It’s chilly, cold and dark by the riverbank. There’s a heavy mist in the air that has swept in from over the Atlantic Ocean, up the Hudson and is now covering us like a shroud. There are maybe fifty of us – – different ages, colors, and backgrounds. We’re a rag-tag looking group; all of us bundled against the rain and cold. The sun is just becoming visible over the horizon bringing with it hope that it would burn off the cold mist.
It was three weeks ago that the two planes hit the World Trade Center’s (WTC), but it seems like a lifetime. We arrived early; we came to help, or at least try to ease people’s pain as best we could.
Despite my grey woolen coat covered by a rain slicker, I am chilled to the bone. But I won’t move to a place of warmth. I’m glued to the ground by the riverbank. Behind me, about 20 yards away is an abandoned train station. When I arrived was asked to wait here to help honor those coming across the river on the boat.
Next to me a woman is sobbing. I look around at the others and there’s a big burly man facing the water that catches my eye. He is at least six feet five inches with more than a bit of a gut. Too many beers in his sixty-some years probably. He looks as if he’d be comfortable leaning against a bar back home with men who stop by for a “quick one” after a day of hard, back-breaking work. Written boldly across the back of his jacket are the words, “Semper Fidelis” – a Marine.
He is standing ramrod straight at attention, not moving a muscle in his immense frame. His hand is held high on his face in a perfect salute while silent tears roll slowly down his ruddy cheeks. He’s been standing like that since he arrived and they told him what to expect.
Down by the dock, between two oversized American flags a boat is visible in the distance. It is slowly coming into view as it makes its way across the river. How long can Mr. Marine hold his salute? That boat won’t be here for a while.
After a long, cold wait it finally arrives. A Salvation Army band disembarks first. As soon as the musicians hit dry land, they line up in formation, begin playing, and march slowly towards our little group. This unlikely honor guard begins to raise their voices with the music. … . “God Bless America, Land that I love / Stand beside her and guide her …”
Some of us cover our hearts with our hands; others follow the lead of Mr. Marine and salute as boxes are carried slowly past. The boxes are plain, wooden and rectangular, each covered with an American flag. Inside are the remains of many of the almost 3,000 men and women who fell into ashes with the collapse of the WTC towers.
I arrived in New York from Chicago the previous week. As the director of the Victim/Witness Assistance Program for the Cook County State’s Attorney’s Office, I had served on the board of the National Organization for Victim Assistance (NOVA) which was based in Washington DC. Feeling helpless and desperate to do something other than watch the carnage on TV, three weeks after 9/11 I called NOVA to ask if volunteers were needed at Ground Zero. Five days later I was in New York and found myself a part of the hasty assembled honor-guard.
My first job after arriving in New York was to assist in setting up a respite center for the workers who were digging through the debris trying to find bodies or at least personal items that could bring some solace to families. We set up a trailer right next to the Ground Zero and in it provided hot meals, hot coffee, quiet places to rest or sleep and take showers. Counselors also were available if the workers needed or wanted to talk.
The next day I was asked to go to New Jersey to help at the newly opened Family Assistance Center (FAC) at Liberty State Park across the river from the still smoldering WTCs. Because there was a tremendous need for services and most families had no idea how to access them, the FAC was, in my opinion, a brilliant idea. It brought together all the needed services in one place.
For example, it was soon recognized that families could not collect on life insurance because there were no bodies and therefore no death certificate. So, the first stop for families at the FAC was to obtain a death certificate. A system was set up to verify that an individual had died in the collapsing towers. Access to counseling, financial planning for the those left behind, and a place to remember their loved ones were all provided at the FAC.
Memory boards were covered in heartbreaking narratives from husbands, wives, mothers, fathers and children. I watched as families wrote on the boards. One little boy, about 10 years old, took quite a while to write as his mother looked on. After they left I read his note to his dad: “Dear Dad, I am sorry I didn’t say good night to you the day before you never came home again. I really wasn’t mad at you, I was just tired. I promise always to love the Yankees.”
As the last box of ashes passes, we silently follow the procession inside. I am walking and lost in my own grief when suddenly I feel an arm slowly wrap around my shoulder. I look up and see the big, comforting frame of Mr. Marine next to me. We are moving forward but are no longer alone. Others are doing the same. everyone is reaching out to someone. It doesn’t matter what part of the country the other is from, no one cares about another’s race, religion or income level. All that matters in the aftermath of that horrific tragedy is that we are together.
Later that same evening, I put on my woolen coat and walked to Ground Zero. There’s a grey mist, almost like a shroud, hanging in the air. The streets are mostly deserted, eerily quiet and the nearby stores darken. Black, twisted, distorted metal randomly rises from the ground, which is covered deep in layers of dust. The smell is nauseating. As I walk, I imagine I see the lost souls . . I see the shadows of the lost walking and talking. I see them waiting impatiently for their morning latte in a little coffee shop and buying the New York Times at a newsstand on the corner.
I continue to wander the streets trying to understand. It’s impossible – – especially after witnessing the utter grief of the families earlier today.
I spot a pub in the shadows of the fallen towers. It’s on an otherwise deserted street. It’s late and I can hear music and loud voices coming from it. As I get closer I can hear laugher. It’s wrong, I think. It’s not right that they’re having fun, living life when so many are gone.
I’m drawn to the pub. I get closer and finally enter. Pockets of mostly young men and women looking tired from a day at work, are scattered throughout. Music is playing and there is laughter in the air. This is bizarre… It’s so close to the death of so many. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a young couple as they embrace. Over by the bar I see a group of young men, lock arms and raise their glasses in a toast to one another – and to America.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this horrific act can bring us together. Before September 11 we were individuals going about our lives not aware of one another nor what our country means to us. Despite the tragedy, or maybe because of it, we seem to be more open to one another. More willing to help, to be kind, accepting, to appreciate. I think we will be different now. We will truly be one.
After Note
That was nineteen years ago and I’m still trying to process what happened that day and all that led up to it and all that’s happened since. In some ways, I’m more confused today than I was that cold, bleak day watching grief pass me by. I thought that we, as Americans, had come together to overcome our grief and disbelief. I believed that the love, generosity, and acceptance we shared after 9/11 would last.
In 2001, people from every part of the United States came to help at the Family Assistance Center, at Ground Zero, or anywhere help was needed. Unspeakable tragedy seemed to have brought all Americans together.
Nineteen years later, however, we are more fractured than we ever have been.
Instead, of being fearful of the terrorists, many of us have become afraid of whoever/whatever is different … anyone who looks different, has a different religion, different beliefs. Is this to be the legacy of 9/11? Have the terrorists contributed to the divisiveness in our country? Was that – – is that – – their goal?
2020
The most important presidential election ever held is weeks away. Its results will determine the future of the United States. God help us elect a president who respects our democracy, our freedoms, our diversity and our respect for one another.
Eileen Donnersberger, May 16, 2019
Growing up in Chicago in the '50's 