Dateline: Spring Street, New York City
These are reports from Linda Linguvic, who lives only a mile from the site of the tragedy at the World Trade Center. Linda writes a daily book and video review column. Her email is LindaL@nyc.rr.com
Day 1
Day 2
Day 3
Day 4
Day 5
Day 6
Day 7
Day 8
Day 9
Day 10
Day 11
Day 12
America Fights Back - October 8, 2001
A Walk on the West Side - October 12, 2001
A November Walk Downtown - November 19, 2001
Ground Zero - three months later - December 21, 2001
Towers of Light - March 12, 2002
Ground Zero Viewing Platform - April 8, 2002
Spring Street -- One Year Later - September 11, 2002
"The mourning is over," I think - October 14, 2002
I used to have a great view of the World Trade Center -- about a mile away from my apartment.
That was yesterday.
What a difference a few hours make.
I am safe. I was in my office in midtown Manhattan. My family was not in the area either.
My neighbor, however, was just stepping outside of our building. She happened to look up at the familiar view and saw fire, which was caused by the first plane to hit the World Trade Center. Then she saw the second plane go right through the building. She stood there in horror as other neighbors came out of their doors. Soon the streets were filled with people fleeing the downtown area. These people were the lucky ones.
Others were not so lucky.
It's been a long day. I left my office at about 11:30 a.m. and spent some time with my son Steve and my daughter-in-law Reiko who live on 43rd Street. We spent a few hours watching the events on TV. There was no public transportation and so I walked the three miles home late in the afternoon.
The streets were full of people. Nobody was smiling. And once in a while someone would be crying. There were constant sirens and the only vehicles were ambulances and fire engines. Many stores were closed but some bars and restaurants were and were filled with people watching TV. Many office workers live in the outer boroughs with no way to get home.
When I got down to 12th Street, I went to St. Vincent Hospital. "Where can I give blood?" I asked.
"We have too many donors," they said. "Go to a hospital uptown or come back late tonight." I had just walked three miles so decided to donate tomorrow.
When I hit Greenwich Village I could see the smoke. It would have looked beautiful if I didn't know what it was. The sky was so clear. The sun was so bright. There were white puffs of real clouds. The trees in Washington Square Park were green. The fountain cooled the air with its spray. But people were unusually silent. Some had headphones on listening to radios. Others had cell phones.
When I reached my block my heart started to pound. The familiar outline of the World Trade Center wasn't there. A neighbor and I reached our building at about the same time.
"It's not there any more," I said.
Then she burst into tears.
I couldn't just stay home then. I had to get out. And so I took a hot shower, put on a pair of jeans and started walking downtown. Lots of people were out. Everyone had a camera. All eyes were on the white and gray cloud of smoke.
There was an area where people could sign up to be volunteers. I wrote my name down in the notebook. At the moment though all they needed were construction workers to do search and rescue. They thought they would start as soon as the fires ended later tonight. Everyone seemed to be young burly men in their twenties. I felt a lot of fatigue but did think that, if I had to, I, too, could dig through the rubble too. I don't think they need me for that and I feel very helpless. I want to do something. The very least I can do is give blood tomorrow.
I stood at a barricade a few blocks from the carnage and watched one of the last buildings of the World Trade Center collapse. We gasped in horror and some of us started to cry. Then the wind changed and there was debris in the air. That's when we started to run. I found myself running too. It was the first time I felt a little afraid.
Later I spoke to some ambulance drivers who had been there all day. They said they thought they were going to die. I understand that 16 fire companies were all lost as well as a lot of police officers who were in the buildings trying to rescue people when the buildings collapsed.
I expected to stay out later. Indeed, I might even go out again even though I'm tired. But the main phone lines were right next to the last building that collapsed tonight. And they expected that the entire area of lower Manhattan would be without phone service soon. But I wanted to get out some e-mail. And so I came home.
And here I am. I'm the same person I was when I woke up this morning. But the world has changed.
And so it goes... ..
I can't dial up on my computer. Major frustration.
But nothing can keep me from writing.
My office will be closed today. I'll try to give blood. Unfortunately though I don't know how much good it will do. The early injuries were minor. And most of the others are dead.
My loved ones are safe.
But there are so many others.
Random thoughts and feelings surface.
I'll never forget watching that building collapse yesterday. It just fell in upon itself. And all of us standing there gave a collective moan.
And then I remember the birds.
As soon as the building fell there was several flocks of birds, flying in formation -- small black birds against the blue sky of early twilight.
I had forgotten about the birds.
