It was exactly a year ago when I found myself sitting at a table at the 9/11 Memorial Museum cafe. I had responded to an ad on the memorial Web site that intrigued me. The position was for a part-time visitor-services host and, at 27, I was eager to find meaningful work.
The interviewer nodded at my credentials, but looked deeply into my eyes. “You do know what happened?” she asked, leaning in. “Can you handle working here?”
I thought I knew everything about 9/11 because I grew up in northern New Jersey.
I assured her I understood why the 9/11 Memorial Museum had been built — as a way to show how beauty and integrity can arise from a deep, ugly hole.
But she wanted to know more about my character. Was I tough? Was I a crybaby? How would I deal with the public?
“Are you sure will you be able to detach yourself from work when you go home at night?” she asked.
I thought she was being overly dramatic with all the psychological questions. My bravado was convincing — and I was hired.
My new boss suggested I take a quick, self-guided tour of the museum before going home.
As I wandered through the levels of the memorial — lovingly retooled by artists and architects from twisted steel and rubble into exhibits of New York strength and courage — something strange happened. I felt like weeping.
It struck me that each piece of paper was a person who had died at the exact spot where I would now be working, and I became overwhelmed with sadness.
I reminded myself I didn’t suffer a personal loss on 9/11 and could remain dispassionate.
On paper, my responsibilities as visitor-services host were to carry out the museum’s daily operations, make presentations and answer questions.
It struck me that each piece of paper was a person who had died at the exact spot where I would now be working, and I became overwhelmed with sadness.
There was an exam I had to pass on the history of the 9/11 attacks and on the facts about the memorial itself, including the dimensions of walls, the reflecting pools and what Wall Street landmarks were around the site. I also had to know about each exhibit — like the Last Column, which workers tagged with posters and written messages — and the process of how the artist crafted it.
I passed with flying colors and was promptly issued a blue blazer with a magnetic tag with my name in black and the museum’s name embroidered above.
But there was one thing I wasn’t prepared for — and that was how many people would come to the museum still in mourning.
On my first week of work, I was posted in Foundation Hall, which sits 70 feet below street level, near the two-acre twin reflecting pools.
A man dressed all in black and wearing a heavy winter coat slowly entered the hall, trudging down the flights of steps that run alongside the Survivors’ Stairs — the preserved staircase that had provided hundreds of people an escape on the day of the attacks.
When he maneuvered the last step, he blinked, startled, as he took in the hall.
Then he walked toward me.
He told me he was a construction worker in Midtown who saw the towers collapse.
“I was here on 9/11 and have not been back since the night of the attacks,” he said, shaken by the contrast of what he had last seen and how magnificent and hallowed it was now.
I didn’t know what to say or how to react. I was a history major, not a therapist.
But I decided it was best to just let him talk.
“I rushed downtown to the site,” he recounted. “I dug and did what I could to help. I will never forget this, and I can’t believe I am back here.”
For the next 20 minutes, we spoke, and I realized the conversation was therapeutic — for both of us.
On another evening, as the exhibitions were closing, a woman ran to me.
“I need to find a picture of my best friend!” she wailed. “He died in the north tower!”
Security was already directing people to leave, so I asked her to come back another day. But her eyes welled up with tears, and I realized there was no way I could turn her away.
I told her to wait on a bench until security was out of sight, then escorted her to the In Memoriam exhibition to find the picture.
She reached out her hand, and I squeezed it tight.
We found her friend a few moments later: The picture showed a sweet-looking guy with dark hair.
I gave her a moment by herself to cry.
In the historical exhibition, there are different alcoves where a visitor can sit on a bench, watch video montages and listen to the voices of survivors from Washington, DC, and New York recount their stories.
The alcove for Flight 93, the plane that crashed in Shanksville, Pa., always stirred up a lot of emotion. You can hear the audio of passengers on the plane calling their loved ones knowing they were going to die, and audio of the hijackers, too.
One day, a woman stormed out of the Flight 93 alcove with fire in her eyes and headed right for me. I was terrified.
Her anger quickly dissolved into tears.
“I cannot handle this anymore. Please let me leave,” she cried, as I escorted her outside.
Once, I was posted in the atrium terrace — a section on the upper floor that holds an auditorium where short films are played throughout the day — when I saw a sweet little old lady turn into a ferocious tiger.
She had just finished watching one of the films. It was called “Facing Crises Series: A Changed World” and features an interview with then-President George W. Bush.
“Why is this movie playing?” the small, gray-haired lady thundered and shook her finger at me. “This whole museum is propaganda. It’s sickening!”
People around were shaken by her rage, and so was I. But I had to keep my cool, so I calmed her down by saying, “Thank you for telling me this.” I assured her I would speak to my manager and pass along her opinions of the exhibit.
Without another word, she stormed down the stairs toward the exit.
I worked at the 9/11 Memorial Museum for seven months, until my career path veered to journalism and I was hired at the New York Post, where I am now a reporter.
The most important skill I bring to my new job is empathy. I listen to what people are saying and take into account how they feel — skills I learned at the 9/11 Museum.
I’ll never forget the time I spent there, and as it turned out, I wasn’t sure who needed a hug more — the visitors or me.