White Plains CitizeNetReporter - Report From the World Trade Center Site

WPCNR Vox Populi. June 14, 2002. By Steven Hart. Yesterday I went to site of the WTC attack for the first time. I didn't know why I had to go, but I did. Afterwards I decided it was to pay homage to my home, NYC, and to the thousands who died there for absolutely no reason at all.

If you take the subway, you have to trek down to the end of Fulton Street to the South Street Seaport. There you buy tickets for a specific viewing time. Then you head all the way back to Broadway. You pass an assortment of dismally cheerful tourist restaurants and shops.

Then you come to St. Paul's which is still closed for repairs. It is here at the church that the real journey of 9/11 begins along the church fence and on a platform above the hole that now remains.

On the way, the trip along Fulton Street is like an early medieval bazaar on the Silk Road. Everything from artifacts to photos are for sale from street vendors. Some are tasteless, others are simply incomprehensible in the way that a lot of tourist kitsch is all over the world. I would not have been surprised by plastic vials filled with bits of the true cross. You can't tell if these are merchants of death or renewal. Maybe it's both.

By the time you have gotten to St. Paul's, you have been hustled by the City for the ticket which is fair game. You have been smoothly invited to enjoy the manufactured pleasures of the South Street Seaport while you wait for your time slot at the WTC. That is good old shameless marketing. Then you get the laissez faire types on Fulton who want to sell you indulgences on your way to the sacred ground.

Make no mistake, the site itself is sacred. No matter how tough you think you are and well prepared, the fragile array of things and images on the cast iron fence around St. Paul's will reach into your chest and squeeze your heart. To me it was far more affecting than the hole itself which now looks like a construction site.

What also moved me a lot were the New Yorkers all around me who live and work down there. They go on with their lives. Despite the perpetual self-serving whine of the media, NYC is neither down nor out. We are tough bastards.

We are in many cases a city ofimmigrants, hustlers and smooth talking deal makers dedicated with unflinching zeal to commerce. Sometimes that is hard to take, but it is how this city attained its greatness.

The idea of making the WTC attack into a cottage industry is crude and brutal. The Mayor holds his nose about it even as the City participates in its own way. The vendors reminded me of bacteria on a wound. They are repulsive in one sense, but they ultimately help to clean it. They are part of the process of life. They prove again that we are not a nation of genteel sensibilities and subtle insight.

On the other hand, The preservation of the site with its fragile messages of loss and hope, show that we are somehow given to moments of compassion, bravery, and honor.

Published with the permission of Mr. Hart.


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