Hey, those few of you still with me – thank you thank you for your comments on this site. I just love it – this being connected.
Have had the TV on much of this day – listening, while shelling a massive amount of shrimp (where oh where is the Shrimp Man of Abqaiq days when I need him?) to the solemn ceremonies commemorating the seventh year since 9/ll.
I have just now decided I will post this following article – I wrote it in April 2002, seven months after the World Center Trade Towers fell. Even then, I was beginning to feel a great need to record some of these stories for our grandchildren, and in the last few years some of you have read this already:
In 1986, Henry and I, and seven year old daughter Anne, attended a dinner with the East Coast contingent of Dodger Campers and their families – men Henry had become very close to through a mutual love of Dodger Baseball. The dinner was at The Windows on the World restaurant at 1 World Trade Center in lower Manhattan. Memories of that night are still vivid. The buildings were so very huge, the lobbies enormous, at first we could not find our way. We finally located the express elevator going directly to the restaurant. Immediately, there was a problem. Henry was not allowed into the elevator because of the dress code – he was not wearing a coat and tie. There was an extended telephone conversation between the elevator operator in the lobby and the maitre’d in the restaurant. Finally, it was established that a dinner jacket, brought by a friend, was waiting for Henry at the desk – so that he would not be entering the restaurant improperly attired. With great reluctance, the elevator operator let us board. We discovered why the 58 second ride to the 107th floor was one of New York City’s attractions. It took our breath away. We emerged into the arms of anxious friends worried that we were stranded in the lobby. Henry could not shrug himself into the jacket. It was many sizes too small, even though he and Roger Warren, who brought the jacket, are the same size. Evidently someone else had run the gauntlet and made his way to the restaurant to a waiting dinner jacket, and had mistakenly worn the one brought for Henry. There was quite a scene as the maitre’d searched among the diners, and discovered a small Asian man with shoulder pads falling nearly to his elbows, and the oversize sleeves dangling into his soup. There was a (double) switch.
The dinner buffet was impressive. We sat with good friends, ate wonderful food, and during the course of the evening the restaurant revolved several times. I watched in fascination. As we revolved, the Manhattan skyline passed in review. At that height, from the 107th floor, the skyscrapers seemed closer. The Empire State Building was imposing from this viewpoint, but the Chrysler Building, a gleaming stainless steel Art Deco gem, was my instant favorite. The spire is patterned after the radiator grill of the 1929 Chrysler Plymouth, and the gargoyles are Chrysler hood ornaments.
This wonderful evening is a memorable highlight of our travels.
The World Trade Center Towers, at 110 floors, were taller than the Empire State Building which has eighty-six floors and an observation deck at the 102nd floor. The Towers were completed in the early 1970s, and dominated the lower Manhattan skyline. They were just two tall plain towers. Twins. They were the heart, the center of world trade. Now they are gone. They leave a gaping hole in the skyline.
February 2002: Henry and I were on our first trip to New York City since the terrorist attacks of 11 September 2001. The unstated question became an actual presence between us: Should we go to Ground Zero? Would going to the viewing platform be a ghoulish exercise in curiosity, or an act of respect?
We settled into the hotel and bought a copy of the New York Times. Since 9/11 the Times carries a daily tally of numbers: the dead, the presumed dead, the death certificates issued, the death certificates requested. Along side the numbers runs a daily feature, A Nation Challenged: Portraits of Grief. This page is devoted to a brief biography, with picture, of the dead. About twelve victims are featured each day. On the 2nd of February we read about Marie Pappalardo, protector of cats, returning home from Boston to California on flight 175. Thomas Pedicini, who literally lived to play his guitar, and got his job with Cantor Fitzgerald in the World Trade Center through a brother in law who worked there and died with him. Darya Lin, an Iranian who lived through the eight year Iranian-Iraqi War of the 1980s, is now – was – a senior manager with Keane Consulting Group, and stayed on the 78th floor to help a pregnant client while others in her office made it down the stairs to safety. The grief is endless.
The attack on the World Trade Center has forever affected New York City. A nation grieves, but New Yorkers live with the finality of the aftermath. We wondered – how would we react to the altered timbre of this city?
