by Paul F. Kraack
(Based on a visit to Ground Zero on Sunday, 11.4.2001)
Just two months removed from the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, our nation was still coming to grips with what we saw and yet can never understand. For one who had been in the "city that never sleeps" several times in the past, there was a tangible difference in that vibrant metropolis in November 2011, when Mary and I went to New York City on a trip we had planned prior to the 9/11 events. We felt we needed to go as a sign of our solidarity with the city and the nation, especially with those in the theatre industry that we love so much. These are the memories and comments I wrote shortly after our return. The photographs shared by link here I have never shared with anyone before because I took them in a place and time when I felt to do would be disrespectful to those that had lost so much and so many. A slideshow of photos from that weekend is available here, set to music by Erik Grant Bennett, "America's Colors Never Fade.
Your sense of smell suffers the first alert as you venture into lower Manhattan. The acrid, dusty smell of death and total destruction combines with the industrious sounds of the cleanup to attack all your senses. The battle between emotion and understanding is massive and it's evident on the face of every person there. You feel the overriding sense of loss, side-by-side with morbid curiosity. Thousands of visitors, intrigued by what they have seen and heard in the media and online, flock to the site of these horrible modern ruins. Families, moms and dads with quiet kids in hand and babies ensconced in strollers, share grief and wonder at the sheer enormity of it all.
Your sense of smell suffers the first alert as you venture into lower Manhattan. The acrid, dusty smell of death and total destruction combines with the industrious sounds of the cleanup to attack all your senses. The battle between emotion and understanding is massive and it's evident on the face of every person there. You feel the overriding sense of loss, side-by-side with morbid curiosity. Thousands of visitors, intrigued by what they have seen and heard in the media and online, flock to the site of these horrible modern ruins. Families, moms and dads with quiet kids in hand and babies ensconced in strollers, share grief and wonder at the sheer enormity of it all.
The memorials for missing loved ones and comrades cling to the sides of buildings, on fences and outside church grounds, serving temporary notice that all those gone are not forgotten. Flags of every type and size, stuffed animals, flowers and posters, cards and announcements, candles, banners and sheets filled with handwritten greetings and messages of sympathy are everywhere. Store windows are filled with a hodge-podge of photos of the missing and messages of hope. Fire stations are fronted by bouquets of flowers and gifts for the city's heroes. And in the disaster area, there is an eerie quiet. An observer of the human condition once wrote that you can identify the most holy places in a society by the silence of the people who visit them. By this measure, then this locale, nestled in a corner of the most intense financial marketplace in the world, is a shrine, a temple. Even though the crowds are huge, they are individuals suspended in the time and space of it together, sharing an immeasurable moment as one. And then there is the emotion that seems to overwhelm everything else, while the images stay stubbornly in your consciousness. Emotion surrounds you and captures you. And there is no way to deal with it rationally or to explain it or to talk about it. And so you cling to those you love and you wish for a way to relieve your pain. But there is no relief.
The site itself, "ground zero" to the media, is surrounded by head-high fences, cloaked in green, screenlike fabric, protecting the area from the onlookers and providing protection for those filled with mourning while they work. Entrances to the work areas are protected by New York City police officers whose demeanor belies their rage and grief. Talking to visitors, police personnel were quietly sorrowful, filled with a mix of pride and anger. Their conversation was kind, yet terse and quiet-not typical of the bluster common to New York types. Hands in pockets, their professional calm was filled with tension. All across the island of Manhattan, such watchfulness is evident. At one point, a fire engine went by, sirens blaring and lights flashing. From the window of the engine, a New York City fireman peered out at me as the city rushed by. As we made eye contact, his sense of sadness and apprehension was palpable. The newest "chic" jobs in the city seem to be bodyguard, entrance watcher and door monitor-these types appear everywhere.
In the city blocks that surround the disaster scene, evidence of the devastation is overwhelming. Even though the images of the dust and debris hurling itself down narrow streets around New York's financial district are burned in our memories, one cannot be prepared for silent reminders you notice all around you. On all the streets, buildings and signs, a film of concrete dust and smoke residue remains-in doorways, on building address letters, on door handles and on windows. There are clear indications that much has been done to remove it, but this is a tenacious and grim palimpsest. One cannot help but feel that this elementary reminder of massive devastation will remain with New Yorkers for a long time. Pressure washers hiss as workers try to drive the dirt and grime from tall buildings and off storefronts. Even early on a Sunday morning, the work of cleaning up continued. One nearby business, fighting to survive, placed "Burma Shave-like" signs on the barrier fence fabric, telling the hated one not only did he miss them, but that their watering hole is still open and inviting passers-by to share a drink with our newest national heroes, the ground zero recovery workers. Mostly, you notice the loss and realize the tragedy most fully when you look to the skies. Where you normally would have seen the brilliance of the twin, mirror-like World Trade Center towers shimmering against the skies, there are only a few scattered clouds against the blue sky, bearing the souls of the martyrs heavenward.
Some final observations from this trip to New York. The city's instincts for business are still undeniable. There was a substantial choice of recently published books detailing the World Trade Towers' history in words and photos, up to and including the attacks of September 11. There was an absolute avalanche of hats, scarves and toys bearing the logos and insignias of the New York City police and fire departments. And the city's weird factor is returning slowly to near normal-as indicated by the "Naked Cowboy" of 46th and Broadway, who, sans pants or shirt, strums his blue guitar, brushes his long blond hair back from his face and invites onlookers to take his photo and leave a small donation in his white cowboy boots. And they do, depositing nearly $500 daily in those boots, according to a NYC police officer.
I had planned this trip many weeks prior to the attacks of September 11, but never considered not going after they occurred. The nation's capital of finance and entertainment is unmatched for providing a good time for visitors. And now it provides another dimension of resolve to its reputation. Everywhere I went and to whomever I talked, New Yorkers were hopeful and coming to grips with what they had to do as a city and as individuals to make it through each day. The service was nicer and the greetings were genuinely pleasant on this trip, not always the case in this busy metropolitan dynasty. Mostly, you got the feeling that they were gaining courage from each other and, by welcoming guests, were saying: "We are a team here." In the words of our jaunty Italian cab driver, who drove us to the Southstreet Seaport shopping area on this brilliant Sunday morning, just blocks from where the World Trade Center used to stand: "I will get you there just fine and you will be OK." Indeed, New York will be OK, but like the rest of us, not ever the same again.
