In 2001 Hepcat’s sister and brother-in-law, who live in San Francisco, came east for Thanksgiving. After the feast, they wanted to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge to see Ground Zero, which was still burning. Up until that day, Smartmom had been emotionally unable to visit Ground Zero. But on that first Thanksgiving after the 11th, she felt ready to join her S.F. relatives on their journey across the river.
Smartmom was nervous about walking across the Brooklyn Bridge, as the bridge and other New York City landmarks had been cited many times as major Al Queda targets. Everytime she took a subway, rode across a bridge or was in a tunnel she felt imperiled. It was a strange time, New Yorkers felt under attack in a very personal way.
But Smartmom didn’t mention her own fears—not a word. She stiff-upper-lipped it and braved the walk like the ever-reliable New York booster and tour guide that she is. Her relatives seemed to have no fear of walking across the bridge. Smartmom, on the other hand, felt the familiar flutter of anxiety that had been a constant since the 11th. She remembers thinking: how ironic if we’re blown up on Thanksgiving night wanting to pay our respects to the dead at Ground Zero. Death was never far from her thoughts back then.
At first it seemed they were the only ones on the bridge—that we had this magnificent bridge all to themselves. After a bit, we did see the occasional biker, the after-Thanksgiving walker. Smartmom worried here and there about potential suicide bombers (no one said she was rational). But for the most part, it was quiet on the bridge that most stunning New York evening. The air was crisp and cool, the sky was clear blue and there were stars over the breathtaking skyline. Transcendently healing is a phrase that comes to mind—the three felt blessed by Roebling’s architectural masterpiece: its consumate New Yorkness, its lyricism, its beauty.
But as they got closer to Ground Zero, their mood changed. Fear and aprehension took over. Smartmom, despite seeing thousands of images, wasn’t sure what to expect, wasn’t sure she could handle seeing what had happened to her city. And even from the bridge they could smell the deeply mournful smell, the indescribable odor that permeated Lower Manhattan for months. The color of the sky was different over there too: it was the rusty orange haze of a post-apocalyptic nightmare.
The three walked past Trinity Church toward the site. They read the hand-written messages from people around the world. They saw the make-shift memorials, the candles, the bouquets of store-bought flowers. There were many people doing the same thing—people who needed to make contact with this place that haunted their days and nights. The city was still grieving.
Finally, they saw the site, which was still burning, white ash everywhere, piles of debris, unimaginable destruction. Rescue workers were digging, searching for bodies, beginning the clean-up process that would take months. High wattage lights lit the remaining steel frame of the towers, sculptural in a way, ravaged but still standing like all the survivors.
They walked silently taking it all in, not even sure what they were seeing. They went past stores that were still full of merchandise petrified in white ash. They passed a stationery store that had a whirling rack of World Trade Center postcards also covered in white powder and debris.
After an hour or so, it was hard to tell, they had to walk away. The smell, the smoke, the darkness of what they were feeling led them uptown, anywhere but there. They walked past the vendors selling buttons, t-shirts. They walked past a firehouse that had lost men, the front door open wide, the sidewalk covered with notes, candles, and flowers — a familiar sight back then.
They found themselves in Tribeca, walking aimlessly uptown and away from that smell. They walked silently but felt a certain closeness having braved the journey together. They wanted to sit in another bar, have another drink but they couldn’t find a place that was open — strange for New York City. It was after mid-night, maybe later, when Smartmom said good bye and really hugged her dear relatives, who were staying in an uptown hotel. She hailed a cab and rode to Brooklyn alone. Riding across the bridge, she felt the familiar flutter of anxity as she whisked above the East River, bracing for disaster.
Thanks for posting this. I felt the exact same way. Preparing for death every time I crossed the Brooklyn or Manhattan Bridge, or rode through a tunnel. From the cafeteria of my former workplace, in SoHo, I could see the smoke rising for months and months. I often ate with my back to the window, but spent some time afterward facing the newly open sky in order to pay my respects.
I still feel that New Yorkers had a particular experience of the attack and tragedy, and I don’t like folks from other parts of the country claiming Ground Zero as their own. If you weren’t there and didn’t breathe it, taste it, smell it, for months like we did, and didn’t have to answer your kids’ questions every time you passed a flower-, candle-, and note-bedecked firehouse, then it’s not yours, not in the same way. Perhaps people in DC feel that way about the Pentagon attack.
A window in my neighborhood boasts a big sign that says, “NEVER FORGET.” I respect what the owner is trying to say, but every time I pass it, I want to respond, “Do you think I can ever forget?” When something is such a visceral, whole-being experience, you don’t forget.
Anyway, lovely post. Thank you.