Ground Zero

Photos by Roy Steele

Saturday morning I visited "Ground Zero," where the twin towers once stood. I was unprepared for what I saw. People told me I would be. I braced myself with the worse possible images I could conjure. It wasn't enough. I was unprepared for the hush, the solemn silence that blanketed lower Manhattan. I have marveled at the muting effect of snow on the streets of NY. It muffles everything and gives the city a sparkle. The quiet on this Saturday was different; there was no holiday magic, no snowy brightness. Instead soot and ash muddied the streets. The stench from the charred remains choked me and burned my eyes.

Barricades blocked most streets. A female cop wearing a surgical mask directed traffic away from the site. Groups of soldiers in Army fatigues gathered at corners. They reminded me of the clumps of grass that burst through the broken sidewalks in the boroughs, out of place yet a welcome site. Utility workers dug and hauled. Tourists, warily, guiltily, inched along police barriers straining for a peek. Some encouraged workers. One woman handed out chocolate-covered doughnuts to soldiers on Broadway. On the walls and windows of banks and businesses, people taped their messages, poems, prayers, and pictures of lost children, parents, siblings, and friends.

I stepped into a candy store filled with macaroons, fudge, Spanish marzipan and hundreds of stuffed animals. I didn't need anything, but I carefully carried one item after another to the front counter, an attempt to revitalize the economy of this one little shop. The beady bean baby eyes stared at me. I needed to buy them all, to take them away from the terrible scene outside. The owner of the shop, a beefy man with a thin smile, stood behind the counter and talked. He talked about the customers he lost, about the sad stories he heard, about the spoilage of some candies from days without electricity. He had no complaints though. He was lucky and heartbroken. He didn't move to ring me up when I motioned that I was ready to leave. He talked with watery eyes, red from the singed air and asked me if I lost anyone. By the way he said it, I felt sure that I must have. He shook my hand, held it tightly and said, "Take care."

I walked outside, turned the corner, and then I saw it. Ground Zero. The skin of the one tower. The skeleton of the Winter Garden where I used to listened to Mozart and Jazz while I sat on the polished, peach-colored marble and delighted in the giant palm trees they planted in lower Manhattan. Charred, reduced to rubble, I turned my back on the ruins and sprinted to the subway. My stomach ached with sorrow, a sorrow I carried all day. It was like I held an infant screaming for her mother or a bottle or that nameless thing infants (and adults) crave. The sorrow eclipsed my own, and it wasn't until the next day that I realized I overlooked what would have been my 11th wedding anniversary.

After visiting that site, I didn't feel like a better person or more connected to humanity or a sudden surge of patriotism. I just felt sick.


Peterson Toscano 10/07/01
   
Note: This site describes Peterson Toscano's work until late 2003. See PetersonToscano.com for current info.