Miracle on 42nd Street

Made in Manhattan

Carol Olsen

My husband and I recently took a pilgrimage to Ground Zero. We had been to the city several times as tourists, most recently in April of 2001. On that occasion I wanted to soak up the ambiance-just be a New Yorker for a day or two. Those tactile memories were a comfort when disaster struck on 9-11. I was returning now, hoping to enter the heart of the city, to somehow touch its soul. I did not know how that would happen. Yet, I was sure it would.

We were guided to Ground Zero by a friend, a NYPD Lieutenant, a third generation, Irish cop from Queens. The Lieutenant brought pictures that he had taken during the crisis and helped us orient ourselves to the magnitude of the disaster. It was his first time back to Ground Zero since the attack and we appreciated so much his willingness to share this perspective with us. Folks from all over the world had come to pay their respects. The officer graciously shared his pictures and answered questions. It was a healing time for many.

We went back a second day and circled the entire site. I spoke with a fellow who lost his job when the buildings fell. Unemployed, he spends his free time distributing a site map and educating the tourists on the fact that the building complex was far more extensive that just the towers. He answered a question that had puzzled me. I received mail from the World Trade Center on the afternoon of the attack. It was a request for funds and an angel pin from Covenant House. This charitable organization, which serves homeless teens, had its headquarters in one of the several buildings that comprised the World Trade Center complex.

We couldn't visit the city without seeing at least one Broadway show. We chose 42nd Street, so representative of the glitz and glamour that is New York. At the end of the show, the audience was invited to help the cast with their charity project. They had 3500 letters to Santa from New York city kids that needed to be answered and they requested that we take one letter and fulfill a child's Christmas wish. Our letter was from an 11-year-old boy. He requested a telescope. The letter was addressed to a police precinct in Queens so we decided to buy a telescope and deliver it ourselves, since it was bulky to mail and also very close to Christmas. We purchased a telescope from one of the competing electronic shops on our way home. We shared our plan with our policeman friend and he said, "I'll deliver it for you, but let me call ahead to make sure they're expecting packages." The precinct knew nothing of any Santa project and less about the officer to whom the letter was addressed. We were stuck with a dead-end Santa letter and a very cumbersome package.

The letter contained the boy's home address and home phone number. We called and I asked the boy to talk to my policeman friend. But when the lieutenant asked to talk to his father, the line went dead. Convinced that we had become victims of a scam, the policeman encouraged us to give it up. "Take the telescope home. Give it to the first needy kid you find." My husband a prosecutor, easily adopted this skeptical view. After all, the city was tough and people were desperate. (We'd experienced that at the hands of the electronics salesmen.) Tourists were fair game. Concerned for our safety, the lieutenant made me promise not to attempt delivery to the home address in North Manhattan as we might end up in an unsafe area with no backup. I understood his concern. He was a seasoned,third generation cop who'd gotten his start in Harlem. I was a naive tourist. Yet, I kept thinking, "There has to be a way. I made a commitment to a child and it's Christmas!" It was unusual for a boy to ask for a telescope. I sensed this was no ordinary kid.

After the policeman left, the phone rang. It was the boy. (I guess everyone has caller ID these days.) "Why did you hang up on the cop?" I asked.

"I didn't mean to," he said. "We got disconnected." I told him I couldn't bring the gift to his house. New York Public School System is composed of 6 districts and each school is identified by a number. I asked him where he went to school. He gave me the number of his school, Intermediate School #218. With the help of the concierge, I got a phone number for the school. If something was amiss, the school could at least make use of the telescope.

The next day, our last day of vacation, a transit strike threatened to immobilize the city. Labor talks continued through the night and the strike was averted. I called the school to make arrangements to deliver the telescope.

We rode the subway to the north end of Manhattan where we got off and walked through a Hispanic neighborhood, carrying the package and collecting curious stares. I began to fear. "Will this boy be able to get home safely with his present? Will we be putting him in danger?" The school's location was north of Harlem in District #6.

At Intermediate School #218 everyone's nerves were on edge. It took me a while to figure out what was going on. Due to the threat of the transit strike, school was just opening at 10:00 A.M.-- two hours late. We got past security with our brightly wrapped package, but were delayed for quite a while at the office desk as the staff was processing late arrivals and solving problems. After explaining our purpose to several people, we finally told our story to the right person.

The principal greeted us with a warm handshake and directed the staff to call the boy to the office. "Do we get to meet him?" I asked in a surprised voice, as my directions over the phone were to simply drop off the present. "Of course!" said the principal. "And check to see if his mom is here yet," he told a staff member. "She's a volunteer." (My fears of how the package would get home were unfounded.)

We sat down at the conference table and I began to tell the story of the Santa letter and how it came into our hands. "The letter was dated Nov 21 and the boy said he was 11. But during our phone conversation, he told me that he had turned 12 on November 24th." The principal said, "That's my birthday!" Then I mentioned that I was the author of several books and wanted to give books to the school. When the principal saw the cover of Left over Louie, he said, "Luis? That's my name!" The secretary made copies of my feature articles and were of course impressed that I was in a movie with Jennifer Lopez! Soon the room began to fill up with folks. The boy's mom arrived and the principal related the entire story to her in Spanish emphasizing the string of synchronicities that had brought us together across 3000 miles and over a stretch of skepticism. Pictures snapped, tears fell, and hugs were exchanged.

We were witness to "A Miracle on 42nd Street." I found the city's soul in that conference room. In the Northernmost part of Manhattan, from the rooftop of an apartment building, one small curious boy looks up.

We completed our holiday season by watching the latest Jennifer Lopez movie, Maid in Manhattan-a rags to riches story. The neighborhood and school featured in the film looks an awful lot like Salome Urena Middle Academies, IS-218, Uptown Manhattan.