Feeling rather ghoulish . . .
...as I make my way down Hudson Street, the approach from the north down to Ground Zero mostly silent save for the rude honks from passing trucks and the occasional squeak of a bicycle. It's 11:30pm (a late night at the agency, duh) and the streets, usually empty, are punctuated by groups of three and four making their way down to the twin towers of blue light, a beacon of sorts. I pause, plastic bag in hand, as I spot a crowd of various PDs around a table (thinking that I will be searched) but breathe relief when I see they are just admiring the wares of a most enterprising vendor selling crystal statues of the twin towers lit red and blue.
A left takes me along the northern wall and I reach Broadway and the "flying bird" PATH station so heralded as a symbol of hope. I'm a bit overwhelmed by the sight of hundreds of folks either passing through on their way home to New Jersey, or making the pilgrimmage to Ground Zero. A photography exhibit adorns the metal grid walls surrounding "the pit," interlaced with wreaths, candles, homemade posters and collages. Most folks are quiet, except for the Seventh Day Adventist who has come to the site to spout religion and truth (apparently, as told by a prophet from 1903, documented in the books of the Adventists). It's easy to tell who is a local and who is just visiting, but difficult to tell who might be making a true 5-year anniversary return to the site. I'd bet that most are visitors, and very few are survivors.
Groups of firefighters made their way through the crowd in formal dress while roving bands of motorcyclists gun their engines as they pass Century 21 and the Millenium Hilton, the dumb bastards; so disrespectful. An idiot drives by in some beat-up shitcan, yelling out the window, "YEAH, GO NEW YORK!" and some fool blasts Bon Jovi while idling in his convertible Mustang in front of the PATH station. Officers mill around what one can only assume are strategic points; no doubt their undercover comrades are mingling amongst the digital cameras, out-of-state hooded sweatshirts and coffee cups. Laughter is rare and lips are pursed; I see plenty of immigrants, illegal or otherwise, at the site. The stories of their friends lost in the towers are the least documented; or rather, the undocumented remaining the undocumented.
The hole in the ground looks far from built; mired in politics, greed and indecision, the most fitting tribute would be a vast 16-acre park; commerce does not belong here; commerce is what caused this ground to be levelled.
This is probably the only part of the city now where I can stand around and NOT feel like a New Yorker, even though I've spent almost my entire life in New York City. I arrived in London on September 10, 2001 and spent the next few weeks glued to the BBCs 24-hour newscasts. Having not experienced what has been called the defining moment of this generation, by the time I get back stateside, the city has completely changed, and I've not had any part in it. Any pain I feel seems undeserved, any feelings of depth far too shallow in comparison, no lives lost in my circle of family and friends.
Judith Nathan's voice suddenly breaks through the crowd, or rather a recording. A garishly noisy parade firetruck from the North Bergen Fire Department has arrived, sirens a-blaring. Looking and sounding like a Taiwanese election vehicle, the multimedia Frankenstein of a beast bears firefighters and flagwavers; six loudspeakers rigged to the truck destroy any peace that might have existed at the scene. Covered in large flat-panel television screens, the truck's vivid displays draw the crowd in like Pan; the plaza clears as visitors surround the truck. I myself am searching for some loose change, having heard that DVDs of the documentary were being distributed at the site, but apparently not at this late hour.
Visitors clutch what appear to be commemorative programs, much like those you would purchase at a baseball stadium. So who is the bigger devil? The person selling the programs for $10 or $15 a pop, or the printer producing the program, or the photographer who sold his photos for the program?
The sound from the microphone breaks up for a moment and I thought the man was choking back tears, but it was just a loose microphone cord from the "Freedom Truck." Testimonials from the firefighters onboard seemed genuine enough, and offers to the crowd to grab the mic to share their stories made things a bit more human but, call it the Patriot Games or the Patriot Act, it still felt phony and showmanlike. Applause permeates the town-hall-like revival but the rah-rah-rhetoric is the most craven thing I have seen since this morning, when the New York Post covered its front page with Bush propaganda and an ad for their contest, while the other newspapers played it classy.
The testimonials fall into a steady drone and I try to move away from the sound, secretly hoping the Seventh Day Adventist grabs the mic and spouts his truth. People ask for yet another shot in front of the lights, but this time without the flash, okay, honey? iPods are floating about; I wonder what's in their "5th Anniversary of 9/11 playlist"?
"Rudy Guiliani for President!" a man shouts on the microphone. And with that, it's time to go home. Port Authority security continues to patrol behind the fence on their golf carts; young firefighters look tough with the patches on their arms, south asians stand thoughtful and it's all a most grand display of humanity. Lives were lost on the site ("it's not a site, it's a shrine," says one man) and the handwritten cards to Daddy can wrench tears from even the coldest heart but the place is also an icon for greed and corruption; an unwillingness to compromise that will forever mark this land. If the lesson of the day ends up costing more lives lost (conservatively, over 3500 U.S. military personnel and over 45,000 Iraqi civilians), then it is a lesson best not taught at all, for what have we learned but to kill over and over again?