But the vision of those birds haunted me all night. And I know that scene will stay in my memory forever.
It was after that that we felt the wind and the debris and the people started to run too.
There was really no threat to us but I knew that. We were far enough away from the horror. My own experience was just a tinge, just a bare shadow of what so many of my fellow Americans felt this day.
I heard some other stories from friends. One woman's son was in one of the buildings on a lower floor. He escaped with his life but when he looked up he saw people jumping out of the upper floors. He'll never forget the sight of a man falling through space and the way his tie was streaming behind him.
And then there was another friend, whose daughter's playmate had a father who was killed in the explosion.
An insurance company I used to work, Marsh and McLennan, had 1700 people working in the building that day. Only 500 of them had been accounted for last night.
And then there was the young high school couple walking down the street and holding hands. "This is history," they said to each other. "We'll be telling our grandchildren about this."
No Internet connection yet. I've tried several dial-up numbers. Nothing works. I try to not let it bother me.
My loved ones are alive and well and that's all that counts.
Considering I'm one of those people living downtown, I'm lucky. There's been no damage to my building, I have electricity and phone service.
My office was closed yesterday and I spent the morning on the phone with friends. As far as I know my small circle of friends are well.
My close friend, Howard, has AIDS. "I used to be so focused on my own illness," he said. "But now it seems like a small thing."
I understand.
All my own little petty complaints seem like nothing also.
It seems like a lifetime ago but it was only Tuesday morning. We're having a primary election here in New York and I had just voted. Then I took the subway to work. I'm reading "The Age of Innocence" by Edith Wharton. As the train was pulling into the station I had just read a part in the book where the young Newland Archer is looking at his future life as boring and meaningless. When my train pulled into Grand Central Station I had to close the book and the thought of those words lingered in my mind and I realized how many of us can relate to them. It just seems ironic that within the next hour, I knew that everything about how I viewed the world would be changed forever.
So on Wednesday morning, when I step outside, these thoughts are heavy on my mind.
I meet people from my building. Hear the stories. Everyone seems to know someone who was in the building. Right now I'm hearing the stories of the survivors. There's my neighbor's best friend who walked down 87 floors. The building collapsed as she got to the ground floor. It was pitch black and the people were trapped. But they made a human chain and searched for the light. One woman had lost her shoes. A man who had carried his computer down all 87 floors put the computer down and picked up the woman. This small group eventually made it out of the building.
A neighbor tells me she's on her way to the store to buy food to hoard. She says that Manhattan is cut off and there are no deliveries of fresh food. I hadn't thought of that and think she's a little paranoid. But everyone has been a little paranoid about something these days.
There are no vehicles on the street other than police, fire and military vehicles. Many are covered with debris. There is no debris in my immediate vicinity though. Some people are riding bikes. Some are wearing little white masks that cover their mouths and noses.
I look South. The World Trade Center isn't there.
It's a clear warm day. I walk North. My mission for the day is to give blood. I live two blocks south of Houston Street. (That's why they call my neighborhood "Soho" which means "SOuth of HOuston".)
There are barricades on Houston Street manned by police and army personnel. I'm allowed to walk north but the officer informs me that I have to have identification, which includes my address if I want to return. I check my wallet. My driver's license is there.
When I cross the Houston Street border, I'm in Greenwich Village. From 1982 to 1992 I was an auxiliary police officer here. I wore a uniform, carried a nightstick and a radio and patrolled the streets on Saturday nights. I was a volunteer. I didn't get paid. And I didn't carry a gun. Eventually I became a lieutenant. There are very few auxiliary police officers now. New York City has changed and more regular officers have been hired. But there are still a few of my former colleagues around. I smile when I see Maury in his crisp white dress shirt, and sergeant's stripes on his arm. During the five minutes we speak, he answers questions and gives directions to a dozen people. He tells me he rarely patrols any more, but because of the emergency, "I dug out the old uniform." I understand that the auxiliary captain who is now in his late seventies has done the same thing and has been out all day doing what he could.
I'm immediately sorry I gave my uniform away many years ago. The feeling of being helpless is overwhelming.
I walk north to Saint Vincent's hospital. There is a line to give blood that goes all around the block. A volunteer tells us there is a two-hour wait outside the hospital and another two hour wait inside. As people arrive he tells us to go up to the Red Cross on 66th and Amsterdam Avenue. I take one look at people standing in the hot sun, not knowing if they will even be able to give blood, and I decide to go uptown to the Red Cross.
