A visit to ground zero

It was the talk of the convention. Ground zero, located across town from the College Media Advisers annual New York meeting, had just introduced the memorial blue lights to salute the fallen. Daily viewing of the site from an observation deck required tickets, and the lines at South Street Seaport were reported to be long.

My colleague Kaylene Armstrong and I ventured down to the site by subway, securing tickets for that evening. Near the ticket booth, three firefighters posed for pictures with tourists. I felt an urge to thank them for all they did and waited in line to meet them. I shook the hand of a young trainee, not more than 23 years old. His partner on the truck, a man around my age, shook his head and said yes, he’s been there, and he was thankful to be alive. He’d lost friends, many friends. Their memory kept him going.

Up the street, once again near the destruction site, we stood outside the church adjacent to the Twin Tower footprints, watching rescue workers file in and out, beginning or ending a day of duty. The makeshift wooden walls that surrounded the church – that surrounded the entire destroyed site – were a memorial to those who perished. Paper chains from Japan, flags from Germany, notes from schoolgirls in Kansas and Hawaii represented the loss of the nation. As I gazed at the photo of a woman with dark hair, a man passed by, with briefcase in hand. Without slowing his gait, he reached out with his right hand and planted a kiss on the poster that declared her still missing. I wondered if he passed by every day and paid his respects.

There was something about the air surrounding the site – something strong, heavy, and acrid. The trees beside the church’s cemetery fence had traces of plastic, fabric, and carpet dangling by threads. Were they from the original crash? They appeared worn and tattered, too old to be anything except remnants of an office high in the towers. A fine dust drifted in the bright afternoon air. When I got my pictures back from the site, I noticed this fine dust mixed with sunlight in the background. In one shot of a headstone, it looked like an angel’s wings. The evening photos showed a cloud of haze above the site, almost a covering for the debris.

We walked for blocks, watching rescue workers, looking at the damage, straining to see beyond the deep fences. The journalist in both of us required attention to the details. This was a visit we could not forget. I told dozens of rescue workers, firefighters and police members how much I appreciated their work. I left them with a “God bless you,” words I’ve never meant as seriously before this moment.

We returned that night, Kaylene, Margaret Tate, and I, to visit the actual observation deck. It was tough to stand in the cramped line, joining people of all ages and sizes from all paths of life. People couldn’t decide whether or not to talk, or to be silent. I stared at the two beams of bright blue light piercing the clear night sky.

Suddenly, I saw an airplane approaching from the left. The plane slowly pierced the light columns and ascended into the darkness. Chills ran up my spine and my eyes filled with tears, as others in the crowd pointed and gasped at the sight. Only eight months before, we’d have been gazing at plumes of dark smoke. Eight months and one day before, we’d have been admiring the Twin Towers.

Then, we slowly moved up the platform and saw the illuminated disaster zone, now only a deep, empty cavern. Only then did the enormity of it all hit me. I turned away, shocked and crying.

Rest in peace. I, for sure, will never forget.

Posted by Colonnade Archives on Sep 13 2002. Filed under News. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. You can leave a response or trackback to this entry