We could not make a decision about going to Ground Zero. So, we stalled. We walked down 42nd Street, all the way to the pier, and took the two hour cruise on the Circle Line around lower Manhattan. It was late afternoon. The gray skies literally gave way to a determined February sun that broke through the overcast, and bathed the buildings in a golden glow. The light appeared so suddenly, and was such a contrast, it was as if The Voice had declared, “And let there be Light.” The effect was stunning. The skyline is a thrilling sight. Those buildings seem to jostle each other for their bit of space; they haggle right down to the shoreline.
From the vantage point of the ship, we saw that The Empire State Building stands aloof, in the mid-section of Manhattan, removed from the crowd. It towers over all adjacent buildings for blocks in every direction. The Chrysler Building, only a few blocks from the Empire State Building, is a seventy-seven story skyscraper. It stands in the mid-town area because it is built of stainless steel and aluminum; it is light for it’s size. In silver and chrome it looks like an art deco Roaring Twenties object d’art suitable only as a coffee table ornament.
Why does the Empire State Building stand alone, while the other skyscrapers huddle together down at the lower end of the island? I had never thought to question this until the ship’s tour guide gave us a geology lesson: Manhattan sits in it’s entirety on a rock formation known as the Manhattan schist. On top of the schist is a layer of topsoil of varying thickness. The foundations of skyscrapers cannot be built on topsoil, therefore the depth to the bedrock determines the location of large buildings. The Empire State Building stands on an area of bedrock only a few inches below the topsoil. Across the street, in any direction, the bedrock drops away to more than 200 feet below street level. The bedrock does not surface until at the tip of lower Manhattan, where it again lies just a few inches below ground level. Hence, the dense cluster of skyscrapers huddling in that area.
Our ship passed a row of piers jutting out in the water. There is an empty space where a pier had been. Now, just a few splintered pilings haphazardly stick out of the water. The pier was built by the White Star Line for the exclusive use of the Titanic. Now – was an unexpected time of reflection, as I gazed at that empty space and imagined the crowd on shore, there to welcome the great ship that never docked. After the Titanic sank, the White Star Line declined into oblivion, the pier was never used.
Our crew cut the ship’s engines and we glided in silence past the empty space in the Manhattan skyline. It was 4:30 in the afternoon; we turned to look at Ground Zero just as the great halogen arc light came on, illuminating the twenty-four hour rescue effort. It was a long way to the shore. We could see cranes moving over an empty area that is so flat it looked like a construction site. Bagpipes played “Amazing Grace.” It was the ship’s recorded tape. Our emotions were numb – such a great sadness, combined with rage at evil run amok.
We felt bewildered disbelief that such a thing could happen. History does provide a precedent. In 538 BCE Nebuchadnezzar was in bewildered disbelief when his great city, Babylon, fell in a single night to Cyrus, king of Persia. The World Trade Center towers, a product of more than 30 years of planning and construction, disappeared within an hour.
The ship picked up speed. Life will go on. We turned our attention to the Brooklyn Bridge, a marvel of engineering and endurance. The oldest of the borough bridges, it stands in need of the least repair of all New York’s bridges.
The United Nations complex came into view. Ah yes, a world organization to end all war, to promote and maintain world peace. What a very good idea.
The ship turned, facing due west, and as if on cue, the sun, now a great glowing globe, sank into the sea just beside the Statue of Liberty. There she was, in dark silhouette against the glowing sunset, her arm holding high the great torch. At that moment the lights came on in the torch and in the crown. The seven points of her crown represent the seven continents and the seven seas. Lady Liberty has welcomed people from the seven points of the earth.
Our feelings? Gratitude. Grateful pride. Intense grateful pride.
The ship turned, we sailed again past the empty space in the skyline with the bright halogen lights playing off the cranes and piles of rubble on the perimeter. A huge moon hung just above the massed buildings of Manhattan and cast a swath of glistening light across the water. A glistening path to where? To hope? To determination?
After that afternoon sailing around Manhattan, we made the decision.
Yes, we would go to Ground Zero.
We would pay homage to those who died, and to those who survived.
We would make a show of solidarity and respect.
It was unseasonably warm and sunny that Tuesday, as we emerged out of the Black Hole, the subway, at City Hall Park Station. The small park to our left was once New York City’s village green. The Declaration of Independence was read to George Washington and his troops on this spot five days after July the 4th, 1776. Knowing this history put into some perspective the sight of the iron railing surrounding the park. The railing now serves as a bulletin board for mementos to the 9/11 attacks. The mood was somber as we walked past tee shirts from fire departments across the nation, flags and banners signed by school children from around the world, flowers and candles strewn along the pavement. There were posters of missing persons, put there in the immediate aftermath, by relatives and friends hoping someone would recognize their loved one as a dazed or confused survivor.
