The World Trade Center--Exploring the Site, and Myself

Ever since Sept.11, 2001, American flags have everywhere. We find them on cars, suit lapels, and innumerable ouvenirs that tourists buy when they visit New York City. But the flag seldom rarely affects me. I consider it an overused and sometimes exploited icon. Growing up in D.C., it was a cheap patriotic symbol exploited by politicians and lobbyists. Then I went on a tour of Ground Zero. And I have to say, I now see the flag has the potential to mean more to me.

On Oct. 28, 2009, I took the World Trade Center Tribute Center’s audio tour of the World Trade Center site. I went with 14 other students in my NYU journalism class. During our visit, I surveyed the ruins. There's no more debris. It's a huge constructive site filled cranes and workers in hard hats. At the same time, I was listening through my headset to the stories of survivors, officials, and the loved ones of some of the thousands lost piped into my ears.

After experiencing the fear and uncertainty of living in DC on Sept. 11, I often find myself resenting the invocation of that tragic day while I now live in New York. In classes, when a professor mentions the unique experiences of that day, they focus solely on New York, asking if anyone was in the city and what that was like. I feel a sense of almost as though my experience and the experience of my fellow DC residents is undermined and belittled in those conversations. A plane crashed there, too, I say to myself. And if passengers had not revolted and thwarted the plans of hijackers resulting in the Pennsylvania crash of Flight 93, there would have been more. Indeed, I remember the panic of attending school at a national religious landmark, the uncertain fear of what would be next. Because we all felt as though there was going to be a “next” and we knew it would be in the city where we lived—it would be in the Nation’s Capital.

I was not looking forward to it. With my perhaps unique perspective about discussing those events in Manhattan and with the fatigue many of my classmates feel for such discussion, I was not enthused. I was even less disposed to feel much.

On a red bridge overpass, looking down upon the massive pit where the towers once stood, the emptiness did not faze me. The size of the gaping construction site was notable, but not really memorable. It was the flag I spied on a forklift, flapping in the damp breeze and drizzle, standing out against the cool glass of the new tower that brought a chill over me. Flags adorned each crane, each forklift, each bulldozer, and the sight, on this grim day, over a spot of such suffering and bravery, made me gasp.

Traipsing through the marble halls of the World Financial Center, walking past Ann Taylor stores and various eateries along with the complex’s daily workers seemed wrong. The worlds of the past and the present merged as I spied men pacing and talking on BlackBerries while fighting my emotions at hearing Kate, a fireman’s widow, explain, “September 12th remains the worst day in my mind—on September 11th, I still had hope.”

These elements of the experience seemed to violate the sanctity of this living memorial of an audio tour. But it also seemed to fit in a strange, perhaps unintended way. From the form to the content of the tour, one message is abundantly clear: life goes on. It is never about forgetting. It is impossible to forget the voice of Lee Ielpi recounting the story of carrying his son Jonathan’s body out of the debris with fellow firefighters. I can't block out the emotion of volunteer docent Tracy Gazzani when she recalls the last morning she saw her son Terry, 24, an employee at Cantor Fitzgerald, whose remains have yet to be found.

“We are so blessed to live here,” reflected one neighborhood resident in the audio program. “We have experienced the most beautiful part of America.”

The flags here are not rested for the rain. They do not stay in on days like this. They keep upright, weathering the rain and wind. They go on.

I don’t recall ever crying on Sept. 11. After my parents arrived and ended the waiting game of being picked up from the school on lock-down, we went home and watched the news. Unable to take it for long, I baked cookies. I couldn’t tell you what kind if you put a gun to my head, but I know that I took to my kitchen and turned on the oven. I got choked up. I got scared. I rued the uncertainty. But I never cried.

Walking away from my two hours touring the site, listening to painfully real experiences, and speaking with Tracy, I understood what this mother meant, after she shared stories about her only child tragically torn away. “It gets different,” she said. “It doesn’t get better, it gets different.” Trekking through the Financial District in the cold, wind, and rain, I entered the subway weighing the morning’s events, turning Tracy’s words over in my mind. As soon as I arrived at the subway platform, I saw a homeless man asleep against the wall, clutching a backpack with a small American flag patch, and I silently shed tears as I waited for the train.