There are buses running sporadically north of 14th street, which is just another two blocks north. When I get to 14th Street there are more barricades and again the armed forces personnel warn me that I won't be able to come back without showing I.D. I can't help thinking about how it must be to live in the Middle East, where people have to pass through constant checkpoints all the time.
As there is little traffic on the street, the bus moves quickly. Most businesses are closed.
When I get uptown to the Red Cross, they are turning people away. They have enough blood. Of course they would. Most of the victims of the tragedy are dead. I fill out a form to be a volunteer. I'm told they have enough volunteers right now but might call me next week.
I'm uptown. My daughter Wini lives nearby. I take a chance and ring her bell. She's home. I'm so glad to see her. Mostly, we talk about what's going on around us. And how lucky we are to be safe. It feels good to be with her. When it comes down to basics, there's nothing like being with our loved ones at a time like this. We hear that the air quality is bad downtown so she lends me a bandana to put over my nose when I leave.
I wait an hour for a bus. I don't even mind. With the exception of a light amount of traffic, the City uptown hasn't changed that much.
The bus moves quickly down Fifth Avenue, which is free of cars. Most of the stores are closed but have put up American flags. It's good to see all those flags. The bus goes as far as 14th Street. There is dust in the air and it's hard to breath. I wear the bandana some of the time but it makes me very warm.
There are signs about a candlelight vigil in Washington Square Park. I think of going but later change my mind because my throat is hurting from the debris-filled air by the time I get home. I'm also filled with a strange kind of exhaustion. I just want to stay home.
Some people have chosen to do different things to help A good friend of mine who lives uptown on 89th Street collected men's clothing from her building complex and brought it to an area to be given to the fire fighters and emergency workers when they finish the disgusting duty of digging out bodies from the debris. Another friend has actually gone out and purchased a dozen pair of socks and brought it to a firehouse. Other people are giving money.
I feel helpless. I wish I could do more. But I can't even get my e-mails out.
I went to work yesterday. There was a special subway train that went uptown on the Sixth Avenue line. The train was very empty. People are afraid of biological warfare. I was glad when I got out at 42nd Street where it looks almost normal except for the large amount of police presence and dazed look on everyone's face.
There was a lot of hugging between co-workers, all glad to be alive. Our small group of about 20 people was fortunate in that we didn't lose close members of our families. But everybody knows someone who did. And everybody has a survivor story such as the man whose brother worked on the 95th floor and was waiting for the elevator when the first plane struck and so got out of the building right away.
My boss couldn't get in to work at all yesterday. He lives on Staten Island and was actually on the ferry. But the police called for a blockade because they were searching for a suspect. And so the ferry turned around and nobody could get to Manhattan from Staten Island yesterday.
It was hard to concentrate on work but I tried. Then, about noon, we heard an announcement. "Attention. We are evacuating 52 Vanderbilt. Leave the building immediately and use the staircase."
I know I moved with the speed of lightning down the four floors to the street. I couldn't help thinking about how, in the past, everyone took fire drills so lightly. I work directly across the street from Grand Central Station and the police were directing everyone away from there.
"Don't stop and ask questions," they commanded, "just keep moving away."
All traffic was completely stopped. I was with a co-worker, Ann Marie, and we started to move west. When we looked up, we could see how surrounded we were surrounded by tall buildings. I remember the anxiety of not knowing which direction to go as people streamed out of the buildings as much confused as we were.
We walked north past Rockefeller Center, where people were sitting on the low cement benches enjoying the afternoon sun and eating lunch and there were no more people streaming out of buildings. It was crowded but not more than the normal lunch hour crowd. We went into the Donell Library on 53rd Street for a short while. It seemed normal in there although they were definitely understaffed. "While we're here," I suggested to Ann Marie," why don't you apply for a library card." While she was doing that I couldn't help thinking about this small act making a statement about a future we believed in - a future where we could again take for granted such small pleasures as borrowing a book or a video from the library.
Out on the street, it all looked normal. We called our office and discovered that the evacuation was just a false alarm because of a suspicious package that was found in Grand Central Station. Ann Marie and I returned. Only a little more than an hour had elapsed. I understand there were a lot of bomb scares all over the city. Everyone is nervous. Some people show annoyance with others and lash out. Others will burst into tears at a moment's notice. I hear of a group of young toughs from a gym in Queens who made it a point to go to Brooklyn with the specific purpose of beating up Arabs. I hear someone say that the attack on the WTC was because the U.S. defended the Jews.
