Going back to Ground Zero
A year has passed, but in my mind, the morning of Sept. 11 will always seem just like yesterday.
I was 20 years old, living in Manhattan and attending New York University. I was planning to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for a class and took an early shower. While I was in the shower I felt a rumble. This is not unusual in New York. This pulsating life of the city was why I moved there. Several minutes later I tried to call my dad. As I looked at my cell phone, I could see the message number increasing. Odd, I thought and tried to call out. I could not, but I as I was trying my dad called me.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” I asked. I didn’t know what had happened. I didn’t have the TV on and our phone lines had been knocked out because we lived so close.
“Meredith” he said, “They have flown airliners into the World Trade Center and into the Pentagon.”
I started to cry immediately, stepped outside and rounded the corner where I previously had a picture perfect view of the towers. In their place was a blackened sky. It looked as if it was on fire.
As the day ticked by, the realization of what was happening sunk in. For every person you passed on the street, you saw two people covered in ash and dust. Every time a fighter jet was heard, people scoured the sky for signs of a crashing airliner and covered their heads. Signs were posted on telephone poles, mailboxes and walls asking for blood donations. It seemed as though everyone on the island of Manhattan was holding their breath, praying that this nightmare would end.
By nightfall, the city had silenced except for the sounds of ambulances and police cars. The grocery stores had sold all of their water and the ATMs had long ago dispensed all of their cash.
The morning of Sept. 12 brought no comfort. Lower Manhattan was covered in a cloud of dust and debris. Images of the JFK assassination were brought to mind as we gathered in the streets to watch the television or listen to the radio. People prayed in any church they could find. Cell phones became obsolete as many waited in line for pay phones. All walls and flat surfaces were soon covered with new wallpaper: the faces of missing loved ones.
I felt like the tiny island was a war zone. The police department took command of the city buses and filled them with officers, ushering them to Ground Zero. The National Guard was marched down the avenues as if heading for war. A battleship was placed in the same harbor as the Statue of Liberty. Fighter jets patrolled the sky. Because I lived on Ninth street, about a mile away from Ground Zero, I had to show proof of residency to pass the barricades on Fourteenth street. Somehow, I found myself in this war zone, and cut off from my family. I never before and have not since felt such a profound sense of isolation.
However, out if this tragedy, I felt a profound sense of love. I cannot count the number of times I heard “I love you” or “God bless you.” People I had not talked to in years were so concerned with my safety. It caused me to reevaluate what is important: family, friends and faith.
Sept. 11 will be a tragic day for me. Always. But it will also be a day of thanksgiving and hope. I am thankful for all I have in life, and I am also hopeful for the future. From this tragedy I have witnessed the beauty of the human spirit and the strength of our nation. I learned more about myself in the 24 hours of Sept. 11 than in the 20 years preceding it.
