In mid-October 2009, I had the good fortune of being able to return to New York City. I had been there 2 years prior to attend a wedding over a weekend, and I was able to see some of the sights, but I regrettably was unable to pay my respects at Ground Zero as I had intended. I vowed that someday I’d return to do just that. In October 2009, I arrived.
For those who’ve followed my blogs, you know that the events of September 11th, 2001 were a monumental force in my life. In the months (and even years) that followed, I found myself in a horribly depressing funk, and even though I was not personally impacted by the tragedy that was 9/11, it profoundly affected me nonetheless. I’m certain I’m not alone – that day changed the world forever. I’m just another citizen of planet Earth, one of many, who watched in horror as the events unfolded that fateful day. Each September ever since, I take some time to intensely reflect upon 9/11. I choose to re-live the pain by watching documentaries, wherever I can find them. It may seem strange to some people that I would choose to go through that pain over and over again. Many others have chosen to move on and put it behind them. If that’s their mechanism for dealing with it, then so be it. Maybe they’re stronger individuals for it. Maybe it’s a way to repress the pain and not deal with it at all. I choose to feel it, because I never want to find myself getting numb to it. The day I look upon 9/11 and say nothing more than, “Yeah, that sucked,” is the day I really need to re-evaluate what I’ve become.
I’ve been wary of how I would feel setting foot on the site of one of this nation’s most horrific tragedies. It’s one thing to have watched it on television as I did, from a “safe” distance. That was difficult enough for me. But to be there, in the presence of it, would certainly be different. I wasn’t sure how, but I knew my feelings were going to be vastly more powerful.
My girlfriend and I stayed in a hotel in Jersey City, New Jersey for affordability reasons. We chose a hotel near a railway transit system popularly known as “The Path” in the area. The Path runs from New Jersey, under the Hudson via tunnel, and over to New York City. The day we rode The Path from the Pavonia/Newport stop to the World Trade Center stop, I was obviously a little anxious. I knew I was going to be in for an emotional day. But I was also looking forward to coming to terms with the site that so profoundly affected my viewpoints on life since 9/11. As the train approached the underground stop, I took a deep breath and tried to steel myself for what I would see.
My girlfriend’s cousin worked in the World Trade Center back when 9/11 occurred. She was fortunate enough to escape, but her story always comes to mind when I reflect on that day. She arrived via The Path to the WTC just after the first plane had struck that morning. She made it to street level and got somewhat clear of the buildings before the second plane struck. She lost a number of friends and co-workers on 9/11, and she attended their funerals for weeks afterward. I cannot imagine what that must have been like.
As I prepared to exit the train and set foot on the platform, I thought of her, and I couldn’t help but put myself in her shoes that day. Stepping into the station, there was a palpable sense of something that I cannot quite define with words. But it was there. It was a gloom, a sorrow, a creepy weight that was undeniable. It seemed as if all the other passengers that exited alongside me felt the same way, as there was a lot less chatter and conversation taking place. The underground station has a series of escalators to bring commuters to street level. It was a long way up, or so it seemed. You could see that many of the walls were temporary, with chain-link fencing cordoning off the construction site from the station in some places. The fencing was covered with various sheets of plastic tarping, strategically placed to obstruct the view. But you could see through it in a few places. Someone stopped to take a picture through one of the gaps, and a Port Authority officer sternly rebuked the visitor and said, “No pictures, please. Keep moving.” Considering the magnitude of their losses on 9/11, I can understand why. This place is sacred ground, and was to be treated as such.
As we topped the final escalator, we found ourselves at a convergence of several streets (Vesey and Broadway, from what I can tell by revisiting maps). A look to my right revealed the fencing and the construction cranes. I was here…Ground Zero. I guess I wasn’t fully prepared for the immediacy of how close I’d be to it. Undoubtedly, the very spot upon which I stood would have been covered in tons and tons of concrete dust, twisted steel, and smoldering debris on the day the attacks happened. This day, the streets were spotless by comparison. Street vendors were there, selling New York souvenirs, hot dogs, pretzels, and everything else that they hawk on the city streets. We were starving upon arrival, so we each snatched up a quick hot dog to hold us over for awhile. Admittedly, I found it difficult to swallow my food at just that moment. Hunger allowed it to happen, but I certainly felt like I was out of place eating on such hallowed ground.