I'm not anxious to rush home after work and so I sit with a friend at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Terminal and linger over a martini and a lot of peanuts. This is a place that is always teeming with people but there are few people here tonight. We look at the beautiful tile roof of the bar and lovely newly renovated terminal. All of a sudden I really appreciate it. "Here today, gone tomorrow," I think.
There are no subways going downtown and so I walk to Fifth Avenue to get a bus. The air smells sweet and dusty. No vehicles are permitted south of 14th Street and so I start to walk home. Again I have to show my driver's license to the military personnel to cross 14th Street and then again downtown at Houston Street. I've come to think of these stops as "checkpoint Charlie's." Downtown the air is oppressive and it gets worse as I move downtown.
Yesterday it was just plain dusty. Today, that dust is mixed with a sickly sweet smell that reminds me of rotting flowers. The weather has been hot and humid. And what I think I smell is the stench of all those bodies decomposing.
When I stop at my grocery store the shelves are empty as there have been no deliveries. No bread, no milk, very little fresh fruit -- but they do have a large piece of watermelon that I purchase with delight.
I'm glad to come home and put on my air conditioner. It blocks out the smell. When I go to my computer I find that the dial up now works and I'm thrilled to see my two queued up messages finally fly and download 113 wonderful e-mail messages from you guys.
I'm so glad it's Friday now. I can't wait to go to Queens and hug my grandchildren.
It rained yesterday. It was a clean gentle rain. What a pleasure to be able to take a deep breath of dust-free air. I visited my daughter Regina and my grandchildren in Queens. It was the first time I'd left Manhattan since what we are all now referring to now as "the craziness".
My son Steve, his wife Reiko and my daughter Wini drove there, but couldn't have picked me up downtown because of the ban on cars. The subway was running but I was a little nervous because I had heard that another building, Liberty Plaza, was about to fall down and the vibrations might effect the subway. I was glad to hear that the express bus to Queens was running and so all I had to do was get up to 36th Street for that.
My thoughts were strange as I left my apartment. Would it be there when I came back? What should I take with me? I hadn't felt this way all week as I traveled uptown or I went to work. All of a sudden though I felt I was fleeing a war zone. I put on heavy socks and wore my raincoat as I didn't know how far I might have to walk, but with the exception of a book to read and a bottle of water I didn't want to weigh myself down with any unnecessary stuff. As I locked my door and left, my one regret was that if my computer got destroyed, I wouldn't have a copy of my e-mail list.
The borough of Queens is like another world. There are cars on the streets and food in the stores. And their skyline hasn't changed at all.
It was great to all be together as a family. Even my ex-husband and his wife were there. The children never seemed more precious. The TV was on constantly and we watched President Bush visit the disaster site. I didn't vote for him, but totally support him now. He's coming through as a real leader of the American people.
We took a lot of photos of each other. And videotaped the whole family singing "God Bless America." Our family is not known for our singing voices and we didn't know the words of the song, but I know that years from now this will be a precious memory.
I rode back to the City in my son's car. It's so sad coming over the bridge and looking at the Manhattan skyline. I'll never be able to look at it again and not see the ghosts of those magnificent twin towers in my mind's eye, and realize what we all have lost.
By now we all know of people who are missing or dead. I think of them all, the horror they must have gone through. My son knows of a Puerto Rican bus boy who worked at the Windows of the World restaurant. My daughter knows of the Fire Captain who led his ill-fated fire company up those stairs. A friend of mine knew someone who left Boston expecting to go to Los Angeles and wound up a victim on the missile that ended American innocence forever. Another friend of lost a good friend. And the son of a friend whose wedding I just attended lost his lifetime best friend. These stories mount.
Later, I take the bus downtown from 42nd Street and am surprised that the bus goes all the way down to Eighth Street. I'm thrilled they've extended the "no traffic" zone down to Canal Street and I no longer have to show my I.D. to go home. I walk past the Barnes and Noble on Astor Place on the slim chance they might be open. I just finished reading "The Age of Innocence" because they were planning a book discussion about that book last night. But Barnes and Noble is locked up tight as it has been since the "craziness".
My grocery store has milk and bread. Deliveries are getting through. I see a mouse scamper across the floor and let the owner know. She looks at me with sadness. "It must be because of the..." She doesn't finish her sentence. I nod my head in understanding.
The rain has stopped but the air still seems clean.
There's a sign in my building to come downstairs with a lighted candle at 7 p.m. I find a candle and do that. There are American flags hung out of windows. Up and down the block people are holding lighted candles. Nobody speaks. One man is videotaping it all. We hear their motors of the military fighter planes above. Until now, there were never planes flying around here. After all, this whole area was sacred space. The World Trade Center used to be here.