We walked to South Port pier and picked up our two tickets for the viewing platform. The ticket is for that day and there is no choice of time. It was just before noon, the kiosk had been open less than an hour, and while there was a steady stream of people, there was no line. We knew that on weekends the wait for free tickets to go stand in line for viewing can be as long as two hours. Our viewing time was for 1:30 pm. The lady in the kiosk instructed us to present ourselves in line 15 minutes before the allotted time slot to avoid congestion.
We waited at the South Port Pier. We ate ice cream and gazed out at the Brooklyn Bridge. New York is a big place and has been the scene of big disasters. In 1883 there was panic on the bridge. Someone tripped and twelve people were crushed to death in the ensuing panic. It was estimated that 20,000 people were walking across the bridge at the time. Taking some minutes to assimilate this information, we turned our gaze to the historic ships at the dock. The four-masted Peking, beautifully painted in black with gold and red trim, is the second largest sailing ship in the world. We turned back to the Brooklyn Bridge. 20,000 people? On the bridge at one time? We considered 50,000 people working in the World Trade Center towers at one time.
It was time to walk to the viewing platform, or rather, walk to the line waiting to ascend to the viewing platform. Up historic Fulton Street, one block from the harbor, is a small lighthouse – a tribute to the dead of the Titanic. We paused and reflected. This was a day to consider disasters.
We walked on past closed businesses which have not yet recovered from the events of 9/11, their metal shutters drawn over blank doorways. It was good to see some businesses advertise, “We are open! We are back! We will overcome! Come in!”
The streets in lower Manhattan are very narrow, and now even smaller because of the many street-side vendors selling pictures of the rubble, pictures of firemen raising the flag, pictures of the tower burning. We worked our way through the crowds of people and the carts with their pictures, and continued up and down over great serpentine humps of asphalt that lined both sides of the streets along the sidewalks. The black of the asphalt was a bleak statement, a deathly contrast to the white cement curbs.
A policeman confirmed our assumption: to get the lights and phones working after the towers collapsed, miles of cables had been laid out along the sidewalks, in the curbs, and then covered over with asphalt for protection. The asphalt was so black, the humps so strangely tall – they took on a personality of their own. They are a Band-aid for the present. How long will it be before the miles of electrical lines and telephone cables will again be put underground and the asphalt removed?
There is no answer.
The line formed at St. Paul’s Chapel. Hundreds of people were in line, we moved along at a steady pace. The mood was somber, subdued. The very polite policewoman patrolled the line announcing over and over, “You must have a ticket to be in the line. If you do not have a ticket, you will not be allowed onto the viewing platform.” We were standing by St. Paul’s churchyard. The ten foot iron fence was totally shrouded in mementos from all over the world: flowers, candles, flags, hats, shirts. Most artifacts are signed by members of fire engine companies, by members of police forces, by children from schools from across the country, and indeed, from throughout the world. The line paraded past the gate opening into St. Paul’s courtyard. The entrance to the chapel is very close to the sidewalk, perhaps twelve feet. Wired to the gate is a handwritten sign stating that the chapel is currently closed to the general public because the ministry is now exclusively serving the firemen and police rescue units who come in after their shift at the site. They come for prayer, for solace, for food. “Please,” was the plea written on the cardboard sign, “respect their privacy by refraining from taking pictures.”
Our line turned the corner by the historic church cemetery. There was time to realize that St. Paul’s, completed in 1766, is the only church left standing in New York City that was built before the Revolutionary War. George Washington worshipped here at this very church. For the last thirty years the old church has been in the long shadow of the World Trade Center towers.
Interesting. The old church has prevailed. The great towers are gone.
Our tickets collected, we waited to be the next group of twenty-five people to ascend the ramp to the viewing platform. All we could see was the plywood ramp up to the platform and the plywood fence with 10 foot high sides. Off to the left we could see an open space where the workers coming off their shift walked to the church. A fireman, bone weary and very dirty, walked past our line, looked at us, turned around, retraced his steps back to Henry, put a hunk of rock into Henry’s hand, and said, “Here, a piece of the World Trade Center.” He walked away and disappeared into the crowd before we realized what had happened. How to describe the catch in Henry’s throat? Let us just say, it was a powerful, quietly emotional moment.
