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WE ALL FALL DOWN:
Two Years Later at Ground Zero
Posted - 10/2/03 6:57 PM PST
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GODDAMN PICTURE TAKING SON OF A BITCH!"
Twenty-one days ago, I'm standing outside of St. Paul's Chapel in New York City. A three-story black tapestry obscures its pillars. Small children are reading the names of their dead parents a block away. Their voices bounce off a hundred thousand windows, echoing a dozen times with each syllable. A mustached fireman is shouting.
"LET GO OF MY ARM! I WANNA BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF HIM!"
The WTC Sphere, relocated in Battery Park
A coworker attempts to calm him. They're both dressed navy blue uniforms. Earlier, they were inside mourning when a camera began clicking. The fireman shakes his head back and forth like a maraca and sobs. His colleague awkwardly holds him and stares at the sidewalk. Three photojournalists want to capture the moment and send it around the world but don't. One of them started all of this.
The children's voices stop and the streets of downtown Manhattan are silent. It's 10:29 AM. Two years to the minute, the second tower collapsed. A bell tolls.
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Just lying in the bar with my drip feed on
Talking to my girlfriend, waiting for something to happen
I wish it was the sixties, I wish I could be happy
I wish, I wish, I wish that something would happen
It's 1998 or 1999. I'm sitting in a dorm room. It's well past 3 AM and a group of kids won't go to sleep. Radiohead obscures Cartoon Network. This verse steers the conversation from a endless splurge of context-less Homer J. quotes.
"He's right. Nothing happens anymore."
"The '80s and '90s were dead. No assassinations. No astronauts bouncing on moon. No epic wars. No momentous events.
"They're sterile decades."
A memorial procession leading to the site on September 10th.
Everyone agrees that Thom Yorke's words are on the mark. We're trapped in one of the most uneventful periods of human history. The '90s are placid but boring. The two biggest events of the decade have been the OJ Simpson murder trail and Bill Clinton's impeachment. We all wish we were living in the year 1966. The decade was chock full of violence, revolution and it had a better soundtrack.
Later, we'll all come back to this conversation, at different times, in different places and eat these words.
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Everyone knows where they were when those two buildings came down. It's become a 21st century Pearl Harbor. While a city drowned in ash 3,000 miles away, I was sleeping on the west coast. I remember my mother screaming before dawn, running up and down the hall. "IT'S HAPPENED! THEY'VE DONE IT! THEY'RE AFTER THE WHITE COUCH!" I wake briefly and assume her rage and fear is directed at the cats.
I rise at noon and find my sister staring blankly at an image of a burning building. She explains that the World Trade Center no longer exists. The Pentagon is in flaming disarray. A fourth plane, likely headed for the White House, has gone down in Pennsylvania.
I call a friend. He was woken by a phone call from Chicago and watched the second tower collapse, live, on CNN. I'm jealous. We crack black crude oil jokes and he talks about stock brokers falling to their doom on worldwide television. I ask him if he's ready to go to war. I hear clinking glasses. He and his roommates have been drinking since 8 AM. This is info-tainment.
A gigantic mural on an adjacent building.
It's an apocalyptic Christmas and my heart pounds like it's being hammered by Rick Allen. I call people I haven't spoken to in months. They tell similar stories of being woken by screaming housemates or phone calls from other time zones. They're shocked, amused, frightened, befuddled and angry.
This isn't happening. It's Die Hard. A handful of terrorists have hijacked four planes and slammed them into a series of iconic American buildings. This sort of thing doesn't happen in real life. Those shots on Fox News are Industrial Light and Magic.
New York is a million miles away. I'm utterly detached from the endless coverage; if these images are real, are being broadcasted from Mars. The only person I know who was even slightly involved in the attacks is a distant uncle working at Fort Benning. Earlier that morning, he spoke with a man who is now dead in the Pentagon.
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It's the fourth quarter of 2001 and Portland, Oregon's soul has been sucked into a New York void. Within weeks of September 11th, unemployment in the city skyrockets. By November, my hometown will boast the highest jobless rate in the nation. The prior June, I earned an undergraduate degree. Three months later, I can't land a position at a Blockbuster Video. Powell's Bookstore rejects five of my applications. Everyone I know in their 20s is still hiding in a academic bunker, unaffected by the fallout.