Here, again, all the fencing was covered with various tarps, banners, and ads, so you couldn’t see much through it. But you could hear the activity behind it. Every type of construction equipment could be heard beyond the fence. There was a lot of activity taking place, despite the appearance of stillness. We decided to walk a lap around the site, as we had heard there were observation walkways specifically for visitors such as ourselves. Upon rounding the first corner onto Church Street, St. Paul Church came into view. This is literally across the street from Ground Zero. This church was a fascinating anomaly in the midst of the massive skyscrapers that encompass it. It’s at once out of place, yet so perfectly placed, in the midst of its surroundings. Despite the fact that its front lawn is a very old cemetery, the greenery and peacefulness of this church brought an uplifting sense of ease and peace to the scene for me. The fact that this church sustained little damage in the collapse of the towers is made all that much more amazing when you see its proximity to the site. It’s nothing short of a miracle that it withstood such a massive, catastrophic collapse just across the street.
I really wanted to take a moment to visit this legendary church, but the hordes of tourists and visitors at the front gate were a little much at the moment we were there – we could barely have gotten through the front gate. We opted to continue our lap around Ground Zero and return to the church later if possible.
We continued south/southwest on Church Street, marveling at all of the activity around us. We were amidst a mass of other visitors, all doing the same things that we were: snapping photos, absorbing the scene, contemplating what this place must have looked like 8 years prior. So much must have changed since then. All the buildings that surrounded Ground Zero, most of which had to have sustained a great deal of collateral damage from the collapse of the towers, now looked pristine and flawless. Putting aside the former towers themselves, it’s clear that a great deal of repair work had been done to all the surrounding structures. Those projects alone had to have taken a lot of time, resources, and manpower. I could not help but be impressed with how far they’ve come in the overall restoration process.
As we approached the next corner of Ground Zero, we rounded the corner of Church Street and Liberty Street, and headed west/northwest. Down the block, we came upon the Tribute WTC Visitor Center. This little location is the place where I really had my heart ripped out of my chest. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but we decided to pay the $10 fee and see what was inside. Within its walls, a vast array of artifacts were on display that had been retrieved from the actual wreckage of 9/11. Things such as mangled silverware, badges and patches from the uniforms of fallen firefighters and police, a firefighter’s overcoat and helmet, one of the metal basket stretchers used to retrieve the dead from the debris, a stuffed animal covered in concrete dust, a battered American flag, a ruptured SCBA air tank likely carried up the stairwells by an FDNY firefighter, a smashed police radio, a piece of metal column, etc. An amazing little 2 inch by 2 inch piece of broken glass was on display – I was at first confused by its inclusion, until I read the text description next to it. It read, “Glass fragment, one of the largest found”. That one really hit me. Out of all the tons of glass fragments that must have littered the debris field, one of the “largest” found was only 2 inches by 2 inches, and even it was badly fragmented within. This gives you an idea of the incredibly destructive forces that must have been at work as the towers fell. I cannot even begin to fathom destruction on that kind of scale.
We continued onward through the gallery. Upon all of the walls and columns of the gallery were printed a large number of short quotes and anecdotal snippets from many people who were there the day the attacks occurred. I’ve never seen such a powerful collection of short sentences. Every one of them painted a different aspect of what people experienced. The enormity of it all really began to sink in. So many stories, so many people, and these were the ones who survived it. There are another few thousand stories that we will never know. We could only guess at them based on the pieces and fragments that remained. Another display case housed a metal window frame from one of the airplanes that struck the towers. I tried to imagine seeing what the terrified passenger must have been seeing through that window in the moments before his/her life was suddenly and violently snuffed out. I had to stop myself, because that was too much for me to contemplate. Sheer terror and horror swept over me, and I’m sure I must have visibly shuddered. This reaction became more and more common the further into the gallery we went.
Moving to another area of the gallery, we rounded a corner only to see a massive wall placard that listed, in alphabetical order, the names of every victim who perished on (or as a direct result of) 9/11. It took up an entire section of wall, and you had to step up close to even be able to read them. Opposite this display was a corner of two adjoining walls, with a montage of photos of all the victims. This was massive, and really brought it home just how many people were lost that day. Their faces were there, and it was heartbreaking to imagine that many families shattered in one day. In another portion of this room was a video screen, continually scrolling the names of the victims one-by-one. It was said that for a person to read off the names of every victim of 9/11 out loud, it would take in the neighborhood of about 4 hours to complete.
