Last Sunday a temporary viewing ramp was opened so people could look at the site where the World Trade Center had been. New Year's Day was a work day for me. After work I walked the few blocks over to where the ramp was and then, trying to fight the obsession to see this site now (it's too cold, it's too sad, it's a 3-hour wait), walked many blocks away to the end of the line and joined in. It had been 16 weeks since the attack and in spite of the cold and long wait, it seemed a fitting way to say goodbye and start the new year.
It was the second time I'd gone to the site. After the attacks, for about six weeks I literally could not look to where the towers had been, and the times I tried would instantly start crying. Such avoidance couldn't go on forever so one afternoon I walked over there after work to face what had happened. Barricades were up around the site so people could only see it from a block away, looking between buildings. It was about 5 pm, with the sun going down and reflecting off the enormous upright piece of the north tower facade. It was an eerie sight, a glowing war zone still smoking from the hidden fires. The leaning facade with its arches looked like a fractured cathedral. The short tower, number 5 I think, was burned with black jagged holes where the windows had been. What took my breath away was the amount of space in the sky. It was so empty. It was such a huge empty space. There were a lot of silent people there on Broadway looking west. There were a lot of policeman and national guard soldiers and dust still on the streets and all over the buildings, even after six weeks. Yesterday, New Year's Day, there were still a lot of policeman, and this time thousands of people, many of them in groups and talking and there was mostly curiosity rather than sadness. From what I could tell a lot of the people were from out of town and many had never seen the buildings in person. So, it was all rather strange standing in line, trying to keep warm in the 20 degree weather with a wind coming off the Hudson River, and listening to lots of different languages and families and children out for, what? a good time? I don't know. It was still a very sad place to me. Those were not buildings; those were thousands of people. It took about three hours to get to the ramp, with a hot dog from a vendor on the way, and close to the ramp a look at the huge collection of gifts and notes and pictures of people who had died with "I miss you" or "happy 24th birthday" or "I love you" notes written next to their photo. My tears froze. My feet got cramps from the cold even with my winter boots on. It was helpful emotionally to see messages from people all over the world, messages of condolence and hope and togetherness. There were strings of origami paper cranes sent from Japan, thousands of them in different brilliant colors and patterns. They were like flowers. I'd read that cranes represent peace and good will in Japanese tradition. They really were quite beautiful. Then the line went around the corner and I was on the long wooden ramp, almost to the viewing place but there was still a wait. The ramp goes by the graveyard behind St. Paul's Chapel, and how eerie it was looking over at gravestones that are probably hundreds of years old, leaning and scarred, with leafless trees over them. There were shards of thin metal caught in the tree limbs, hanging in clumps like macabre wind chimes, making a dull nonresonant sound when the wind blew. The grass of the graveyard was still coated in ash. It was about 7 pm and dark except for the reflected light from the site. And then, finally, I was standing at the end of the ramp and looking over Church Street to the site. It's so vast. The buildings across the site were so far away. Some of them were completely covered with netting. At the top of one building hung a huge American flag. A policeman on the ramp said the workmen were recovering a policeman's body but the group was so far away it wasn't possible to see what was happening or even to see any individual people. The scene was mostly reddish dirt and massive metal beams standing upright and leaning every which way and bright lights and machinery in a huge, huge space. I could easily picture the towers still there, the cars on busy Church Street, thousands of people crossing each other's paths with everyone in a hurry, the farmer's market carts on the plaza next to Church Street, the bright red Alexander Calder sculpture big enough to stand under, the temporary stage on the plaza and chairs for the audience where I'd gone with friends to see different lunchtime shows in the warm weather and taken visitors from out of town. Goodbye to all who died here. You will never be forgotten. You are a part of us all now. We weren't allowed to stay long on the ramp and since I couldn't feel my feet anymore was ready to go someplace warm. What a strange time the past 16 weeks has been. For months I would cry at the slightest provocation, the briefest memory, and for a while couldn't sleep at all, and couldn't get the pictures out of my head, including the one of looking out the office window on a sunny morning and not being able to see anything because of the thick smoke; it was instantly nighttime. Until a few weeks ago, the site was still burning and that smell was a constant reminder of what had happened. Things are getting better, though. As everyone else has, I've gotten used to the barricades at the subway station and putting all bags through the airport-type x-ray machines in the lobby of the building where I work. About a month ago I realized when I got off the train in my neighborhood that I no longer automatically thought "thank God I got out of the subway without anything happening". I've returned to expecting to be able to get home ok. I don't cry as often or as much. I've even found other work, in midtown so I can walk there or have a very short subway or bus ride. There will be an overlap in jobs for a while but in a few months I won't have to go all the way downtown anymore. In general, New Yorkers are getting back up to speed, with the help of all the tourists adding their energy. There's more gentleness now. People look directly at each other more, even in casual contacts. There's an awareness that none of us may be here tomorrow so be grateful that we're all here now. It's always possible as an individual to be harmed or killed or not see another day; now we all know it could happen to thousands of us at one time. So, that's making a difference in the way people are treating each other. It's subtle, and there's still snappiness here and there, but there is a change. New Yorkers are intensely individualistic; now, I think, we're realizing we need each other. I still can't comprehend any person being so cruel as to kill thousands of people and take pleasure in it, and what makes it even worse is using fellow innocent people as weapons. That, more than a realization of lack of control, is what bothers me the most, that anyone could be so cruel. I know horrors have been committed throughout history. Reading history is one thing; 16 weeks ago is something else, for me anyway. So I've said my symbolic goodbyes and am hopeful that 2002 will be a year of growth rather than destruction, and joy rather than tears, and love rather than indifference. Hope is good. I'm sticking with it. My first Joni of the year is For the Roses, which I haven't listened to (except in my head) for years. I'm especially appreciating the last song. Ludwig is going to have to share the "fight back! keep going!" part of this tune with me for a while. Debra Shea NP: Judgement of the Moon and Stars
