Never Forget

Ever since I can remember, New York held a fascination for me. Most people dream of going to California to make their dreams come true, but for me, New York is the place where dreams are born. A place that welcomes your belief of hopes and awaits you with an outstretched arm to light your path.

I wasn’t there on that day but my heart aches as if I were. I’m not going to sit here and tell you of my feelings that day, as I’m sure that you experienced and felt the same horror as I did while I watched the TV in utter disbelief.
Instead, I’d like to share with you what happened exactly one year later.

It’s September 10, 2002 and I’ve arrived at JFK International Airport. There’s a somber feeling in the air. A usually bustling and noisy airport is eerily quiet and filled with more security and law enforcement personnel than travelers. As I make my way to the taxi stands, a booming Italian voice says "thank you for coming to New York young lady." I turn to my greeter and see that it is one of New York’s finest and bravest, a police officer. I tell him "I’m here to pay my respects." He takes my hand and holds it with a slight shake and says "God bless you for that."

That was the first taxi ride into Manhattan that I didn’t enjoy. As we were passing through the Holland Tunnel, I began to think about what it would feel like to be trapped and to die in that tunnel. All I could think about was the suffering of those in the towers who weren’t instantly killed.

I checked in at the hotel and immediately headed for the nearest subway tunnel. I had intended to go to Ground Zero, but ended up wandering the city streets instead. I would catch myself looking up at every street intersection in the hopes that I would see the towers. My heart broke every single time at the memory of where they once stood. If you’ve ever been to New York then you know that no matter where you were in the city, you could always see them. They were a spectacular thing to witness at night, thousands of office lights illuminating the sky by those still working well past normal business hours.

My aimless walking brought me to many make shift memorial sites that, even after one year, looked as if they had just been put up. I looked at many photos and read many names. I listened to the cries of family members, co-workers, and friends who prayed for their lost ones. Their sobs of "why" tore at the very fibers of my soul. I realized that for them it was still the same day, in their hearts a year hadn’t passed.

I don’t remember walking back to my hotel and I don’t remember going to sleep that night. It was 5:00 a.m. in the morning of September 11, 2002 and I was already dressed for the day. I stopped by one of the corner bakeries for a blueberry muffin and some coffee. I ended up talking with the owner of the bakery and some of its early morning patrons about what happened exactly one year ago for the better part of an hour before I realized that so much time had passed. I said my good-byes and headed towards the nearest subway tunnel as fast as I could.

I emerged at the corner of Church and Fulton Streets just as the police were beginning to close off those subway entrances and exits. There were already thousands of people filling the streets in all directions of where the World Trade Center Towers once stood. People were standing on the steps of buildings that were near by and leaning out of their office windows. The surrounding buildings soon disappeared beneath the mass of people who were using them as a platform to see the days events, it was almost as if you could see the buildings come to life with each persons breath and heartbeat. The buildings ceased to exist, they had become an entity of complete silence and heartache.

I slowly began to make my way to the front, trying to get as close to Ground Zero as I possibly could. My hand touched the barricade that signaled the farthest that I would be able to go. I stood there in total silence, not expecting the void that I felt in my heart.

Seeing those horrific images on TV one year ago did nothing to prepare me for the stark reality of the massive, gaping hole that was less than fifty feet from where I was standing. I knew that there would be nothing left of them, that all the debris had been cleared away, but still I felt completely and utterly shocked at the sight of it.

I shed my first tears of that day as the bagpipers walked by playing Amazing Grace. It always amazes me that a bagpipe can sound so haunting and so beautiful at the same time. It’s as if the sound has the ability to speak to our earthly and ancient soul.

The bagpipers were followed by police officers, firefighters, paramedics, all branches of the military, iron and steel workers, and volunteers from New York and all over the world. It was an amazingly beautiful sight to behold, all the colors of different countries and nationalities walking among a sea of red, white, and blue. Each group was met with rounds of applause and cheers as they made their way down the cleared path to Ground Zero.

The day was unusually cool and the wind was throwing around large amounts of dust and dirt into the air. There was a presence in that wind, a presence of remembrance that we were all about to experience together. As the dust and wind was swirling around me I, for some reason, was remembering my flight to New York. The pilot had informed us to look out the windows at the Brooklyn Bridge just as we were passing by it. He said that he had been informed by ground and weather control that an unusual low lying fog phenomenon (something that never happens on the East Coast) had almost engulfed the bridge.
It was an awesome sight to see from the air.