9/11/01 becomes an excuse for skeptical friends and family members. I try to flee the country. In interviews for Nova and GEOS, I'm asked why I've been unemployed for so long. The only answer I can come up with is the stagnant economy and the disaster. I read stories about middle-aged professionals in the same boat. A year ago, 27 year old web designers were pulling in $80K and now they're working part time at movie theaters. A friend's father, a white-collar professional, is laid off and resigned to playing Mr. Mom.
I come to the conclusion that I will never find gainful employment. I'm living with my parents and it's flash-frozen adolescence. I'm permafrost and 14 again. Some people would kill to be in these shoes but I'm broke and miserable.
I hate this economic ripple effect and don't understand it. Magazine articles tell me 9/11 is only one part of many. This was all caused by the downfall of the dot-coms or the price of sugar in Romania. Various outlets point fingers at the tourism industry and claim this recession would have arrived with or without the collapse of the World Trade Center. I ignore them.
During all this, I vow to book a trip to New York in better days and look at the hole. Maybe it will cathartic and erase this bitterness. The sight of it will provide some sort of condolence for these frustrations- a life indefinitely put on hold. I assume I'll never actually make this trip.
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Flash forward to 2003; two years, two wars and one recession later. Things are either getting better or worse. No one seems to know. A friend decides he wants to attend a taping of Conan O'Brien. The trip is arranged. We'll see the city and, yes, the big hole in the ground.
We never make it to Conan. Letterman and the Daily Show are also booked. The closest we come to any of them is a trip to the Hello Deli. On the night of September 10th, we wander out of Mexican/Italian restaurant in the Village. We're headed for a bar but walk into the middle of a procession. Thousands of people are marching through the streets with candles. Men in white shirts and straw hats are carrying gigantic floral arrangements on their backs. Children carry candles.
The flag guy.
At first, I think it's a part of a Columbian folk festival. We're surrounded by gawking NYU students and they quietly smile and pass jokes back and forth. Police horseback separating the procession from traffic. No one honks and the faces in line are grave. A man passes with an arrangement in the shape of a NYPD shield. Then it dawns on me.
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On the morning of 9/11, we ride a subway and immediately become lost in downtown Manhattan. Sidewalks and coffee shops are empty and it feels like a Sunday. We wander in circles past identical skyscrapers. It's 8:46 and a distant bell sounds. The first plane has hit.
Twenty minutes later, we pass the Engine 7 firehouse. It was the subject of a documentary that aired on CBS a year ago. A line of firefighters are staring at the ground in a moment of silence. A few people pause. Others slow their pace and awkwardly sneak past. Afterwards, they chat and pose for photos.
We find a crowd and follow it to St. Paul's Chapel. The building is 237 years old. George Washington prayed here and his pew is still in the corner. The doors are open and the chapel is full. People are crying.
A Japanese news crew broadcasting near the site on 9/11.
An exhibit lines the walls. On display are artifacts from the site and supplies used by rescue workers. During their efforts, they ate, slept and received counsel here. A bunk is covered in donated teddy bears. A box is filled with magazines, soap and dusty surgical masks. Pictures are everywhere. Overhead are flags and banners from around the country. One reads: "Oklahoma loves you." The glitter and smiling stuffed animals are like chattering preschoolers at a wake.
A cello plays softly and people, most of them safety workers, are stifling sobs. Those of us passing through are uncomfortable and unsure of how to behave. A wife buries her head in her husband's shoulder. Policemen lay their foreheads on the pews in front of them.
I don't belong here. I shouldn't be witnessing these images of grief. Why I have come here? What did I expect to find? I'm an asshole and I'm an idiot. I hear the click of a camera.
An AP photographer has a camera the size of a club. He snaps three shots a second. Mourners turn their heads and murmur. The minister sighs.
I'm outside when it happens. "GODDAMN PICTURE TAKING SON OF A BITCH!" The photographer is standing nearby and he looks confused. Should he apologize? He starts to walk away but heads back then walks away again.
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At the site, a large fence surrounds the perimeter. The panorama is huge. A 10-story mural covers a nearby building. A crowd of reporters stand on the deck of a skyscraper, underneath an American flag the size of a city block. Children and widows read names. Down below, out of sight, mourners are placing flowers in pools.
