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Ken Del Rossi |
I WASN'T GOING TO WRITE about the terrorist attacks. Every scribe in America has constructed elaborate metaphors and sobering “what this all means” essays since September 11 cleaved our lifetimes into before and after segments. By the time our readers get this magazine, I thought, whatever I could say would merely pick at the scab.
Then I remembered my son’s cupcakes.
September 11 was Griffin’s fifth birthday. He walked into our family
room at about 6:30 a.m., barefoot in his one-size-too-small pajamas, rubbing
his eyes and asking about cupcakes. I only half listened, most of my attention
pinned to the television screen where pillars of smoke obliterated the
Manhattan skyline. But there is no persistence like 5-year-old persistence.
Griffin wanted to know if we made enough cupcakes for all the kids in
his kindergarten class.
The night before, those cupcakes were the most important topic of discussion
in our house. Did they have enough sprinkles? Would the kids like lemon
cake as much as chocolate? Now, standing there watching the twin towers
burn, I couldn’t even muster an answer for my pleading birthday boy.
His cupcakes seemed ridiculous and inappropriate—artifacts from an
earlier time when we could afford to enjoy such trifles. But, as usual,
the perspective of a child helps sort out the madness. I came to realize
that Griffin was right—now, more than ever, we needed to share with
our friends.
In the weeks following the attacks, Stanford alumni in New York and Washington
and a thousand other places touched by the terror needed all the friendship
they could get. They wanted the comfort of familiar places and familiar
people, to pull in around them the human connections that provide an emotional
safe harbor. Quite a few dropped anchor at Stanford.
We are used to seeing this coming together in the fall, during reunion
season. The balloons are out, the welcomes are warm and genuine. Alumni
return to campus and wander across the 100-year-old bricks under a California
sky and remember why they loved this place and the people they knew here.
This year, there was some talk soon after the attacks of canceling Reunion
Homecoming. No way, came the resounding reply from most of those who had
signed up. The overwhelming sentiment seemed to be “we need this.”
But the gatherings of Stanford alumni that took place in the aftermath
of that terrible Tuesday were even more demonstrative of the power of
community. Within hours of the attacks, Rian Schmidt, MBA ’96, had
assembled a website where Stanford alumni could check in. In seven days,
it had 250,000 visitors. Calls and e-mails cascaded through University
offices as alumni tried to find out how friends and classmates were doing.
On September 24, in Manhattan’s Unitarian Church of All Souls, the
Rev. Forrest Church, ’70, led about 100 alumni in a special service
of healing and remembrance. And all who knew them mourned the loss of
Stanford friends and classmates killed in the attacks (see story).
Dan Rossner, ’75, should have been on the 58th floor in the World
Trade Center on September 11. A partner in the law firm Sidney Austin
Brown & Wood, he was running late because he planned to vote in the
mayoral primary election before going to work. His friends, however, didn’t
know that he was out of harm’s way, watching from his Greenwich Village
home as his office building collapsed. “I can’t tell you how
many Stanford people I’ve heard from—friends I haven’t
talked to in years,” he told me. And I could hear in his voice what
that meant to him.
Universities work hard to foster community, but in more peaceful times
such an effort often relies on shared affinities, capitalizing on the
traditions and rituals that signify membership in the club. Young alumni
know when to jump when the Band plays All Right Now. Alumni of
all ages get a tingle of anticipation turning down Palm Drive after having
been away for a while. But is that what binds them? Not really. True community
is derived from the knowledge that you were changed, made better, by a
group of people who knew you when. Who still care about you despite time
or distance, and who, in a crisis, would be the first on your doorstep
to offer help. I guarantee you that Dan Rossner and countless others know,
if they didn’t before, that as long ago as their years at the Farm
may seem, their Stanford days aren’t over.
Cupcakes for everybody.
You can reach Kevin at jkcool@stanford.edu.