The night is cool. I leave my window open. But somewhere in the middle of the night I smell that sickly sweet smell again. Way before dawn there are fire engines right on my block. By the time I get to the window they are gone. The streetlight and the moon cast just enough light for me to see a rat rummaging through the garbage bags piled high across the street. And the only sound is that of the military plane circling above.
The barricades have been moved two blocks south of here. There are cars in the streets and the stores have been able to get deliveries. Restrictions have been lifted. The air is cleaner. It almost seems normal.
But things are not normal. Not for those of us living here.
I spend Saturday morning defrosting my refrigerator. Every now and then I burst into tears. There is no way I can go about my usual weekend routine and visit the gym. It just seems too frivolous.
I have a small American Flag that I bought during the Gulf War. I prop it outside of my window and am glad to see that many others on my block have done the same. I also have a small pin with an American Flag. I've been wearing this since the craziness started.
In the afternoon, I walk two blocks south to Canal Street where the barricades are. This is the heart of Chinatown and the streets are full of people. Everyone's eyes are turned to the white cloud of dust, which has replaced the World Trade Center. In the bright autumn sunshine it could be mistaken for just another cloud. But we all know better.
The shops are doing a lively business in American Flags as well as headbands and scarves decorated with stars and stripes. The garish tee shirts are not doing so well. One says "American Under Attack" superimposed over the buildings of the World Trade Center that don't exist any more. Another says "Never Forget the World Trade Center 1976-2001" Another has the quote from the President's speech about staying strong and the words "God Bless New York and God Bless America." These tee shirts offend me. This is not an event to be celebrated. I'm glad to see that nobody is buying them even though the price is low -- FIVE tee shirts for ten dollars. Later on in the evening the price of the shirts drop to SIX tee shirts for $10. After all, this is Chinatown, home of sweatshops for illegal immigrants.
The corner of Church Street, by the Post Office has turned into an impromptu shrine. There are candles and flowers and photos of loved ones. Every lamppost and telephone booth is covered with photos of missing people with pleas for information. There's Azael Vasquez who worked in food service on the 101st floor. There's an Indian man who worked for a brokerage firm. There's someone who worked as a pastry chef. And then there's Casey Cho, an attractive young woman who is described as having a dragon tattoo on her back. In the photo she's smiling and holding a white fluffy dog. I see that she worked for Marsh and McLennan. I can't help bursting into tears again. I used to work for Marsh and McLennan about 20 years ago.
Later in the evening I go back to Canal Street with my gentleman friend. We stand on the street as construction trucks come and go. A family of four with the South American features of Guatemalans approach carrying a large heavy cooler. "Sandwiches" says the woman and opens the cooler to show the officers at least 40 neatly wrapped sandwiches. These people don't seem to have much money, and yet they prepared all this food for the workers. I can't help crying again.
We watch a Con Ed truck approach the barricades. We watch the State Trooper check their I.D. He opens the back of the truck and goes inside, checking to make sure everything is legitimate. This happens with every truck that comes by.
All of the trucks are flying American Flags.
Later, we see some of the firemen at the change of shift. We join the people behind the barricades applauding them. "Thank you," we cry and there are tears in my eyes again. Some firemen sit down heavily on the ground and take off their helmets. There are covered with dirt and debris, their bodies reflecting complete exhaustion. One happens to be black and the other white, both strong Americans working together in a show of solidarity that we take for granted.
This is America, the land that I love.
It's a bright clear autumn morning but the large white cloud that is not a cloud is still there. I understand it's actually steam from the hosing down of the fires that have been raging for days. Right now it covers that hole in the world that came from the sky last week. When it does clear I fear that the clear open space will make us feel even worse.
All I want to do is be out on the street today, sharing the city in mourning this weekend. There are flowers outside of the firehouse on West 3rd Street. And candles. And hand made cards from children. And of course more postings of photos of loved ones lost. Someone has pasted up a sketch from one of the local newspapers. It shows some fire fighters on top of the World Trade Center. There is nothing there but sky and clouds. "We've finally reached the top." is the caption.
On Christopher Street the bells of St. Veronica's church are playing "Abide With Me" as their service is ending. My friend and I walk up the steps and shake hands with the pastor who looks at us with loving eyes.
