It's incredibly hard for me to believe that a full year has passed since the greatest mass murder in 21st century America. It's been a brutal year for everyone involved. Still, life moves on. The smoke eventually dissipates; the debris is cleared. And people pick up what is left of their lives and try to move on as best they can. Still, doing this is far easier said than done.
I wanted to take part in the ceremonies honoring the dead at Ground Zero on September 11. Since I wasn't able to visit my dad's gravesite, I decided to use this time to honor him as well.
I got up at 6 a.m., got my backpack and camera, and headed off to New York. I arrived at Journal Square and got on board the PATH (Port Authority Trans-Hudson) train to 33rd Street. The mood aboard the train was somber. You could feel it in the air. There was an uneasy quiet aboard the train. There were smatterings of conversation here and there, but that was it.
I have to admit that I was a bit nervous. I briefly thought about the possibility that someone would be brazen enough to try something-either in New York City, or aboard the very PATH train I was riding in. But I steeled my resolve. The terrorists didn't scare me away with the first attack on the World Trade Center, and they weren't going to do it this time. If my number was up, it was up. You can't live your life in fear. That's no way to live.
The train arrived at Christopher Street. I got off the train, climbed the stairs and went outside.
The sun had just risen. The sky was a deep blue, with patches of cloud. Exactly like it was one year ago. That was unsettling. I sighed, and walked onward to the West Side Highway, which is along the Hudson River.
Standing on a traffic island across the road from me was a group of people with flags and signs. They waved them at those who drove by. The drivers responded by honking their horns. I crossed the road, took some photos of them, and continued across the south lane to the pathways by the river. Early-morning joggers, pedestrians and cyclists pass me occasionally. I started walking south towards Ground Zero.
The closer I got, the greater the police presence became. Soon, I was three blocks from Ground Zero. A large crowd was there. It was nearing eight a.m. I approached a barricade. There were several policemen standing by it, and one of them was letting folks through. He told them that while they were able to enter now, they would soon be closed in and would have to stay where they were. I walked over to the officer and asked him when they would begin closing down this area. He told me that it would happen in perhaps the next twenty minutes or so, and that block after block would be sealed off by barricades. I thanked the officer, and quickly ran inside to where the crowd was. I took several pictures of the crowd and the World Financial Center. I then left, and headed east towards Broadway.
Once I arrived there, I stopped at the corner of Broadway and Fulton Street. I overheard a conversation between three people. A woman was telling her coworkers about her 9/11 experiences. She was standing on this very corner when the second plane hit the south tower. The resulting explosion shattered glass all around her and sent her flying back onto the ground.
I walked up the block a bit, and took pictures of St. Paul's Chapel. I then turned around and saw something incredible.
There was a clothing store behind me. Off to my right, there was a section that had been closed off, and was enclosed with glass. Inside this enclosure were clothes that were completely covered with World Trade Center debris. It was a thick, chunky white substance. I stared at this ghoulish display in disbelief. Why would a clothing store want to keep something so horrific as a relic? There was something incredibly morbid about this. Not only that, but did the owners consider how toxic the material could be? Apparently not.
I walked down to Battery Park. There is a piece of sculpture there simply known as The Sphere. It originally stood by the Twin Towers. When they collapsed, the debris did serious damage to this sculpture. It was then moved to Battery Park, where an eternal flame was lit the evening of the anniversary. I took some photos and walked down to the waterfront. I sat down and reflected on that dark time, exactly one year ago. I thought about all the people who died. I also thought about my father. And I cried.
I then got up and walked north. I neared Ground Zero, and I was able to squeeze past a barricade to get close to it. I was less than half a block away, near the corner of the West Side Highway and Albany Street. The wind had really picked up during this time. Dust devils swirled up from the pit of Ground Zero. Above me, the sun shone brilliantly. Clouds moved swiftly across the deep blue sky as powerful northerly winds carried them south. The crowd north of me was very thick. There were quite a few news trucks parked in front of the World Financial Center. Surprisingly, there weren't as many people where I was, so in that regard, I was lucky. I sat down on some steps and listened as the names of the dead were read, one by one. People took turns, reading names. The mood around me was solemn and subdued. A violin was playing during the readings, its mournful tones threading throughout my surroundings. Each name was read loudly and clearly. So many names...it just went on and on. One death was too many. But 2,825?
As I listened, a disturbing, horrific fact made itself known. In too many instances, there were names of folks read that had the same last name. This meant that large chunks of families-possibly whole families-died in the attacks.
The last photo I took was of three firemen standing before a fire truck. I asked if I could take their picture. They agreed. I looked at my watch. It was 10:28 a.m. The time at which the North Tower collapsed to the earth. I saw the three firemen pause in a moment of silence, as did everyone else. I took their photo at that moment. The readings stopped as well. After the moment of silence was observed, the reading of the names continued.
A group of folks walked by. I'm guessing they were Asian Indian. Around their necks they wore a photo of a young woman who had been killed that day. I shook my head slightly in sadness.
The reading of the names ended at 11:28 a.m. Then someone played Taps. Afterwards, the crowd slowly began to disperse.
I walked north past Ground Zero. Along the way, I saw a sign for a World Trade Center exhibit. I decided to go to it. As I walked past a gift shop, something in the window caught my eye. There were post cards, but there was something really odd about them. I went inside to take a closer look.
To my disgust there were postcards which showed the World Trade Center on fire. And there were quite a few of them. One had several pictures of the Twin Towers in various stages of disintegration. Another was a long shot, looking south towards the World Trade Center. The towers were off to the right. Smoke billowed off, across the card to the left. Behind this, the blue sky was replaced with an American flag. Yet another was a montage of the towers burning, people running, and President Bush speaking. They were going for 99 cents each.
You know, it's one thing if these images were in a book, recording the events of that black day. But postcards?! I was deeply offended by this. Did the card makers expect that buyers would want to greet others from the city where nearly three thousand people were killed, using these gruesome images as proof they were there? Wouldn't a simple postcard of the New York City skyline, with NEW YORK written across the top, be sufficient? I guess to these heartless postcard makers, it wasn't.
But things were about to get even weirder. I continued on to the art exhibit. The artist had created two and three-dimensional pieces of art (paintings and sculptures). He used different materials to put these pieces of art together. However, as I looked at what was used to make each piece, one ingredient in particular stuck out-over and over again.
World Trade Center debris. The artist had used debris from this disaster to assemble his work.
As I left, I thought about this. Firstly, many of the people who died were ground to dust or burnt to ash. Almost half of those who died will never be found. It struck me that some of the debris used to make these works could be the pulverized remains of people. Not only that, but as I thought further, I realized something else-couldn't some of these materials have been toxic? And this artist was to make a profit off of these works.
I shook my head in disgust. I wonder about folks like this "artist", the card-makers, and the owner of that clothing store. Sadly, I'm not surprised by any of this.
And yet, the more positive side of humanity inspired me that day. I'm glad I was able to be there, and share in the ceremony. I'm glad I got to honor the World Trade Center dead as well as my dad.
Hopefully, everyone affected by this tragedy will heal, and become stronger as a result.
Saul Trabal
September 15, 2002
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