After soaking in all of this pain, the gallery’s tone began to turn to one of hope and promise. The displays showed the incredible outpouring of support that was received in the days and weeks that followed. Artwork from schoolchildren was on display. Quilts that people had assembled from many contributors, from all walks of life, were on display. Get well cards had been made by children for anyone that may have managed to survive. Then the expressions of hope began to be shown not only from within the country, but from across the world, from many nations. A particularly inspiring display was the one from Japan. In Japan, an origami crane (bird) made from paper is considered to be a symbol of peace. Adults and children from all over Japan made enormous amounts of origami paper cranes in every color, and assembled them into long paper chains full of beautiful colors. These chains hung vertically en masse above a stairwell in the gallery, all of them perfect rainbows of color. The incredible amount of them, and their incredible uniformity of size and shape, made this a very moving display. The time and effort to assemble these had to have been immense. That people from across the globe would send such a huge outpouring of support was powerful. I fought back tears with every step through this gallery.
A quote from one elementary school student in Staten Island, NY was printed upon a particular wall placard. It read, “What the terrorists wanted is for us to be scared, to go in our house and never come out. But we didn’t do that… We didn’t hide in the shadows. We went in the sun.” What an amazing thing for a child to say. And what courage in the face of so much horror. I immediately wished I could meet this kid and talk to him/her. That glimmer of hope alone got me sobbing. I photographed that quote so I would never forget it.
We completed the rest of the gallery tour, and stepped outside, a complete wreck from everything we had just seen. We gathered ourselves up and continued around Ground Zero, a new sense of reverence following us down the street. Just next door to the Tribute WTC Visitor Center was the FDNY Engine & Ladder Company No. 10. Admittedly I do not know what kind of losses this company suffered on 9/11, but based on the fact that it’s literally across the street from Ground Zero, I think it’s safe to say that it was likely catastrophic. This fire station is on the corner of Liberty and Greenwich streets. As we looked around the corner on Greenwich, we saw an incredibly long wall mural made of what appeared to be bronze on the side of the firehouse. It depicted a number of sculpted firefighters giving it their all during and after the 9/11 nightmare. Beneath the bronze mural were engraved the names of all the firefighters that were lost that day. The left-to-right length of this entire mural had to be over 40 feet long, maybe more. Wreaths of flowers and other small remembrances are still being left there by visitors.
The next segment of our walk took us through some temporary construction walkways, which eventually led us into an indoor lobby within the One World Financial Center. We exited this building to street level at Liberty Street, and proceeded around the corner northward up West Street. From these last few vantage points, it was a little easier to see and photograph much of the Ground Zero site. We stopped at Vesey Street, regained our bearings, and decided to walk back around the way we came. We detoured and ventured around the financial district for awhile to see Wall Street and beyond. As we came back up Church Street, we stopped again at the St. Paul church, this time walking through the cemetery out front. The sun shone through the trees there, and cast a peaceful serenity to this place. At least one of the headstones in the cemetery dated as far back as 1796. We ventured into the church itself, which is now open to the public as something of a memorial to 9/11. We made a walk around the inside of this amazing church, and I could not help but remember the news images I had seen in the days after 9/11 where exhausted firefighters took refuge here to get food and much-needed sleep. Another massive display of the origami paper peace cranes from Japan was hanging within.
We left Ground Zero for the day, and I have to say that I am forever changed by what I experienced.
This change began on 9/11 itself, as I recall arriving at my office that morning only to learn from a co-worker that an airplane had just struck one of the towers of the World Trade Center. By “airplane”, I had assumed he had meant a small private craft like a Cessna. We have access to a TV in our building, and we turned it on to see what was happening. We watched for awhile, and eventually learned that the plane had in fact been a passenger jet. Moments later, the cameras showed the second impact, and we all stood there in disbelief at what we had just seen. The unsettling sickness soon set in, and it became apparent that we were dealing with something much more than an accident.
The rest of that day, and in the days and weeks that followed, I was glued to the TV every moment I could get. I was so deeply affected by what I’d seen and heard, that I could not pull myself away from it. I cried countless times just contemplating all the families who were still holding out hope for word from missing loved ones – word that never came. Mixed with the sorrow was a deep-seated anger, and that anger stewed and simmered, embittering me in ways I never could have fathomed. Everything happening in my life seemed so trivial and pointless compared to what everyone else in New York was going through. I got into a funk that I truly didn’t begin to climb back out of until sometime in the spring of 2003.
