Diary from New York
Don Leach
I had a chance to visit ground zero when I went to New York for a
New Year’s Celebration three and a half months after the attack on
Sept. 11. I was invited by my friend, Michele, who had lived there
for more than a year. I had never been to New York before.
I had always made excuses not to go. After all, I was a beach and
mountains kind of vacation person. I always thought the “concrete
jungle” was not for me. But this time, while the New Year’s
celebration was the main reason for going, deep down it was seeing
ground zero that seemed most important. It was an opportunity I did
not want to miss. I wanted to bring it out of the TV, newspapers and
magazines, and see it for myself. No more pretending it didn’t
happen.
My visit there came in the latter part of my trip. Michele
insisted I see the best of New York before we try and “go down
there.” I was reading stories about ground zero everyday while I was
there and it was still a hot topic and fresh on the nation’s mind.
One story announced that a viewing deck would open in a few days,
which was unexpected. We decided to go on the afternoon of the day it
opened, since we had to leave the next day. Lines were expected, of
course.
The subways had just resumed in the area. We took the yellow line
and got off at City Hall.
Immediately you could smell the obvious: ash and concrete. It was
windy, clear and cold. Everyone was bundled up. You could see the
crowds blocks away.
As we approached the area we noticed a line of people a mile long
that snaked along the sidewalk. That can’t be the line for the
viewing deck, I thought.
It was.
People waited in line as if to buy a hot concert ticket, or as if
to go on a popular ride. They looked over shoulders as if the line
was about to move.
The wait wasn’t worth it. I began to justify not looking at ground
zero. I knew what had happened there and heard it looked like a big
construction site. I didn’t need to be a looky-loo. Yeah, that’s a
good justification I thought. We decided to do the best alternative,
which was walk the sidewalks and see the memorial.
It was a humble and sobering walk. Michele and her sister followed
me. People who spoke in several different languages also stared at
homemade items of the shrine. Pictures, wilting flowers and candles
were there.
But it was the well written personal testimonials, the personal
thanks to firefighters and names and faces of victims that struck
home.
The shrines ran the length of ground zero on every type of
structure: construction fence, statues, stairs and the curb.
No one touched any of it. Some cried, some added to it. Some
stared as if to make their own sense of it. I took a few pictures and
stared more. People stared like they were in a museum looking at art.
It was an incredible display of personal testament. A door to the
feelings of strangers.
A clothing store chose to leave a memorial with a section of the
store covered in gray ash that looked like a fresh foot of snow. It
looked like moon dirt.
Tourists of all nationalities looked from far away with
binoculars, while others peeked through cracks in the fence hoping to
see the ground level at the site. People would suddenly gather at
street corners, murmur and point as a burp of smoke would rise from
the still-hot rubble.
It was still hot after 3 1/2 months.
Firefighters walked in full gear through the crowd, stopping for
pictures and holding flags. It was like opening day at a fair.
Patriotism and red, white and blue was everywhere you looked.
It felt like a celebration. It was a proud feeling, one that
affirmed America’s strength and resilience. We withstood the attack,
I thought. This country has endured many hardships in the past.
But that’s all I would get, a feeling. All you could look at was
the surrounding buildings with broken windows and discolored walls
from the best view spots from the street level. The sun was setting,
it was freezing and windy, and Michele and her sister suggested we go
to a pub, warm up, eat dinner, play darts and drink pints. I took one
last look at the scene on the street and off we went. I bought an
American flag with the famous image of firefighters raising the
American flag embedded in.
The platforms closed at 9 p.m. I was satisfied with what I saw,
and felt a part of some real patriotism. I tried to settle for that.
When we decided to call it quits for the night we noticed it was
8:30 p.m.
“Let’s see if the line is shorter,” Michele said.
I was the first one out the door. The cold air kept our chins
down, hands in our pockets. It was about 15 degrees. I hoped our
hunch was right.
A large crowd was gathered at the entrance. “Hurry up, hurry up,
this is it!” We managed to sneak up just in time. The freezing wind
definitely scared people off. Next thing we knew we were in the very
last group as they roped it off.
We were all very excited, but the excitement faded.
On one hand people were excited to be there, but on the other it
was an anxious time. How would I feel? We were huddled together and
no one talked much. Slowly we moved up the ramp. I thought the
graveyard on the right side of the path below was a bad joke, but it
was real.
The juxtaposition was weird. Debris still hung in the branches.
All of a sudden the celebration, pomp and circumstance from earlier
were over and the seriousness of the situation sank in. The
now-richer smell of ash and concrete was evident. It reminded me of
the permeating “camp fire” smell that surrounded Laguna Beach after
the wildfires nearly 10 years ago.
The authorities wanted everyone to get a clear unobstructed view
for about a minute on the rail. They explained take “your” minute and
move on for others.
We were next. We went up to the plywood deck.
The firetruck parked in front of us below said it all. It was a
comforting sight, as if to keep my emotions in check. I thought
immediately how glad I was that my dad, a Los Angeles County fire
captain, wasn’t buried in there. But he could have been.
It was a numbing thought. They perished so quickly. It was an
unfair fight, a terrible cheap shot. I was stunned. I pictured
firefighters running in, and people running out.
They were just doing their jobs, but what a terrible sacrifice.
Perspective became clear. The metal girders stuck in the rubble
were huge. In the videos and photos of the World Trade Center towers
collapsing, they had looked like toothpicks. The area was smaller
than I thought.
It felt like I was looking at a sacred burial ground, unfinished.
It was a big hole in the city.
People on the deck were alone chatting among themselves. Michele’s
sister explained how tall the buildings were as she looked straight
up in the sky. We wondered if it could have looked worse. I managed
to snap a few record photos. My hands were freezing. It was time to
leave, but I had more questions than answers.
A giant American flag hung from the side of a building to my left
overlooking the site. It seemed to say “don’t forget” as our minute
was up.
I won’t.
* Don Leach is the Daily Pilot’s chief photographer.
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