Ground Zero by Nevan Scott
September 10, 2006: Five years after the attacks of 2001, the foundations of the World Trade Center towers still lie exposed. On one of the fenceposts, someone has written, “You can destroy our buildings, but you can’t destroy our foundations.”
In the afternoon, a large crowd assembles at the site. A radio man from Austin wearing a navy blue FDNY cap espouses the conspiracies of the American government. A handful of protesters carry balloons reading TROOPS HOME NOW. One man silently holds open a book with the sign “Be wise and repent / The time is fulfilled / The end is at hand.” Another man with a sign imploring us to investigate 9/11 and Pearl Harbor fights loudly with another man, screaming statistics in favor of his view. As the yelling escalates, several people with video recorders zero in on the action. Meanwhile, police officers temporarily clear the area for President’s address, and the crowd responds only very reluctantly. As the cameras turn on the policemen, one of the officers says, “You can film me all you want, but you still have to head south.”
At dusk, a red-haired woman walks along the fence at the World Trade Center site, smelling a blue rose in a bouquet of blue, red, and white. Her face is free of tears, her gaze is clear, her walk remains purposive and crisp. Her flowers join dozens of others and are followed by dozens more as the evening wears on.
Portraits of September 11 adorn the fenced walls. Two of the photographs depict faceless children: one holds a photo of the Trade Center in front of his face; the other, a young girl, wears a too-large face mask and sits on her father’s shoulders, looking to the scene. Later in the evening, a woman in round spectacles, a man in jeans, and a woman in all black stand under the photos, taking turns reading stories of the lives of the men and women who died in the attacks. The gathering at night is thin and somber compared to the clamor of the afternoon. Some come and go, some still take pictures, others sit and are simply present. Someone has posted photos of a young man named Shai Levinhar in his memory. Traffic continues to flow from the stations underground. The portraits which had a hazy glow during the day are now saturated with color in the dark.
As midnight approaches, the activity abides. Visitors collect posters left for the occasion; passersby add their thoughts and names in marker to flags hung on the fence. The only sound above the normal hum of the city is of intermittent bagpipe music. On a few of the light posts, a single sign has been posted:
Hey, I just want to say:
I love you.
Call the people
that you love
and tell them.
In memory of those
who said it to their own
on 9/11.
Llame a la gente
que amas
y diselo.
En memoria
de quienes lo hicieron
el 9/11.