Thoughts from Lower Manhattan

To the Editor:

I was in New York on Wednesday for dinner with friends and decided to see it for myself.

You take the #1 train and get off at the Chambers Street Station. You get off there because, according to a sign, the Rector Street, Cortland Street, and South Ferry Street stations will be closed “for several years.” Years, not months.

You ascend the stairs and at first it all looks reasonably familiar. There is always construction ongoing in Manhattan, so the sight of cranes, torn-up streets and scaffolds is not unusual.

But as you turn and look South down West Broadway you see an opening surrounded by blackened brick and steel. Walk down West Broadway and the vista opens up a bit but the area is surrounded by a ten-foot-high metal fence shrouded in green fabric. You can’t see through the fence so you try to look over. Some people (there are many others there with you) climb scaffolding or barricades to see over. Stern voices from the other side call them to stand down.

From where you stand, you can decipher the shape of one of the former buildings that were part of the complex. The fluted shafts that rose upward was a theme repeated in all the buildings so you don’t know which this one used to be.

Seeking a better view, you proceed east along maybe Barclay until Church Street, then south again, then East, then south on Broadway. If you stop along a side street too long, a National Guardsman in camouflage will politely ask you to move along. At each junction, a different view of the circle of devastation presents itself. You never see the “pile” itself. That is below the sight line created by the shrouded fence. Only this circle of shattered frontage and cross-like steel beams. Yet you continue this clockwise walk with the occasional side street approach to the center.

You begin to notice people around you from previous stops in your walk. Do they recognize you? No one acknowledges anyone else. We are all engaged in this procession individually. Procession? You stop in recognition of a ritual long removed from your life.

You are making the stations of the cross as you did as a boy. Each approach a different view of a singular event. A singular mystery. That mystery being?...How the hell could this be of benefit to anyone? What good can come from this? Are we such slouching beasts after all?

The stations continue South until you turn west on Rector Street. You begin to notice the resiliency of the city. Buttons, pins pictures of the Towers and flags are being sold out of briefcases opened on the laps of mostly Asian entrepreneurs. On the fence a man is painting “Dakota Roadhouse, closest beer to ground zero.” Life goes on.

By West Street, you are virtually alone. You begin to think you should look for a shortcut back to the subway. Then, along a portion of fence you come upon row after row of stuffed teddy bears. As you approach you discover at each teddy bear an exhausted votive candle along with pictures and notes . Some are faded “Have you seen” pleas updated with notes of acceptance. There are more “We will miss you daddy” scrawls than you can bear. You read as many as you can, but you didn’t bring your glasses, and the water in your eyes makes the task futile.

West Street takes you along the Hudson River and a couple of small sail boats bob in the water. As you walk North, you are passed by groups of plebes from West Point. Construction workers pass in golf carts driven by uniformed national guard. At the exit points, the cars and carts are washed down by a fireman with a car washing wand. You wonder what percent of the ash is human and choose to think of something else.

Your are grateful to reach Chambers and turn east back to the subway. You are now in the midst of students from Stuyvesent High School. They are loud, rowdy, and appear oblivious to the sight just down the street. You could stop and ask them, but you feel old and tired and your back hurts from the walk. Better to just go home.

Dennis Gibbons

Pocono Road                               November 9, 2001