My mind came back to the present just as the wind started to settle and the reading of names for whose lives were lost began. There was complete and total silence as each of the names were read out loud. The names were being read by the survivors and family members, by firefighters and policemen, by politicians, and by one person who turned my tears into an actual cry. A little girl, she couldn’t have been more than ten years old, who after reading a name said "I miss you daddy." Those four words stabbed at my heart, they did everyone’s. By the end of the reading of names, everyone around me (myself included) was embracing each other, if we didn’t have our arms draped around each other we were holding hands - Strangers whose hearts had united in sorrow.

After all the names had been read, an official moment of silence was observed. That moment of silence was broken by an awful roaring sound. In the instant of that sound, everybody, as if one, looked straight up into the skies. In that instant, all of our hearts were filled with the dread that it was happening again. In that instant, the sound we heard was the roaring of an airplane flying too low, but there was nothing in the sky, there was no sound of an impact. Then the sound came again.
We were all relieved as we realized that it was the sound of those earlier wind gusts that had returned. The sound of the wind had been amplified due to all of the speakers that had been placed around Ground Zero.
In the instant of that sound my heart froze and for just one second
I knew what it felt like on that day one year ago.

Only family members were allowed to actually set foot on Ground Zero. Most didn’t have a body to bury, so for them, being at the actual site was the only form of closure that they were going to get.
Slowly, the barricades came down and we, the general public, were allowed to make our way down to Ground Zero. The surrounding area of where the World Trade Center Towers once stood was fenced off. I grabbed onto that fence with both hands and forced myself to look down. Somewhere in the back of my mind I almost expected to see a glimpse of hell, a hell still lingering amongst the rubble of chaos that it helped create.
I didn’t see hell in the traditional way that we imagine it to be,
instead I saw the very real and very raw emotional hell
that the families of the victims had been enduring everyday.
I remember one woman sobbing hysterically as she grabbed fistfuls of dirt and shoved them into her pockets.

I was granted a view, if only for a moment, of heaven, the idea of how our faith, whatever it may be, gives us the strength to continue. It was there as I turned around, St. Paul’s Chapel, intact, undamaged and across the street from where the towers once stood. A mountain of prayers and pictures, items of clothing and teddy bears, thoughts of sorrow and expressions of grief all attached to a belief that there is something or someone that will be able to ease our pain and suffering.

The day had worn long and the groups of people were starting to disperse. We were all hungry, thirsty and just wanted a place to be able to sit down at. In the Financial District, there aren’t convenience stores on every block or little bakery or sandwich shops like there is in the rest of the city. The few surrounding restaurants that mainly cater to the business crowds had closed down for the day. As I walked among the throngs of people, I saw a place that I would never eat at while in New York. It was a McDonalds, there in the middle of the Financial District not far from Wall Street. I made my way there and stood in line, waiting with the hundreds of others who were just looking for anything to eat. That McDonalds was different. I assume it was because of it’s location, it had to cater to the money crowd. There was a doorman, complete with suit and white gloves, holding the door open. Upon entering you were greeted with the sounds of a musician playing classical piano music on the second landing of stairs that led to the upstairs seating area.

As I made my way up those stairs looking for a place to sit down I saw that it had been occupied by mostly firefighters and police officers. There were no longer any individual tables, just a mass of brotherhood recounting their blessings of being alive on this day. Just as I was about to turn and walk back down the stairs a voice called out to me. It was a fireman named Anthony who had invited me to sit down with his ladder company. I felt completely out of place, but thanked him and accepted his offer. Handshakes were exchanged and conversations resumed. I was asked if I had survived or lost anyone on that day, I said no, that I wasn’t even a New Yorker. I told them that I was from Dallas, TX and that I had come to pay my respects for everyone who had lost their lives on that day. I’m not sure how long we all stayed there talking, but when we all walked out together I received a hug from each of them. They had all welcomed me, an outsider, into their circle and shared their most intimate feelings and stories about what they had experienced on that day. It is a memory that is forever etched into my soul.

I walked back to my hotel so that I could pick up a sweater, the evening was suppose to be cool, before making my way to Battery Park where President Bush would address the public and light the eternal flame beneath the damaged Sphere sculpture that once stood in front of the World Trade Center Towers.

The day had ended, it was past midnight, but people still lingered in the streets. Holding on to the last of their comfort provided by the days events and the kindness of families, friends, and strangers.

I didn’t think that it was possible, but my love of New York, and for it’s people grew on that day. To witness their resilience as a city gave me the hope that there is a future for our humanity.


Never Forget.