Our group was next to walk up to the plywood platform. Everyone crowded to look out over the edge. Four months after the attacks, there was nothing to see. The site was now a vast flat area with a pile of debris over to one side. The cranes were working on the subterranean levels, therefore we could not see the recovery efforts going on so far into the ground. The mood on the platform was quiet, respectful, tearful, numb. We were given three minutes, and after a very firm “Thank you for coming this day” announcement from the attending policeman, we understood we were to move on down the ramp, and allow the next group to crowd into our space.
Situated beside the down-ramp is a life-size pewter-colored sculpture of eleven workmen sitting on a skyscraper beam, eating lunch, smoking, talking. It is almost an exact copy of a the famous picture taken in 1932 of men working on Rockefeller Center. This sculpture is on a rented truck, parked there by the artist, an immigrant from Sicily, who has made friends with the ironworkers at the site. He managed to drive it past the police lines and get it parked where everyone who exits the ramp must walk past it. The sculptor said: “the firefighters are heroes, the police are heroes, but now the work is done by the ironworkers. They need recognition.”
With this last image of construction in our mind’s eye, we walked away.
Is this a subliminal Phoenix rising from the ashes?
People ask – Is it worth it to go? What do you feel? What do you see?
The worth, the feel, the seeing, is directly related to what one brings emotionally to the site.
We walked south, and within a few blocks were across the street from the Stock Exchange, shrouded in red, white, and blue lights, and now a fortress of security. Tourists are no longer allowed inside. We were standing by the steps of the Federal Building, built on the site where George Washington swore the oath of office as the first President of the United States. The Bible used in the ceremony is on display inside. Lower Manhattan, this disaster area, is replete with historical reminders.
It is “A Small World After All.” The friendly Federal policeman standing a casual guard in front of the Federal Building was most talkative. We had a nice chat, and learned that he had served in Fort Smith at Fort Chaffee during the time the Cuban refugees were at Chaffee – he was stationed there during the riots.
To put a finale on this emotional day, we went to the Empire State Building. It seemed right, somehow. The Empire State Building was there before the World Trade Center Towers eclipsed it as the tallest building – and, it still stands. It comfortingly still stands. I just wanted to walk through the beautiful lobby and look at the stained glass windows which depict the seven wonders of the world. The eighth window depicts the Empire State Building as the 8th wonder. In 1938 it was.
Henry sat outside, too tired to walk through this enormous place. To get into the lobby now requires a picture ID and passing through a scanning machine. I navigated security, walked around the lobby, took the escalator to the second floor where I considered taking the elevator to the observation deck. We had been here years before. It was late in the day, and Henry was waiting outside.
Back in the main lobby, I came around a corner and there they were – Prince Charming and his Princess. He in a Dress Blues Naval Uniform, she dressed in a Sparkly Gold Gown with floor length fur cape with flowing train. The tiara reflected the sparkle from the braces on her wonderfully white teeth. I thought, Henry would say, “Hi there, Tin Grin.” There they stood, grinning, giggling, glowing, facing the stern lady manning the Information Booth. The woman was saying, “You are being married on the 102nd floor? Do your parents know you are here?” I stopped and listened. The Prince was carrying a video camera and a folder with a marriage license. I spoke with them. No - no parents. But they planned to show them the video. No, he is not in the Navy. He just thought it was a nice costume and would look really good. Yes, they are very confident, that this is what they want to do. The visibly upset woman in the information booth inquired if they planned to sanctify the marriage in a church later. They said, maybe – in a few years.
I wished them luck. I wanted to hug them. I told them marriage is the best thing they could jump into, and to hang in there and make it work. I could happily tell them that from the perspective of forty two years of making it work.
They smiled. They said forty-two years was a good omen.
I left them. They stood there – beaming, waiting for the elevator.
A pretend uniform. A pretend diamond tiara. An almost pretend wedding. Life sometimes gets so convoluted that, as one of my sisters-in-law said to me: if you are not happy, pretend you are.
How does this apply to the attack of 9/11? I don’t know.
But for a few moments there was no grief.
Pretend.
Bye for now those of your still with me – and much love from Bonnie and the Cook family.