Staff Writer
Standing on the corner of Broadway and Fulton Street in New York City brings it all home. As I stare, speechless, the massive destruction in front of me reaches out its ugly fist and punches me right in the heart.
As I stood there on a December Saturday morning, not unlike that Sept. 11 morning, all I could do is ask God, "Why?"
I had to see it in person. My sister was nearby at a meeting on the day the World Trade Center towers fell. She made it out uninjured physically but emotionally traumatized. Still, our family was spared the unfathomable grief that thousands of others are trying to come to terms with this Christmas.
It was inevitable that I would eventually find myself at Ground Zero, trying to make sense out of what happened, trying to come to terms with it all, trying to find a way to assuage my sorrow.
In the two hours I spent walking the streets of the financial district in lower Manhattan with my husband, I talked to a number of people. Thanks to them, I found some of what I was looking for.
THE CABBY
In broken English, he said he came from Senegal and has lived in New York for six years. He has a wife and young child. On Sept. 11, he sat in his cab and watched the towers fall.
"I never thought I would see something like this happen in America," he said, shaking his head. "I lived in France for 13 years; and if this happened there, they never would have been able to recover like Americans have. You are strong people. I am proud to live here."
His words reinforced the feelings I have always had about being an American. All my life I have believed that I live in the best country on earth. We are not perfect, we make many mistakes; but deep down in the heart of what America is, at the center of who we are as a people, we care more about individual freedom than other countries.
There is something just below the surface of life here in America that throbs like a heartbeat; it's something all Americans feel, even though we aren't consciously aware of it. I believe that this is the soul of America and its people.
I think of it as a resilience, a unique ability to get up after being "kicked in the teeth," stand tall and go forward, no matter what. It has been happening here for more than 200 years, from the American Revolution, through the War Between the States, to two world wars, Korea, Vietnam and the political unrest of the 1960s.
THE BERLINER
At Ground Zero, we were directed to a tall fence. Beyond it, the facade of one of the towers could barely be seen. I was standing in line next to a couple from Germany, waiting to look through a peephole in the fence.
The area was quiet; I think that bothered me the most. In a city as big and noisy as New York, the quiet was weird. Some people were sniffling and crying as they read the many memorials tacked to the fence. Most were just quiet, speaking in low voices.
"I hope they don't build another building over that site," the German man suddenly said to me. "In Berlin, they have erected a memorial where 'the wall' used to be. It has been important to the people of Germany to be able to go there and remember. It helps them to heal. This is what should be done on this site. It will be not only for Americans but also for the rest of the world to come and see and remember. We all need to heal."
So many countries mourned with us in September. We don't even know it, but they continue to grieve with us now. We are not alone.
I have never left American soil; but, thanks to this man's words, I suddenly felt like I am part of a larger community, one that is truly global in its grief. As we stood together, sharing our feelings about the attacks, I thought of the ripple effect this tragedy has caused. We must find a way to heal together. We must not let this hate continue unchecked.
THE GUARDSMAN
Dressed in camouflage, he stood on a perch at the top of the fence. He had just spoken strongly to a young man who had decided to climb up on the facade of a nearby building to get a picture of the site beyond the fence. The young man could not understand why he wasn't allowed on the building, saying that he was only there to get some pictures.
"This is a crime site," explained the National Guardsman, leaning over the fence. "People have been killed here."
Still, the young man persisted, asking the guardsman to explain what was wrong with taking a few pictures.
"We don't want you climbing on the buildings. Would you go to the funeral of a family member and take pictures of them?" he asked. There was no answer. "There are dead people back here. This is a cemetery right now. Have some respect for the dead."
The young man walked away.
The Guardsman had reminded us of the reality of Ground Zero, of what is still there even though we could not see it. The site was still smoldering. Behind the fence, people were working in silence, digging for the remains of thousands of people that they will probably never find. Yes, there was dignity and respect for the dead. By reminding us of it, the Guardsman had silenced us all.
THE COUPLE
My husband and I, overwhelmed with sorrow, walked several blocks to St. John's Chapel, at Fulton and Broadway. We saw the now familiar remnant of Tower Number Two, straight ahead. In front of St. John's, a memorial has been erected. It is crammed with flowers, banners, candles, T-shirts from every imaginable place, yellow and white ribbons, and crosses. We read some of the inscriptions. But they are so overwhelming that we soon decided that we had had enough. We hugged each other and cried.
Heading uptown, we stopped at a restaurant for lunch and fell into a conversation with a couple from New York City. We told them of our trip to Ground Zero. They listened quietly, occasionally offering some thoughts on how New Yorkers are recovering, how they are coping on a day-to-day basis, how they are trying to get back to normal.
"It's been hard for people here, but it's beginning to get a little better," the man said. "Many have left the city. Right now, it's hard to live here."
The woman asked, "Where does a person go to get away from terrorism? This could happen anywhere."
"Go to Rockefeller Center and look at the Christmas tree," the man suggested. "It's beautiful this year. Celebrate Christmas. That's what we're doing."
It was a day of sadness and grief, but also of relief and gratitude. The city that I love has been wounded but not destroyed. I noticed that the people are different, kinder and, yes, a little gentler, too. They smile and take the time to talk to you. They have a lot to say.
As we walked towards Rockefeller Center, I reflected. I never thought I'd live to see a cab driver in New York City waving a "thank you" to pedestrians that let him creep through an intersection. But I did. I saw people hugging each other, and people crying openly and shaking the hands of New York City policemen. I saw people leaving roses, candles and T-shirts at Ground Zero in silence, showing dignity and respect.
When we finally reached the plaza, I once again began to feel the familiar heartbeat of the city that I love. The tree is magnificent: It is decorated with thousands of red, white and blue lights, a Christmas wonder.
As I stared, I was speechless again. But not at destruction. This time, I was speechless at the beauty of the tree and at the life and energy all around me.
I closed my eyes. Christmas music filtered through the air; car horns honked and I heard laughter. People were everywhere.
The wound is healing. New York is alive and well.