The West Side Highway at Christopher Street is a staging area for the news media with satellite dishes on top of the trucks. They're from New England and Philadelphia and Ohio, Quebec, Utah, Ontario as well as other places. People who live in Battery Park City can enter a staging area here. This is the neighborhood that bordered the World Trade Center, a beautiful area overlooking the Hudson River and the Statue of Liberty. I understand that they had to evacuate and that many of their windows were blown out, their apartments covered with debris. They're going to be escorted back to retrieve some belongings. I have no idea if and when they'll ever be able to return. That whole area was built on landfill and I wonder what damage occurred to the foundations of the buildings.
We walk downtown on the east side of the highway. My eyes scan the horizon. There is something I yearn to see. And sure enough, when we get to Houston Street I see it. Again my eyes fill with tears as I have a clear view of the Statue of Liberty. There she stands, on Liberty Island, her torch held high. To her left, on the land, is that long white cloud of steam where the World Trade Center used to be. Again I look at the Statue. "She's still there," I think. "Thank God she's still there."
There are candles perched on a simple police barricade, and wax has dripped over the blue painted wood. It must have been windy because all of the candles are out, and the glasses that contained some of them are cracked, broken and scorched. There are Jewish memorial candles, votive candles, candles in jars with pictures of saints, scented candles meant to sweeten a room.
Canal Street is busy with commerce as well as the throngs of people who have come to cheer on the fire fighters and stare at the white cloud of steam in the background. There is more choice in tee shirt designs now but the entire area is sold out of American Flags.
I keep walking all day, coming home at various times for a break. I see a mouse in my apartment. No surprise. The earth has been shaken under our feet. I put out traps and will inform my landlord tomorrow. Traps are a brutal way to kill them. But hard choices are necessary sometimes.
Later I go back to the West Side Highway at Christopher Street. There's a large group of people standing on the West Side Highway cheering for the fire fighters and other volunteer workers who are leaving the sight. They stand there holding signs with the simple words "Thank You". They wave flags. I'm delighted that I recognize Sue, who happens to be a recipient of this column and lives on 10th Street. She's got bright red lipstick on and a red, white and blue scarf tied around her head. Her enthusiasm is infectious and I join the group as we stand on a small uprise and wave and cheer. Many of the passenger cars have American Flags and raise "thumbs up" to our small group.
"I was so depressed," says Sue. "All the regular volunteer organizations say they have more volunteers than they need. And then someone put up a notice in my building. If we can't volunteer ourselves, we can support those who do." Then she turned away from me as another truck of workers passed by. "Whoaaa..." she called out to them.... "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you." Sue's an attractive woman, but at that moment, she never looked more beautiful.
I enter the lovely park that runs along the waterfront. Since I cannot walk south, I walk north. Along a gated wall there are hundreds of yellow ribbons. A young woman hands me one of these ribbons. She and her small group of friends bought hundreds of yards of these large yellow ribbons, cut them to a good size and stapled on a small piece of paper to write a message. I meant to write something inspiring, but instead I simply write "Some day the tears will stop flowing - but now it is time to cry."
I went out again at night. It was dark and so was the mood. On Sixth Avenue and Canal Street an angry man stood on a platform holding a picture of Osama bin Laden and spewing forth words of hate. He was arguing with a man wearing a Jesus tee shirt who was trying to show him that hate was not the way. As I approached, a woman greeted me by saying "Hello Sister," and gave me a small brochure from the Wings of Faith Apostolic Church.
There were less people on the streets but yet the constant flow of trucks and workers covered with dirt and debris was still there. I feel their frustration at the difficult and sad work they have to do. The cheering was petering out. But the work would go on and on and on.
Later this morning I will go back to work. The stock market will open. We will try to make things seem normal. I'll go through the motions today. We'll get by. Somehow.
I went to work yesterday. It was hard to concentrate.
The stock market opened. That, in itself, was a major accomplishment. Con Ed crews worked round the clock over the weekend to bring telephone service and electricity to Wall Street. The wheels of commerce are slowly turning again. Stocks plunged of course. But so what?
Businesses are open again. Traffic flows freely on the streets. But there is a huge police presence all around the City. And one of the entrances to Grand Central Terminal is closed.
The nation is jittery.
A printer we do business with lives in Staten Island, which is accessible to Manhattan only by ferry or bridge. On Thursday, Staten Island was closed off because the police were looking for a terrorist. Our printer friend, a middle aged Italian-American, had been on an express bus to Manhattan, but the bus turned around and brought him right back to his street. His house is on top of a long hill and he decided to jog home. No sooner did he get inside his house than his doorbell rang. It was the FBI. They wanted to know why he was running and wanted to see a book he had been carrying. "I guess they wanted to see if was the Koran," he tells us jokingly. Finally he convinced them he was only jogging and breathed a sigh of relief when they left. The next day his wife pointed out a small blurb in their local paper which stated that a Middle-Eastern looking man was seen running on Richmond Road and stopped for questioning. "Maybe I should dye my hair blonde," he says, patting his balding scalp.
