Growing Up in Flatbush

I grew up in Flatbush, Brooklyn. My father passed away in 1965, so my mother was left raising eight kids on her own. As a single parent, she worked two jobs just to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. She did everything she could, but raising eight children alone can break even the strongest person. In 1970 she suffered a nervous breakdown. She became mentally ill and was hospitalized for long stretches. I was still a kid, and I did not understand what was happening. I just knew the world felt unstable, like the floor could drop out at any moment.

At school I acted out. I caused trouble. I got suspended for destructive behavior. I was angry and confused, and I did not know where to put those feelings. Child welfare authorities stepped in. They split up my brothers and sisters and sent us to different institutions. That is a hard thing to explain if you have not lived it. One day you have your family around you, even if things are messy. The next day you are in a strange place, and the people who know your name and your history are gone.

The Feeling of Being Lost

Being sent off to an institution never felt like safety to me. It felt like being moved around like a piece of luggage. I was already a wild kid, and the system did not calm me down. If anything, it pushed me further off track. But I ended up in a Job Corps training program. I went through times where I felt worthless. I looked at the mess my life had become and I blamed myself. I thought I was a failure who let my family down.

People need to know how dark it can get when you are young and hurt and you do not see a way out. I was heading down a road that I am not sure I would have survived.

The Moment I Chose a Different Life

Some people call it a miracle. I call it waking up. One day I just knew I could not keep going the way I was going. I made a vow to make something of my life. I did not suddenly become perfect. I did not have it all figured out. But that vow gave me direction, and direction is everything when you have been lost.

I started taking education seriously. I earned a certificate in Adult Basic Education. That led to my GED. I went on to complete a Theology certificate course, and I was accepted to North Country Community College in Saranac Lake, New York. Those steps might sound small to some people, but to me they were proof that I was no longer the kid society had written off.

A Working Life Built on Showing Up

I became a Teamster and spent 30 years with Local 817 as a Theatrical Teamster. It was honest work. I learned how to show up, and I learned how to stay steady even when things got tough. Over the years, I worked on film and TV shows like Straight Out of Brooklyn, Boomerang, New York Undercover, Men in Black, The Sopranos, One Fine Day, Conspiracy Theory, and Law & Order SVU.

For 24 years I was assigned to the set of Law & Order SVU. That was a long run. I watched actor after actor come through. I watched directors shape scenes over and over until they hit the truth. I watched crews solve a thousand problems a day without anyone outside the set ever noticing. I was there to drive, haul, move, and support. But I was also there to learn. I studied every nuance  of filmmaking the way a hungry kid studies a menu.

Turning Learning Into a Legacy

I always had stories inside me. Some of them came from pain. Some came from Brooklyn neighborhoods. Some came from what I saw on the job. After all those years on set, I decided to stop just watching other people tell stories and start telling my own.

That is how Up In Harlem happened. I wrote it. I produced it. I directed it. I starred in it. I asked longtime friends to join me, including rapper and actor Ice-T, the late broadcaster Vaughn Harper, Reggae artist Mad Lion, and singing sensation Milira Jones. We made that film with heart and hustle. It was released in 2004 and distributed across the United States and Canada. Today it still streams on Amazon Prime and other platforms. I am listed on IMDb as a director, actor and writer. But I was also the executive producer; that is something I never would have believed back when I was a kid who thought he had nothing to offer the world.

Giving Back Keeps Me Grounded

Success does not mean you forget where you come from. If anything, it should make you remember more clearly. I do volunteer outreach for homeless and needy people. I know what it means to be at the bottom. I know what it means to feel invisible. Helping others is not charity to me. It is a family business. It is a way of keeping my vow alive.

I believe purpose is not only about chasing dreams. Purpose is also about lifting people when you can. If I made it out, then I owe something to the folks still trying to climb.

What I Want People to Take From My Story

If you grew up in chaos, you are not doomed. If you made mistakes when you were young, you are not finished. If you feel like your life has been decided by someone else, that can change. But it will not change unless you choose it.

Purpose does not erase the past. I still carry mine. But purpose gives the past a place to land. It turns pain into fuel. It turns a broken start into a strong middle. It turns survival into something bigger.

I am proof that a broken kid on fault lines can become a man who builds a creative legacy. I am proof that choosing the right path can happen at any age. I am proof that your story is still yours to write, even if the first pages were rough.

That is how purpose rewrote my life. And if you let it, it can help rewrite yours, too.

I am not approaching this project as a detached filmmaker. I was part of it. I believe that my perspective—both behind the lens and as a New Yorker—offers something distinct.

If you are interested in getting involved with the film and have experience in post-production, film festivals, editing, or documentary directing, or if you are a writer or a college student seeking an internship and looking to learn about any area of the film industry, Or wanted to help at ground zero and never had the opportunity to do so, please contact me at paulee27777@outlook.com.

The post The Making of a Filmmaker: How Purpose Can Rewrite a Life appeared first on Paul Eliacin.

Walking Into a War Zone

When I first got down there, it looked like a nightmare that had spilled into real life. The skyline was torn open. The streets were full of dust and paper and silence that felt louder than any siren. Men and women – from every walk of life, branch of the military, and law-enforcement – were moving with purpose, digging, lifting, calling out, praying. The air was thick. You could taste it. We were breathing things we should not have been breathing, but at the time it did not matter. We were focused on finding someone alive. We were focused on bringing someone home.