I have by no means recovered. To this day, the way I see the world is forever tainted by the events of 9/11. For those of you who have moved on and put that day behind you, I’m not sure I’ll ever reach that point. It would be better for my well being if I could put it all behind me, but my conscience will never let that happen. Now that I’ve been to Ground Zero, and have seen the place with my own eyes, I am again forever changed. It was one thing to see 9/11 unfold on television, but quite another to pay a most reverent visit to the site of so much tragedy.
The above portion of this particular blog entry has been sitting in my “drafts” folder since my visit last year. I have hesitated to post it because for one, it was a pretty personal experience for me, and second, I have been at a loss for words in terms of completing it. Imagine that – me at a loss for words. It has taken me until March 2010 to finally revisit this and try to glean some nugget of wisdom, truth, or insight from the experience. I think my visceral reactions as described above should almost be sufficient to illustrate my experiences in New York City. I still think about what I’ve seen, and it continues to hit home for me. I suppose where I struggle the most is in the confusing mix of emotions that run through me, some of them conflicting and juxtaposed against each other. Feelings of wanting to regain a sense of kind humanity versus feelings of wanting to kill every last one of the motherfuckers who brought this upon us.
Perhaps in this instance, it may serve me well to use someone else’s words instead of my own. In the last few months, I have gone on a mission to do some additional reading/research on matters surrounding 9/11 and the war that followed. The book I am currently reading is called “Class 11” by T.J. Waters. The author of this book was one of a number of Americans so moved by the events of 9/11 that he was inspired to alter the course of his life by applying for a position with the CIA. It seems a large influx of Americans submitted applications to the CIA after 9/11, every one of them undoubtedly moved and feeling the desire to never let this country fall into a state where such attacks could ever occur here again.
As he described the difficulties in adjusting to the training regimen within the CIA and its effects on his personal life as related to his newlywed wife Cathy, the author explains that he and his wife apparently had gotten into a verbal argument over the phone about what his new career was going to mean in terms of putting him in harm’s way someday. She had just read a news article discussing Mike Spann, the first CIA casualty in Afghanistan who died on the Thanksgiving weekend after 9/11. She was surprised to learn from the article that the CIA has its own army, navy, and air force for certain types of operations. She asked her husband if he was thinking about working for those forces someday, implying that she did not approve of it if he was. He and she went back and forth about the issue for the better part of half an hour. The conversation ended badly for both.
The author stewed about the situation for a period of time (presumably days), knowing full well that she was as pissed at him as he was at her. But he also wanted to find a way to explain to her the importance of the work he would someday be doing for the country. He wanted to illustrate why he would consider such a dangerous profession. Then one day he stumbled upon a news article himself that illustrated it very clearly. This would be the perfect way to show her what motivated him.
The following excerpt from T.J. Waters’ book, “Class 11”, also sums up my feelings and motivations about why I have so strongly supported our country’s military actions in Afghanistan and beyond after all that I have seen with my own eyes, both in the media and on the ground while I visited Ground Zero in New York:
“A tribal court in Pakistan recently ordered the gang rape of an eighteen-year-old girl because her eleven-year-old brother had been seen walking around the village with a girl from another tribe who was of higher class than he. Four men carried out this “punishment to her family” on June 22 in the southern Punjab village of Meerwala while hundreds of tribesmen stood outside laughing and cheering. Where to even begin with such a story?
Rape used as a punishment is despicable on its own. That a tribal court ordered it is unthinkable, especially since another person committed the offending “crime.” The story sparks outrage around the world. In the United States there is much hand wringing about how our Pakistani allies are not as advanced as we want to believe. Perhaps they are no better than the cruel, inhuman Taliban in nearby Afghanistan.
I instantly know this is the means I will use to make up with Cathy. The argument was stupid and unnecessary. It was also mainly my fault, not hers. I should have realized how upset she’d be about long-term absences as a rule rather than the exception. Our prolonged separation simply aggravated a contentious issue. I e-mail her the story along with the following note:
Years from now, when we are old and gray, someone will ask you how I ever talked you into moving out of Florida and relocating to the cold and crowded area around Washington DC. Please keep this news clipping to show them. These, our partners in the war on terrorism, have gang raped a girl simply because she had the misfortune of being someone’s sister. Their righteous indignation over an errant US bomb injuring civilians rings a bit hollow when they are raping their own children in the name of Islam. It’s no wonder they are so easily manipulated into becoming suicide bombers. If your own children mean nothing to you, someone else’s children mean even less. It is my hope, my goal, to make sure men like this never reach our shores.”
Amen.