I went to synagogue last night. On my way I passed by the Armory on 25th and Lexington Avenue. This is where the victims' families went to register their missing loved ones. For two blocks in either direction, every surface is covered with the photos. There are a few hundred of these photos in the downtown area where I live, but here at the armory there are literally several thousand. There's a feeling of sad quietness on these streets as well as a feeling of horror as we are reminded again and again of the great human toll that has touched everyone's hearts.
These flyers are simple photocopies, often in color, of the missing. Yes, we still refer to them as missing, as if they might just be walking down the street, wandering around lost, and someone would recognize them and bring them home. We all know that's not true. This wall of photos is not a search for missing people. It is a memorial to the dead. And it screams. It screams its message right it our faces. It forces us to look, to really look at the people who all seem so alive in the photos. They're smiling at the camera. They're in their best clothes at celebration. They're holding babies. One is of a young man and a little boy at a birthday party. The caption says, "Please find my daddy!"
The synagogue I attend does not own a building. It holds services in the Gustavus Adolphus Lutheran Church at 155 East 22nd Street. Jewish synagogues usually sell tickets to attend services on the High Holy Days. But "The Little Synagogue" is different because it is completely free. Rabbi Swiss, now in his eighties, was brought up in a poor neighborhood in lower Manhattan. His grandfather had no legs and supported his wife and young grandson by begging for pennies on the streets of New York. No wonder the rabbi has such a big heart for the poor and disenfranchised. And here, in a church, surrounded by Christian symbolism, he holds sweet and spiritual Jewish services, which are open to all.
I'm early and the Rabbi greets me warmly. As he's on my e-mail list he knows me well. Later, he calls me up to the pulpit to read a prayer in English. I'm honored. I rarely go to synagogue and my life is basically secular. I stand there proudly, wearing a small American Flag pin that I've worn constantly since the start of the craziness, and read a prayer for the dead. The service ends with us all singing "America the Beautiful". Everyone is crying.
Later, I have dinner with a friend and then walk slowly downtown. By the time I get to 14th Street, the air becomes sickly sweet and thick again. There are no stars in the sky tonight and the cloud that is not a cloud is still there. But it really is little lighter than it's been all week.
Above Canal Street its business as usual. The subway lines are running, people are back at work, and New York traffic has its usual congestion. The grizzly work continues of course. It might take months to recover all the body parts and a full year before they are identified. Life in New York will never exactly be the same.
But the period of mourning is coming to a close. Yesterday, at work, I found myself laughing out loud when a co-worker wanted to remind me of something and walked around the office with a little yellow sticky reminder note on her nose. It sure felt good to laugh.
I'm still sad when I see those photos of lost loved ones posted everywhere. And, by the way, I understand that Kinko's scanned all those photos and made those copies without charge - a truly good deed in this time of crisis. They've been hanging up for over a week now and some of them are looking worn. One good rain and they'll all be washed away.
My friend at work, Ann Marie, had been wearing a small American flag pin in her lapel all day. "I'd like to buy one for the Rabbi", I said, as I was about to leave the office to go to the synagogue for the second day of services. "Where did you get it?" These pins are hard to get now. Understandably there's been a rush on them. I certainly wouldn't be able to locate one easily. Without a moment's hesitation, Ann Marie just took it off her shirt and handed it to me.
I got to synagogue early and was sitting in a pew near the aisle when the rabbi came in. "Hold out your hand," I said, and then I gave him the little flag pin. His face that had been so sad broke into a wide smile. I helped him put it on his lapel. He wore a Jewish prayer shawl of course, but it was loosely wrapped around him. And all though the service that tiny flag would catch a ray of light at just the right time, a clear and steady symbol of what it means to be a American.
I was really very tired when I got home. I get up every day before dawn and the stress of the week was taking its toll. I was in my apartment when I suddenly realized that I had walked down my block and come upstairs without searching the horizon to look for the cloud of steam or to picture once again those once majestic towers that are there no more.
This morning the sun is shining.
