9/11/2001 - Within a Chicago High School & Ground Zero

Ground Zero, New York City
O’Hare-bound, I jumped onto an El train Friday morn. Accustomed to the typical sea of black roller bags protruding from the resting hands in occupied seats, I was greeted by the loud echo of vacant metal on uneven tracks. Disembarking on the silent platform at the end of the line, the nation’s busiest airport seemed akin to an empty cathedral on a random day. It was 9:00 AM, October, 2001. The sun was shining and the sky was blue.

I approached the sole agents working the long string of American Airlines ticket counters, picked up my boarding pass for New York City, then weaved my way through the empty web of turnstiles toward the apprehensive security guards manning the x-ray machines beyond. Though most of my fellow countrymen had clearly dropped air travel like recalled merchandise, I couldn’t help but think that, at that moment, I was traveling on the safest day of the year. And besides, I was headed to the wedding of two dear friends. There was no way I could let recent events dampen their attendance.

As our small collection of hearty travelers boarded the aircraft, we were greeted by attendants that appeared to carry the weight of an anvil in their throats. Upon settling into our seats, one picked up the plane’s microphone, attempted a cheerful good morning, then stated: “Ladies and gentlemen, if you could please look at your neighbor to the left and say hello...” We each did, a sense of relief emanating from a neighbor’s earnest response. “Now, if you could please look at your neighbor to the right and do the same.”

Eye contact and smiling nods continued to melt the tension, as our group of strangers assembled a web of trust throughout the aircraft. The stewardess then continued on with requisite info about our flight, in a swelling tone that ended with a “Thank you for flying Am…” as a corporation’s appreciation was drowned out by personal tears.

***

A month ago, I’d been bolting up a staircase at school to ensure I was on time for my next class, when a fellow teacher came barreling by and shouted “Did you hear!?” hurling the news at the steps toward which I was bound, “A plane just hit the World Trade Center!” Being a Chicago Public School, televisions and computers are a rare commodity. The little snippet from the stairs was all I would have for the next 45 minutes. I collected myself in the hallway, stepped inside my classroom, and shut the door. I looked down at the ground for a brief second then up at five rows of anxious eyes. “Did you hear, Mr. F!? Did you hear!?”

I nodded, but keen teenage eyes were clear on the fact that I did not truly know what was going on. My simple statement that a plane had hit the World Trade Center was answered with a peppering of flourished versions of this story that were the obvious products of a chain of morphing shouts up and down the school’s halls. The room was raucous, save for Sara from Pakistan, who sat quietly at her desk in her scarf and white shirt, gazing at me and about the room. I quickly delegated a task and set the students to work.

Surprised by the silence that quickly accompanied the movement of thirty pens, I moved to the window and tried to ponder the weight that was somewhere out there in blue sky. I did my best to look reflective and not nervous or mad. I would not see Sara again – nor most of the school’s two hundred or so Muslim students – for the next two weeks. Their parents would not let them out of the house. A wise move I think, given that an Indian mother was pelted with fruit in a supermarket parking lot a day later, her Hindu faith having been lumped together with Islamic extremists.

A few weeks later, at a school assembly brimming with a slow-cooking teenage mass that had been scouting the hallways in search of justice, an upperclassman from Afghanistan emerged from the crowd and took the stage. The MC up until that point had been our benevolent dictator principal, and the look on her face made it clear she had not expected him. He politely said "Excuse me, Ms. Hernandez," then gently took the microphone from her hand. Rendered immobile by this young man's brash yet considerate act, our leader let him proceed. Surveying his curious audience, the young man then raised the microphone to his mouth, paused for effect, then shouted in blunt Chicagoan, "YO! My name is Kabul! And I'm from AFGHANISTAN!" The auditorium grew quiet. "Listen y'all... I see what you been sayin' to my Muslim brothers and sisters in the hallways. I got one thing to say to y'all. Our parents came here because they wanted the American Dream!" A few cheers rose from the audience. "We're here because we want that dream... The American Dream!" Loud applause. "Because We... Are... AMERICANS!" The crowd roared. 

And the halls then mellowed.

***

Exiting the plane and then the subway at Times Square, I was greeted by the warm sun and a handful of old friends. We had all traveled from distant places to reunite for a knot tying, and we had an afternoon to kill before a rehearsal dinner that would take us deep into the fall foliage on the other side of the Hudson. After a half hour of happy embraces our posse had rounded out. We settled on the inevitable course of our day and headed for Ground Zero.

I can’t remember just what subway stop we exited at, as the usual stop at the Battery had been pulverized by the falling towers. I just know that immediately, when the train doors opened, we could smell the smoke. It reeked of jet fuel, burned metal, and I’m guessing, the deceased. And it was everywhere. As we climbed the stairs to the street above, I did not feel the familiar sun. All around us was dust, thick, heavy, and deep grey. Wheelbarrow-pushing volunteers and silent tourists worked their way methodically around chunks of battered metal and concrete that dotted the sidewalks, while clusters of police officers chatted in front of barricades that shielded foot traffic from what mysteries lay beyond. Every volunteer and officer wore a respirator, though a handful of these folks let them hang unused around their necks, the ease of conversation clearly taking precedent over healthy lungs. I wondered about their long-term health. After a mere twenty minutes of unfiltered breathing, I was beginning to feel ill.

We passed by a men’s formal wear store. A large African-American salesman stood with an at-ease stance in beige trench coat and purple respirator outside the front door. A block later, the shops were closed, their windows blown out. Through the metal grate of a pull down gate we peered into a Levis store. Neatly folded shirts, posed mannequins, registers, and every inch of counter and floor were coated in a three-inch layer of toxic dust. Every business on the street was shut down and covered, save for a small snack stand that had dug itself out of the mess. Open for its first day of post 9/11 business, its shiny mushroom shaped exhaust fan spun through the haze above its freshly shoveled roof.

Finally, we arrived at Ground Zero, or rather the tarp-covered fence that surrounded it, and joined the handful of people that had perched themselves atop hydrants, waste bins, and newspaper machines to attempt a closer look. Once again, I saw the sun’s rays, careening through the gaping emptiness where the twin towers had once crowned the Borough of Manhattan. On every side of this void in the skyline stood buildings that were riddled with pockmarks and gaping holes. It looked like a meteor shower had hit New York City.

A block further and we came upon a church. Hanging from its exterior was a giant quilt for all to sign. We reflected upon the hundreds of thoughts scribed by mourners from around the world. Someone handed me a magic marker. I pondered for a minute, then bent down toward a clear spot awaiting the placement of my thoughts – May the pragmatists of the world bring peace.

(10/13/2001)


Formal Wear, Ground Zero

Liberty's Heart, Statue of Liberty