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.