Ground Zero
NYC, November 2001
Sunday we got up at 5am to catch an early morning cab down to Ground Zero. Mar’ia had been told by a friend of hers to go down there at that hour because early Sunday morning is the only time New York ever sleeps. We were assured that all would be quiet and the place would be well lit. That advice proved priceless. Approaching Ground Zero in the dark was indeed an awesome sight to behold. The war-torn North Tower was clearly visible from blocks away in the taxi. The lights brightly illuminated it in the darkness giving it a surreal yet crisp, edgy feeling. Our driver dropped us off and we proceeded together to walk block by block, freezing in front of each blockade, staring down the long corridors of buildings that stood between us and the site of the devastation. The barriers were up in the form of covered 10-foot fences around the perimeter of Ground Zero. Then at the other end of the block, another barrier was in place at each intersection guarded by NYC cops. I was struck by the smell. It was pungent and strong. There were spontaneous memorial shrines of flowers, letters, banners, photographs and paintings that had been erected on almost every block paying homage to the fallen.
We made our way silently down the road… having already realized, without speaking to each other, that taking pictures was out of the question. How can you take photographs of sacred ground? What’s the point of capturing on your own film a crematorium? Others have done it much better than you ever would. How could anyone be so callous? As we approached a policeman standing guard at a barrier, he asked us how we were doing and what we were doing down there at that hour. Mar’ia answered, “We came to see.” He asked her where we were from and she told him Seattle. He said, “You came all the way here just to look?” Mar’ia (ever-ready with the perfect response) said, “Actually, we came to New York to spend money as well.” You could see the expression in his eyes change as he looked at us both for a moment. He understood her expression of support for his wounded community. He nodded and then said, “Come on, if anyone asks, you’re with American Airlines.” He turned to lead us past the barriers.
We walked down the street towards Ground Zero and approached the covered fence. He called to someone on the other side to open it up, and it rolled slightly open to allow us entrance. The person asked him who we were, and he told them we were with American Airlines. We stepped through the fence and the force of what we saw made us tremble. We stood there, at the foot of it all and could hardly absorb it. Our policeman was silent as I heard the distant sound of Mar’ia’s weeping through the ringing in my ears. The grayness, the billowing plumes of smoke, the stench, the wrecking ball and the intermittent jet of water aimed at the North Tower combined to make us feel as if we were standing out over the edge of the universe. It had become a sacred place: A breathing epitaph to three thousand stolen lives. Standing on the site, I was overwhelmed by the scope of the collateral damage. Twenty buildings in all had sustained damage: This one had a pie slice out of several stories, high, high above the ground; that one had a giant rake running the length of the entire building; this one had huge cloth nets completely covering two of it’s sides. Then, at our feet was rubble…destruction… too much to really see. A wrecking ball was chipping at the North Tower, knocking pieces to the ground below, as water sprayed the ruins. Our officer told us that the other day there had been a green gaseous cloud that had erupted from it all. Nobody knew what it was. He said that he and everyone down there had had a persistent cough since the 11th. No one can be sure what gasses were combining in there. He had been on seven days a week, fourteen hours a day since the disaster. He said he lost three men in there. After a few minutes, we silently made our way back through the fence and thanked our gentle guide.
Still stunned by the experience, we caught a cab and watched the buildings go by, looking at their black faces. Block after block, the dark buildings marched by. It seemed that the blackened faces lined up to forever. Scaffolding on many of the buildings was set up for cleaning, inch by inch, the affected buildings. Some of the buildings were already finished, and stood out in shining contrast to the many that had not even begun. I wondered if even an eternity could wash away the effects of September 11th. And everywhere: Police, firefighters, memorials….
I felt a deep ache rise inside of me: A painful breeching of love and pride for my firefighters, my policemen, my soldiers, my countrymen, my heroes
Sunday we got up at 5am to catch an early morning cab down to Ground Zero. Mar’ia had been told by a friend of hers to go down there at that hour because early Sunday morning is the only time New York ever sleeps. We were assured that all would be quiet and the place would be well lit. That advice proved priceless. Approaching Ground Zero in the dark was indeed an awesome sight to behold. The war-torn North Tower was clearly visible from blocks away in the taxi. The lights brightly illuminated it in the darkness giving it a surreal yet crisp, edgy feeling. Our driver dropped us off and we proceeded together to walk block by block, freezing in front of each blockade, staring down the long corridors of buildings that stood between us and the site of the devastation. The barriers were up in the form of covered 10-foot fences around the perimeter of Ground Zero. Then at the other end of the block, another barrier was in place at each intersection guarded by NYC cops. I was struck by the smell. It was pungent and strong. There were spontaneous memorial shrines of flowers, letters, banners, photographs and paintings that had been erected on almost every block paying homage to the fallen.
We made our way silently down the road… having already realized, without speaking to each other, that taking pictures was out of the question. How can you take photographs of sacred ground? What’s the point of capturing on your own film a crematorium? Others have done it much better than you ever would. How could anyone be so callous? As we approached a policeman standing guard at a barrier, he asked us how we were doing and what we were doing down there at that hour. Mar’ia answered, “We came to see.” He asked her where we were from and she told him Seattle. He said, “You came all the way here just to look?” Mar’ia (ever-ready with the perfect response) said, “Actually, we came to New York to spend money as well.” You could see the expression in his eyes change as he looked at us both for a moment. He understood her expression of support for his wounded community. He nodded and then said, “Come on, if anyone asks, you’re with American Airlines.” He turned to lead us past the barriers.
We walked down the street towards Ground Zero and approached the covered fence. He called to someone on the other side to open it up, and it rolled slightly open to allow us entrance. The person asked him who we were, and he told them we were with American Airlines. We stepped through the fence and the force of what we saw made us tremble. We stood there, at the foot of it all and could hardly absorb it. Our policeman was silent as I heard the distant sound of Mar’ia’s weeping through the ringing in my ears. The grayness, the billowing plumes of smoke, the stench, the wrecking ball and the intermittent jet of water aimed at the North Tower combined to make us feel as if we were standing out over the edge of the universe. It had become a sacred place: A breathing epitaph to three thousand stolen lives. Standing on the site, I was overwhelmed by the scope of the collateral damage. Twenty buildings in all had sustained damage: This one had a pie slice out of several stories, high, high above the ground; that one had a giant rake running the length of the entire building; this one had huge cloth nets completely covering two of it’s sides. Then, at our feet was rubble…destruction… too much to really see. A wrecking ball was chipping at the North Tower, knocking pieces to the ground below, as water sprayed the ruins. Our officer told us that the other day there had been a green gaseous cloud that had erupted from it all. Nobody knew what it was. He said that he and everyone down there had had a persistent cough since the 11th. No one can be sure what gasses were combining in there. He had been on seven days a week, fourteen hours a day since the disaster. He said he lost three men in there. After a few minutes, we silently made our way back through the fence and thanked our gentle guide.
Still stunned by the experience, we caught a cab and watched the buildings go by, looking at their black faces. Block after block, the dark buildings marched by. It seemed that the blackened faces lined up to forever. Scaffolding on many of the buildings was set up for cleaning, inch by inch, the affected buildings. Some of the buildings were already finished, and stood out in shining contrast to the many that had not even begun. I wondered if even an eternity could wash away the effects of September 11th. And everywhere: Police, firefighters, memorials….
I felt a deep ache rise inside of me: A painful breeching of love and pride for my firefighters, my policemen, my soldiers, my countrymen, my heroes
posted by kafkahead at 8:16 PM
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