Woodwork technology on a Tuesday afternoon was always a favourite lesson of mine. The smell of the fresh sawdust, the mayhem of various machines whirring to life and the planning of projects was just a lot of fun. It didn’t feel like school. The radio was always on which made the lesson even better. I remember a news bulletin about a plane crash in America. In my mind’s eye I saw a two seater plane hitting a ramshackle old building with a corrugated iron roof and carried on with my day. I was 13 years old.
Over the next few days the world stood still while the news stations around the world pumped out image after dreadful image. The four planes were commercial aircrafts and had been hijacked. Three of the four planes hit their intended targets. The Pentagon in Virginia and the Twin Towers of the World Trade Centre in New York.
184 people died in the Pentagon attack
40 people died when they regained control of the fourth plane and crash in a field in Pennsylvania
2753 people died in the attacks on New York
I cannot fathom what happened that day. I have watched documentary after documentary. Interviews. News reports. I’ve read countless pieces online and spoken to various friends and family over the years since. And yet it haunts me. Every year since for as long as I can remember I watch the footage of the names being read out in America. The names of the people the world lost. I cannot help but feel an overwhelming flood of grief enter my whole being. And yet I could simply turn away and avoid the heartache.
But it isn’t that simple…
A short 4.5 years after the attacks, with my new found freedom of turning 18, my friend and I head to New York. It was a week after my birthday and I was not wasting any time. New York had long been on my mind of somewhere I longed to be. I wanted to see Central Park, the Statue of Liberty and Times Square. I wanted to buy a hot dog at one of the carts and casually wander the streets. It all seemed so familiar. The movies I had clung to used this city as its backdrops. The tv shows I loved referenced it so very often. It felt like visiting an old friend.
In April 2004, we were unleashed on the city and we embarked on our first solo adventure. The days were crisp with their early spring blue skies and we were granted sunny days with one peculiar spell of snow. We took boat rides along the Hudson River, we took cabs down 5th Avenue and our feet took us the rest of the way.
On our way to a discount department store one day, we found ourselves on Church Street. On one side were tall buildings with glittering panes of glass. On the opposite side were tall chain link fences. It wasn’t until I looked past the fences that I realised where we were. The gigantic hole in the landscape was immeasurable. It was deep. It was grey. It was virtually empty. We had chanced upon Ground Zero.
Walking aside the fences we saw various drawings on paper clipped to the wire mesh. They were colourful drawings done by young hands of families standing outside their homes. The odd dog and smoking chimney. The faces on the paper were smiling. Beyond these papers the spirits of the souls lost created a hush over the space. The feeling was palpable. The silence clung to us like dust. The hum of the city faded away and all I heard was the gentle sound of the wind manipulating the shape of the drawings. I noticed all too late that tears were streaming their way down my cheeks. They too were silent.
As we came upon the escalators for the temporary PATH station there were walls created by even more drawings and pictures and they covered the harsh wires of the fencing from top to bottom. Even here, at the gateway to a transportation hub, the quietness was unmistakable. A few metres away a small boy wearing an exceptionally large FDNY uniform sat on the ground. I can still see his face. He had blonde hair and he looked lost. His face had no emotion but his eyes, tracking the movement of a large camera, looked sad and confused. An independent film crew were making a movie of some sort. I could not tell you how long we stood there. Seeing but never understanding the true horror of what that place had been witness to.
In the years since, where more video clips have been shared the devastation of that day is re-lived. The crash of the planes. The screams of the people. The fall of the buildings. The dust clouds. The crying. The shock. The disbelief.
It is hard to believe even now, 21 years later.
One cannot comprehend the pain felt by the families who lost someone. Or what it was like to live through that day.
I watch the coverage each year and witness each name being read out to show my respect. To put my life into perspective. To remind myself to hold my loved ones a little longer. To love more fiercely. To not waste any opportunity thrown my way. It is my reset day. The day I am reminded of how fragile life on this earth is. How in the blink of an eye life can be snatched away. It forces me to remember the evil in this world and how in the face of adversity New York sent its angels to rescue the fallen. Boats on the harbour took the stricken onboard and home to safety. The dust covered faces highlighted the absolute definition of equality. No race, colour or creed dictated who was first in line for help. Everyone was there for everyone. As it should be.
That day represents so much more than devastation. It represents a city that pulled together. That love is so much stronger than hate. That love will always win.
It teaches us every year to be the light in the dark. To be the best we will ever be.
In December 2015, Mr W and I paid our respects in person. Cascades of water fell into the memorial pools that now sat in the footprints of the fallen towers. The hum of the city faded away once again. Tracing a name on the bronze parapet with my finger, I looked out over the scene. The silence clung to the space as it had once done eleven years before. The tears tracked down my cheeks without my noticing and fell to the floor. The chain link fences had gone, the spirits that had been here were free to leave and yet on that cold grey day, with a fine rain falling, I felt them. They had stayed here. In their final resting place.
Framework Travel 