A left takes me along the northern wall and I reach Broadway and the "flying bird" PATH station so heralded as a symbol of hope. I'm a bit overwhelmed by the sight of hundreds of folks either passing through on their way home to New Jersey, or making the pilgrimmage to Ground Zero. A photography exhibit adorns the metal grid walls surrounding "the pit," interlaced with wreaths, candles, homemade posters and collages. Most folks are quiet, except for the Seventh Day Adventist who has come to the site to spout religion and truth (apparently, as told by a prophet from 1903, documented in the books of the Adventists). It's easy to tell who is a local and who is just visiting, but difficult to tell who might be making a true 5-year anniversary return to the site. I'd bet that most are visitors, and very few are survivors.
Groups of firefighters made their way through the crowd in formal dress while roving bands of motorcyclists gun their engines as they pass Century 21 and the Millenium Hilton, the dumb bastards; so disrespectful. An idiot drives by in some beat-up shitcan, yelling out the window, "YEAH, GO NEW YORK!" and some fool blasts Bon Jovi while idling in his convertible Mustang in front of the PATH station. Officers mill around what one can only assume are strategic points; no doubt their undercover comrades are mingling amongst the digital cameras, out-of-state hooded sweatshirts and coffee cups. Laughter is rare and lips are pursed; I see plenty of immigrants, illegal or otherwise, at the site. The stories of their friends lost in the towers are the least documented; or rather, the undocumented remaining the undocumented.
The hole in the ground looks far from built; mired in politics, greed and indecision, the most fitting tribute would be a vast 16-acre park; commerce does not belong here; commerce is what caused this ground to be levelled.
This is probably the only part of the city now where I can stand around and NOT feel like a New Yorker, even though I've spent almost my entire life in New York City. I arrived in London on September 10, 2001 and spent the next few weeks glued to the BBCs 24-hour newscasts. Having not experienced what has been called the defining moment of this generation, by the time I get back stateside, the city has completely changed, and I've not had any part in it. Any pain I feel seems undeserved, any feelings of depth far too shallow in comparison, no lives lost in my circle of family and friends.
Judith Nathan's voice suddenly breaks through the crowd, or rather a recording. A garishly noisy parade firetruck from the North Bergen Fire Department has arrived, sirens a-blaring. Looking and sounding like a Taiwanese election vehicle, the multimedia Frankenstein of a beast bears firefighters and flagwavers; six loudspeakers rigged to the truck destroy any peace that might have existed at the scene. Covered in large flat-panel television screens, the truck's vivid displays draw the crowd in like Pan; the plaza clears as visitors surround the truck. I myself am searching for some loose change, having heard that DVDs of the documentary were being distributed at the site, but apparently not at this late hour.
Visitors clutch what appear to be commemorative programs, much like those you would purchase at a baseball stadium. So who is the bigger devil? The person selling the programs for $10 or $15 a pop, or the printer producing the program, or the photographer who sold his photos for the program?
The sound from the microphone breaks up for a moment and I thought the man was choking back tears, but it was just a loose microphone cord from the "Freedom Truck." Testimonials from the firefighters onboard seemed genuine enough, and offers to the crowd to grab the mic to share their stories made things a bit more human but, call it the Patriot Games or the Patriot Act, it still felt phony and showmanlike. Applause permeates the town-hall-like revival but the rah-rah-rhetoric is the most craven thing I have seen since this morning, when the New York Post covered its front page with Bush propaganda and an ad for their contest, while the other newspapers played it classy.
The testimonials fall into a steady drone and I try to move away from the sound, secretly hoping the Seventh Day Adventist grabs the mic and spouts his truth. People ask for yet another shot in front of the lights, but this time without the flash, okay, honey? iPods are floating about; I wonder what's in their "5th Anniversary of 9/11 playlist"?
"Rudy Guiliani for President!" a man shouts on the microphone. And with that, it's time to go home. Port Authority security continues to patrol behind the fence on their golf carts; young firefighters look tough with the patches on their arms, south asians stand thoughtful and it's all a most grand display of humanity. Lives were lost on the site ("it's not a site, it's a shrine," says one man) and the handwritten cards to Daddy can wrench tears from even the coldest heart but the place is also an icon for greed and corruption; an unwillingness to compromise that will forever mark this land. If the lesson of the day ends up costing more lives lost (conservatively, over 3500 U.S. military personnel and over 45,000 Iraqi civilians), then it is a lesson best not taught at all, for what have we learned but to kill over and over again?
posted by avisualperson at 10:00 AM
3 Comments:
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I experienced quite the opposite in terms of geographic displacement, moving to NY only weeks before the attacks. It forced me to become a new yorker faster than average, but i still felt the guilt. I was uptown, why was I uptown when so many were down? Even a friend that had rubble chasing him away from his desk felt as if he wasn't involved enough.
We still get shivers when the tape plays, but oddly, we wish that we were closer that day.
you could never be close enough...or far enough away. i worked on 17th street, and from the 11th floor there was a straight view south...we saw the second one come down and if i could not rememeber it so clearly...it would be better.
a beautiful post...
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