There's a huge crowd of people in t-shirts and shorts. Some are mourners, most are gawkers. We all look like tourists or spectators at football game. Businessmen linger on the stone steps across the street and talk into cell phones. Everyone wanders up and down the sidewalk, pausing to look at the floral arrangements that were brought to the site in last night's procession. A sign attached to the fence yells: "DON'T BUILD ON MY SISTER'S GRAVE!"
We all take pictures. This is the Grand Canyon or Mt. Rushmore. Someone points a Fun Cam at a woman on a curb, with her head in her hands. She's been like this for an hour and no one's seen her face. What are they going to do with that picture? Mix it in with snapshots of Times Square and use it in a slideshow? Or put it on a website?
News vans line the streets. Journalists around the world mingle with the crowd. A Japanese reporter giddily interviews a traveler on the street. A man shrugs live on CNN En Espanol.
Everything single inch of this is being filmed and beamed around the planet. People in Brussels can see my t-shirt.
There's not much to do but pace and watch people cry or take pictures. The crowd acts like its waiting for something to happen-a fireworks show or a parade. Everyone is giddy and excited. Where is my anger and my emotional release? I've been cheated out of my catharsis. A Kathleen Hanna verse runs through my head. It's wicked and inappropriate.
I sat thru your movie but I didn't see anything
I went to your comedy club and didn't laugh at all
I went to your movie and I didn't hear anything
I went to your concert and there was nothing going on
You don't say, you don't say
You don't say anything
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After the ceremonies end and the voices stop, the scene changes. Most of the crowd disperses but many stay behind. An elderly man wanders the sidewalks, waving a flag as he repeatedly tell us "George W. Bush is the greatest president in the history of the world!" People laugh and have their pictures taken with him. He's an unofficial smiling mascot for the ceremonies.
A woman loudly begins a speech and warns that the disaster was caused by US foreign policy- that this will all happen again. People form a circle around her and snicker. "We made this happens. The is our fault. The United States only has itself to blame." A bald man can take no more and shouts as he points his fist. She continues on, undaunted. People linger on the sidewalk and stare or argue or weep.
The bald man's confrontation with the skeptic.
Later that night, we're at an outdoor cafe and we're surrounded by laughing, happy graphic designers and interns. A waiter flirts and waves with random people in the street. The sun goes down and the lights go up. Two beams are shot at the heavens from a spot in Battery Park. They rise over apartment buildings and bistros. We sit there for an hour but no one seems to notice. Those passing on the sidewalk don't pause or point.
We wander from bar to bar and wind up in an Irish pub called Ryan's. The bartender looks like Liz Phair. It's full of firemen and girlfriends clearing out their tabs. They're all upbeat and act like their in the middle of a long weekend.
One shares a story about watching the towers collapse from Fifth Avenue and names dead coworkers.
I nod politely and don't know what to say to this. His colleague changes the subject and doesn't believe I'm from Oregon. After showing him my driver's license, he calls me a fag and says it's the gayest thing he's ever seen. Despite his comments, they act like heroes and are eager to share their stories. Later, one of them buys me a Guinness. It's now midnight. One of them yells, "Fuck it, it ain't 9/11 anymore. Shut up. This is so lame." They refuse to speak another word about the attacks.
I forget their anecdotes five minutes after I leave because I'm drunk. My friend falls down the stairs and staggers out with a sprained ankle.
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A week later, Bill Maher's new show is on in the background. "The second anniversary of 9/11 was last week," he reports. "Ratings on retrospectives were down from last year. It's like we all collectively said, 'Oh, that's nice. Temptation Island is on.'"
A flag flown at half mast on Ellis Island - 9/11/03.
Here in Portland, the Oregon Convention Center has begun beaming two strands of light from its green pillars. They're on from dusk to midnight and are visible in nearly every neighborhood adjacent to downtown. They stretch up over apartments on Hawthorne and Trendy-Third and can be spotted well into southwest. They'll be on every night through Veteran's Day. Everywhere I go, I see them. There's no escaping them.
I have no ending for this so here's a link leading to footage of a kickboxing chimp.
William Beutler contributed several pictures used in this article.
Next time: Something else entirely.
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