Over the last two weekends, I have had the privilege of hand delivering over 2,000 healing cards and pins to over 50 fire engine, ladder and rescue companies in Manhattan and Brooklyn. The design shows airfoils rising from twin towers to become the wings of an ascending spirit then joining into an angel heart. Before you envision me prancing around with a halo over my head, please don’t. It was probably more healing for me than it was for the firefighters whom I met.
I was one of many who felt powerless and useless a year ago. By the time I came to my senses, there were volunteers handling the volunteers and my blood type was not what was needed. It almost seemed as if you had to know someone to get a chance to really volunteer. I’ve since learned that those who got to work out their grief in a positive way were usually the ones who just persevered. But I did not get that chance, and this summer, as I looked at some designs I’d created shortly after that day, I decided that I was going to do something about it.
So I had some pins and cards made and I went out on my mission, not really knowing if I was to become another helping hand or one really tall and crazy Don Quixote that would just freak out some already grief-stricken firemen. What happened will stay with me forever.
There are no tearful, hugging breakthroughs here, no sappy sentimental moments that will bring a tear to the eye while hugging one’s favorite teddy bear—although I do admit to having built up quite a bear collection in the past year. Instead this is a story of quiet and profound dignity, of men who do what they do because they love it and don’t really expect or wish to be called heroes. They just want to be called firemen.
When I went to the first firehouse down the street from me, I was apprehensive. Engine Company 40 and Ladder 35 lost 11 men. The guys were all out front and I felt like I didn’t belong. They looked at the bag of pins and cards, realized that I just wanted to give them something, then gathered around to thank me and shake my hand. Then one of them said, "Do you think maybe we could have like another one of those bags?" I just about lost it. "Yeah, I said, you can have as many as you want. God bless you guys." They said "thank you" and meant it.
As I walked down the West Side, it was like last year all over again but different. Now, instead of dumbfoundedly looking at the gallery of lost brothers in front of every station, I could walk in with a simple gesture of help. Some put the pins on their lapels right there. A firefighter’s girlfriend e-mailed a thanks. Some gave me thank you cards that had been printed up with the pictures of all those lost. Most didn’t really want to talk about it, but their eyes said everything. They were in deep pain, but they would persevere with dignity. They were the good guys. They were firemen. When I asked how he was doing, one fireman in Brooklyn said, "We’re all hanging in there, you know, so we’ll … uh … get through this week, and then we’ll take it from there."
As I worked my way downtown, the losses mounted. South Street’s Engine 4 and Ladder 15 lost 18. They wanted three bags. "My God," I thought, "Eighteen." How do they do this? How do they go on? As I trudged the concrete puzzle, I pondered this. From dingy one engine companies in the harshest neighborhoods of the Bronx—where the residents can ill afford to buy any of the stuff our commercials insist they need—to the equally humble firehouses under swanky East Side condos—where some residents actually live the shallow images we project—the loss and dignity were everywhere. And every fireman would steadily look me in the eye and smile through the pain and strongly shake my hand like the kind of man I always wished to be.
It gradually dawned on me that, even though these dudes are not perfect and undoubtedly have as many problems as the rest of us knuckleheads bumbling through New York, they do have one thing that not a lot of us in advertising have: meaning. They may never sip a swanky cocktail while stroking a Lion at Cannes, but we’ll never know what it feels like to save a stranger from a burning building. They matter and they know it in a quietly proud way.
If ever there was a man who had the right to look down on me from the courageous accomplishments of his humble life, it was one of these firemen, but nowhere and in no way did I ever encounter any arrogance or pride. They just looked me right in the eye, took my measure, realized that I was up to good things, then asked me in for a water or coffee or lunch. Just like that. Just like America the way it still is in boring small communities everywhere out there somewhere.
As some of you might have sensed from my less-than-subtle digs at our business throughout this piece, I have a mixed impression of our profession, to say the least. Of course, being in the sales end to support my creative habit, I get to see an uglier side of your world than most of you. On the other hand, I’m like any other shark when there’s blood in the water and a possible deal to close. Overall, there are some wonderful folk and there are some not-so-wonderful folk, just as in the rest of the world.
However the fact remains that while we all love to remind ourselves that "it’s just advertising, it’s not brain surgery," our creations reach more brains on a regular basis than all the surgeons in the world will ever see. In a frightening way, we are becoming less brain candy and more brain food and pure sugar just doesn’t get you through the day. While we are here to sell product, how we sell is often up to us. Many will say, "the client really determines the end product." To which I say, "Oh really?"
I’m not sure there exists—even in Washington or Hollywood—a higher concentration of fast thinking, highly manipulative, surefire sellers than in advertising, and a surprising number of us still have hearts. We just don’t have meaning. That’s why even the most cynical producer or creative director gets a bounce in their step when it’s time to produce a really useful PSA.
So please, the next time you have a creative block and think that a denigrating, smarmy or stupidly sentimental approach will get you the blessing of the client, think about what you really need in your own heart—and that is probably what America needs in its heart. Then go downstairs and up the street and talk to your local fireman. Look him in the eye and shake his hand and thank him and see if that solid soul looking back at you doesn’t give you a finer perspective and a deeper inspiration that you can somehow send back out to a slowly healing America.