It was almost 4 p.m., and I had taken a vacation day from work, thinking of rising early and attending synagogue in the morning. But I slept late and just couldn't get myself to leave my apartment until the afternoon. I hadn't worked out since before the "craziness" and my body craved exercise. And so I walked north to the 13th street branch of the New York Health and Racquet Club where I am a member.
"I guess Whitehall Street is closed," I said to the young lady at the front desk, referring to one of the locations further downtown, south of the disaster area at the very tip of lower Manhattan.
"Oh no," she answered, "It's been open 24 hours since Day One. We used it as a place for the firemen and workers to take showers."
I had already given her my membership card to swipe but I didn't go to the locker room. I wanted to go downtown. All my experience of the disaster had been north of the area. But the southern tip of Manhattan which had been south of the World Trade Center had recently opened up in order to set Wall Street in motion at the beginning of the week. And so I jumped on the subway at 14th Street and was there within the next half hour.
Battery Park is completely barricaded off from the public and being used as an army base. There are large green tents and lots of military personnel. Police direct the flow of people between the Staten Island Ferry and the subway and the office buildings are occupied. The Whitehall Street branch of The New York Health and Racquet Club has a huge American Flag in front.
I ask the two young ladies at the front desk how it has been here. They tell me how glad they've been to be able to help out. There are large piles of neatly folded clean clothing that people have donated so that the rescue workers can have clean clothes, and a large tray of food that has been sent over by one of the corporations. "Massage therapists have been volunteering their time since Day One," they tell me. "And we set up two of the racquet courts upstairs as places for the workers to sleep." Right there in the front vestibule there's a policeman getting a neck massage. A female police officer is drinking a cup of coffee. I notice she's wearing high boots that come up to her knees.
Of course I wouldn't be able to tell if the people in the actual gym are rescue workers or just plain members but I assume they are just members. After all, I can't imagine why a rescue worker would want to lift weights or run on a treadmill after the kind of heavy physical labor they are enduring. But hey - you never know.
I find my own very light workout quite challenging. I'm getting back into familiar routines. In the locker room there's a conversation about comfort foods. Everyone's been pigging out on comfort foods this week. I've done it too. Haagan Das sure is inviting when there's death and destruction all around.
I was on my way back to Manhattan after a delightful day in Queens, my arms still warm from hugging my grandchildren. Little Forrest is now 22 months old and his baby sister Serena is just 5 months, both too young to have any comprehension of the craziness going on around them.
"What will your world be like, little ones," I think. I had a similar feeling in 1963 when President Kennedy was killed and my son was just a few days old. And then I wonder what my own dear departed parents must have felt when Pearl Harbor was attacked and I, myself, was about the same age then as little Forrest is now.
The Q-46 bus moved slowly up Union Turnpike towards the subway station. The bus driver was a tall slim white man, his scalp shaved to cover a receding hairline. His voice reflected the unmistakable cadence of New York and there was fear underneath his anger. He was addressing his comments to a middle-aged woman with a deep Russian accent in the front seat who basically just nodded her head in agreement.
"I just don't feel comfortable going to bed any more," he said. "And I'll have a creepy feeling going into Manhattan. I'll probably feel that way for the rest of my life."
I know what he meant. I live with that creepy feeling every day. The sign on the E train I traveled on this morning no longer says "World Trade Center" as the final destination. It now says "Euclid Avenue" which is actually in Brooklyn.
His conversation now turned towards the terrorists. "They're told they're going to a better place," he said. "Can't see that I blame them much - compared to the way they live."
I thought of my beautiful grandchildren, their lovely house, the abundance of food. We live so well in America.
The bus driver's voice rose in anger against Afghanistan. "I say we just level the whole country," he said. "Use all the power we can and do so it fast that we'll be back home for dinner!"
I breathed deeply. "That's not the way," I thought.
'I don't believe the President," he continued, sadly now. "It's just a lot of talk. Nothing ever gets done. And I betcha that ten years from now Bin Laden will still be alive".
There is so much frustration, so much anger, so much confusion. Our world has been shaken and we all deal with it in different ways.
I'm uncomfortable in the subway too. It happened to be rush hour and I was going someplace near 34th Street and so I got off at Penn Station. There were so many people who got off the train that we were shoulder to shoulder until we exited through the turnstiles. We'd be trapped if there were a bomb or a small vial of a biological weapon.
Later I met a friend. She was smiling. "I feel extremely safe in New York now," she said. "After all, they've already hit us. And look at all the security around."
She certainly does have a point. I just wish I could feel that way.
All contents Copyright (C) 2001-2002 Linda Linguvic All rights reserved.
Last Updated October 26, 2002