Every day blended into the next. The work was heavy and relentless. We carried steel and concrete. We climbed over wreckage that was still hot. We searched through places that did not even look like places anymore. Sometimes we found what we were looking for. Sometimes we did not. Either way, we kept going.

The Things You Carry Home

People talk about the bravery of First Responders, and I appreciate the respect, but I want to be honest about something. Bravery does not mean you do not feel fear. It means you do the job even when your hands shake. It means you see what is in front of you and you keep moving anyway.

What I carried home was not only the images. It was the sound of workers calling out names into the rubble. It was the look on a firefighter’s face when hope faded but he stayed on his knees searching anyway. It was the way the dust stuck to the sweat on your skin and you could not wash it off completely no matter how hard you tried. 

When I did finally go home after many nightshifts, I would sit quietly and just stare at the wall. I did not want to talk. I did not want to eat. I thought I was just tired. I told myself I would snap back once the recovery ended. A lot of us did that. We pushed feelings aside because there was no room for them in the middle of that disaster.  I remember my neighbors who knew I was a first responder at Ground Zero often coming up to me and saying, “Thank you for your service.” Many of them told me it was no different than serving in the armed forces. In many ways, it was. I am permanently injured while answering the call to help the  country that I love, during one of its darkest moments and greatest need.

Over the years, I received countless letters of gratitude from public officials, governors, senators, mayors, members of the New York City Council, and even a letter from Washington, D.C. calling me a hero and thanking me for my sacrifice. I have never seen myself as a hero. I simply did what I believed was right for the country I grew up in and deeply love.

Despite my deteriorating health, I walked with a cane now. I would make the same choice again without hesitation. Serving my country was never a question, it was an obligation of the heart. The only thing I would do differently is wear my mask while working at Ground Zero. That single decision changed my life forever.

The Hidden Toll

The physical toll did not show up right away. It came later, slowly. A cough that would not go away. Breathing that felt tighter than it used to. A body that got tired faster. I tried to ignore it. I was used to working hard. I had spent my life in tough jobs, including decades as a Theatrical Teamster on film and TV sets. Hard work was normal. But this was different. This was my body telling me something was wrong.

Then the deeper stuff started hitting me. Sometimes it was in dreams. Sometimes it was in the middle of the day for no reason at all. I would be doing something simple, and suddenly I was back there again. I could feel the dust in my chest. I could hear the sirens. I could smell the smoke.

There is a kind of trauma that does not announce itself. It just settles in your bones. It makes you quieter. It makes you angry without knowing why. It makes you pull away from people you love because you do not want to drag them into your pain.

Trying to Get Help

When I finally admitted I needed help, I learned how hard it can be to get it. First Responders are honored in ceremonies, but care is not always easy to reach. Paperwork takes time. Proof is demanded like you are on trial. Some doctors understand. Some do not. The system can feel cold when you are living with something that is very personal.

Health programs exist, and I will say that clearly because I do not want to dismiss the people who work inside them. There are good people fighting for us. But a lot still falls short. The process can be slow. The mental health side can be treated like an afterthought. I wake up from nightmares, thinking that 9/11 was happening all over again and that I was working on “the Pile.” Many of us do not want to admit we are struggling mentally, so we wait too long. Others get tired of pushing through red tape and they stop trying. The free health care that we received would not be possible without the help and approval of congress and the senate. So I thank them immensely. I thank Jon Stewart, for advocating for us first responders. 

Someone should not have to feel like a beggar for care when they were willing to risk everything for strangers.

What Healing Looks Like Now

Healing for me has not been a straight line. Some days I feel steady. Some days I do not. I have learned to respect the waves instead of fighting them. I have learned that asking for help is not a weakness. It is survival.

Filmmaking has helped me. I spent years on sets, especially my long stretch with Law & Order SVU. I watched how stories get built, how truth can be shaped into something people can hold. Eventually, I wrote, directed and produced my own film, Up In Harlem. Creating that movie let me put pieces of myself somewhere outside my body. It gave me purpose. Purpose matters when you are trying to live with pain.

I also do outreach work for homeless and needy people. That keeps me grounded. When you have been through something like Ground Zero, you understand that life can change in a second. Giving time to people who are struggling reminds me that we still owe each other kindness.

What Still Needs to Change

We need more than praise. We need better long-term health care for First Responders, especially those dealing with toxic exposure. We need intensive mental health support that is easy to access and treated as just as real as physical injury. We need a system that believes people without forcing them to prove their suffering over and over.

We also need to keep telling the truth about what happened and what it continues to do to people. The story of 9/11 is not over because the smoke cleared. It is still in our lungs. It is still in our nightmares. It is still in the empty seats at family tables.

Life As It Remains 

I do not regret being there. I would still go. I went because it was my city, and because people needed help, and because sometimes you find out who you are when things fall apart.

But I want the world to understand that the aftermath lives on. It lives in people like me and in thousands of others who are still fighting to breathe, still fighting to sleep, still fighting to be seen.

If you know a First Responder from that time, check on them. Listen to them. And if you are someone carrying your own Ground Zero inside you, please hear me clearly. You are not alone. And you deserve real support, not just words.

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