“What’s a commander doing in Brooklyn?” a young but aging man in a ponytail and wool business coat asked me as we made our way down Caton Avenue.

My immediate response was to laugh, but then I realized that he’d probably love an answer to his question. The only problem was that I didn’t know where to begin in explaining my uniformed appearance here on this cold and rainy night in Prospect Lefferts Gardens.

The day had started off quite early, some 230 miles away. A 2AM wake up call propelled me north on a train where I slept upright to avoid disturbing my double French-braided regulation hairstyle. I wasn’t yet wearing my khaki uniform—that was safely packed away in a little suitcase resting in the overhead cargo space.

I had thought long and hard about whether it was correct to bring my military attire on a trip that had nothing to do with work. Today, after all, was not about me. I was going to New York City for something far more important than work. I was going to support my little sister.

We’ve all got family intricacies that can’t be discerned by observers who come to us later in life. The relationships that I have with each of my siblings are all very different, and how we treated each other in our formative years has had ramifications for how we feel about ourselves in adulthood.

My little sister and I might resemble one other the most, but growing up I didn’t see much similarity beyond this. While I favored internal monologue, she was a voice that knew no censor. Her high-transmitting and unapologetic demeanor was something that I looked upon with a certain amount of derision. We seemed like two personalities that had little more in common than a shared last name and gambrel roof over our heads.

Ever the more openhearted little girl, she was always the one who was most vocal in terms expressing her love for everyone. I don’t know why, but for me my hand was always thrown up to maintain distance whenever she would make a gesture to bring us closer.

All these years later, my self-centered and irrationally hardened behavior remains one of the things that bother me most.

As time passed and each kid clawed his or her way to a distinctive identity, we all managed to repot ourselves and grow on our own terms in new environments. We never seemed to live with regard for what the others were doing. I was on my way to a life in the military, and although we were so damn focused on our own respective hustles, four out of the five of us kids still managed to wind up on career paths of uniformed service.

There’s got to be something significant about that.

And so today was her day. In all of her life my sister has never held a grudge, and in equal magnanimity she has asked for next to nothing in terms of getting the family to rally around her causes. Entering basic training for the New York Fire Department Academy, this was her idea, and she spent months refining herself mentally and physically to not only gain admission, but also to graduate into a whole new phase of challenge.

As I’ve grown up and accomplished my share of screw-ups, I have managed to maintain my personality but have also developed a sacred respect for the life of my little sister. She has demonstrated a remarkable ability to persevere in uncertain circumstances, and she has built a life that is richer than any of us would have dreamed. It took a long time to get here, but I finally appreciate how special she is to me—and if all that it takes is some leave and a train ride to be in Brooklyn on this day, then that’s what I was going to do.

I got dumped into Penn Station at 8AM and quickly negotiated two subway lines at rush hour before frantically ironing my uniform at a friend’s house. In no way did I want to upstage my sister by showing up with a bunch glinty metal pinnings on my blouse, but I did want to ensure that everything looked inspection-ready in a showing of respect for her significant achievement.

The final mode of transport took the form of a taxi, and it rolled down several miles of Linden Street before depositing me deep in Brooklyn at the graduation site. There were lots of families and uniformed first responders milling about, but it was not long before my youthier doppelganger found me.

For the first time in a long time, the two of us looked more alike than I could have imagined. I marveled at her new Class A uniform: a fitted blue jacket with silver buttons down the front, collar devices bearing the acronym “F.D.N.Y.” and atop her head, a smart combination cover that she complains is making a dent in her forehead. “Welcome to the club,” I tell her as I think about my own wretched service dress headgear.

My sister has the look of someone who has found her calling. It’s like she has emerged from the chrysalis of whatever life had been before and now she was really flying.

Only half of the family has been able to make it out to this corner of New York on a rainy Friday morning. No matter because she’s got her two kids and friends also in attendance. As we all sit and wait for her name to be called, there’s the distinct sense that we’re at a rock concert, craning our necks to single out our start performer who sits camouflaged in the rows of navy blue.

And then her moment comes at center stage. Her name is announced and she presents a sharp salute to the EMS Chief before walking across the stage to receive her diploma. We’re a small peanut gallery seated in the back, but we cheer with boundless pride for this sister, daughter, mother and now FDNY-branded Emergency Medical Technician.

For someone whom I imagined that I’d never really share much commonality, I never felt more proud to be in a place where I could show love, recognition and absolute admiration for someone in my tribe.

Over one hundred people are graduating, and the diverse makeup suggests a United Nations of New York City’s citizens—all with loved ones, church congregations and co-workers gathered to recognized these citizens who will be charged with protecting their city. As the graduates stood, raised their right hands and recited the Oath of Geneva, I wondered what each of them would encounter while in the line of duty. I thought of my oldest sister, a firefighter paramedic, and reflected on the work that she puts forth each day without any cause for fanfare.  I wondered if either of my sisters realized how critical they were to not only our family, but also to the greater population who will be out there crashing cars, lighting houses on fire and doing things that will have them reaching for 911.

We humans like it best when we have unambiguous circumstances that let us know who are the good and bad guys to cheer for and against. In a life with so many complications, some days we just want a simple tale to tell. It doesn’t happen as often as we would like, but for me today is one of those days.

 

 

 

And that, I guess, is what a commander was doing in Brooklyn today.