of Liberty is this poem that we all know, reacquaint yourself with it, it’s the truth. I wish you peace.
“The New Colossus” – Emma Lazarus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”