 |
BARBARIANS
AT THE GATE:
AN EPIPHANY
"Nor
all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds or consecrate a crime."
Lord Byron
September
11, 2001. Try to remember; try to recall. Details, the Devil's
sanctuary, Lethe's first victims, tell the story. The flags
were up for several weeks. I was supposed to live my life
normally, go back to work, and go shopping in support of the
first War of the Twenty-First Century. America was strong,
the market survived, bands played, people prayed. The politicians
cooperated, the President pronounced, and the sun continued
to rise and set.
But
a world had perished in the crash of bright steel and clear
windows, the shouts of fleeing crowds; the sobs of those who
survived, the silence of those behind. The media incessantly
pummeled us with the latest reports, funerals, benefits, bereavements,
and repeatedly replayed that surrealistic movie that was our
reality. The Towers' demise exploded before our eyes unendingly.
The people had not caught up with the President, back at work
in the Oval Office. The world was no longer the same.
 I
was unexpectedly moody, unhappy, and unlike myself in many
ways. I hung out the flag and toted tapers in countless vigils
like countless others. My heart ached for America. I wept
at small acts of kindness and those of heartfelt sympathy.
Children from around the country writing letters to NYC firemen;
the Queen playing the Star Spangled Banner at Buckingham Palace;
the candlelight vigils in Paris and Petersburg that flickered
to Peking and Tokyo. More importantly, the phone calls from
around the country from friends in the Community, all of whom
spoke of their sorrow, concern and support. It was all so
soothing - fleetingly. I sought for a way to make sense out
of the psycho- social rubble left in Bin Laden's wake. I was
not the same. I became obsessed with Ground Zero.
On
October 11, 2001, restless and despondent, I drove to NYC
determined to see Ground Zero up close and personal. I had
previously made several false starts, put off by some trivial
excuse or other. One of my associates, a retired NYC Policeman,
advised at one point that I should not go because they were
still finding body parts strewn in the city streets. But I
could not help myself. I had to see this thing for myself.
Perhaps I would find solace; perhaps I would find inspiration;
perhaps it would propel me back to my "normal"
life, whatever that was.
The
day was beautiful, the traffic on the LIE nonexistent. There
was no delay at the Midtown Tunnel, though the military pulled
over vans and trucks without exception. The midtown traffic
was smooth, especially cross town, and the drive south was
easy. I parked on Hudson Street and took the "A"
train down to Chambers Street. I arrived in Foley Square about
an hour and a half after leaving home.
As
I climbed to the street I was struck by three overwhelming
experiences: the silence, disorientation, and the odor. There
were massive numbers of the curious, others like myself implacably
drawn to Ground Zero, grim faces set like granite - eyes silently
filled with tears - who walked by the main gate - strewn with
photos of the missing, yellow ribbons, and bouquets of sorrow
- totally silent like the rest of the city. I felt a sudden
stab of anxiety as I scanned the horizon to orient myself,
barren, blackened skeletons of skyscrapers protruding futilely
skyward into my psyche. I did not know where I was. The Towers
I had used for years to direct me were no longer there. Worse,
I had no idea where they'd been. Downtown was an unknown mausoleum
dominated by the Woolworth Building. As I took a deep breath
to calm myself, I became nauseous. There was an indescribable
odor that filled the air and my mind: the sweet, sickening
smell of discarded refuse tinged with an underlying chemical
presence, like burning rubber.
I
walked sullenly east on Chambers Street following the protective
chain link fence that surrounded the small city of rescue
workers encamped at the heart of the tragedy. But there was
nothing to see; only rising fumes several blocks north. Ground
Zero was not, I thought, in sight. I approached the Tri- Becca
Walkway where the fence seemed to end. There appeared to be
no way to go on. My trip had been futile. Determined, I approached
the raised Walkway and crossed. I stopped in the middle to
scan the northern sky, still not recognizing where the Towers
had been, listening to the innocent banter and laughter of
teen-aged students returning home from school, insulting the
reverent but unnerving silence. When I got to the other side,
I turned north and walked several more blocks. There were
police and other municipal workers standing about intermittently
who looked at me in surprise, saying nothing as I passed,
some quickly sucking at the cigarette in their hands, others'
eyes darting nervously. Disappointed, I turned again to the
west and plodded on.
As
I approached the next unknown intersection in this No Man's
Land sans street signs, eyes fixed downward at the dust and
rubble stubbornly clinging to the city sidewalks contemplating
my departure, I fortuitously turned my head northward and
looked up. There before my eyes, only three blocks away, was
the most startling, heart breaking site I've ever seen in
my entire life - a sight that I will never forget for as long
as I live.
In
front of me, rising at least four stories into the sky, was
a huge pile of twisted steel, rubble, debris, garbage and
other refuse framed behind and on either side by blackened,
stark steel skeletons stretching skyward, urban cathedral
arches over the fuming black scab of destruction beneath.
In the forefront between the steel arches hung a huge American
flag at least a hundred feet long, swirling laconically but
defiantly across the dreaded scene in the mild cool breeze,
the sun shining like a spotlight highlighting its red, white
and blue hues, adding life to the surreal, otherwise monochrome
scene below. This huge pile of debris was pierced about halfway
up by a large water pipe from which spewed a constant flow
of what appeared to be liquid refuse. I was awed and spellbound.
I stared at the scene determined that its image be seared
on my brain. I would not forget. Ten minutes later I was approached
by a young soldier and directed to leave what was designated
a military zone. I'd apparently strayed inappropriately -
but successfully.
 I
left that day transformed, a true Dubliner. I felt calm and
determined to live my life normally. I felt invigorated and
ready to move forward. I was reminded of how important each
day was and the absolute necessity to live each day fully
to the best of my ability - with courage. At least so I would
hope. It is, I concluded, the only answer - the only rational
dialogue one can have - with Death or his henchman, Terrorism.
The
following night, October 12, 2001, I attended LIGALY's
Candlelight Vigil in Bay Shore held in memory of those who
died in the Towers catastrophe. My old friend, David Kilmnick,
Executive Director, spoke briefly, emphasizing the analogy
between the fear felt by Americans in general as a result
of the tragedy and the fear felt by GLBT persons in America
as a result of sexual orientation discrimination. Having long
been inactive, I consequently renewed my commitment to nurturing
and maintaining the GLBT Community on Long Island. For it
is only in and through Community that the Nation will
overcome the current crisis; it is only in and through Community
that GLBT people have been able to live "normal"
lives within a society characterized by sexual orientation
discrimination. I ask that you all join me in that effort,
locally and nationally. For it is only through Community that
we and the Nation can prevail.
See
Related Articles:
 The
Day Lady Liberty Cried
"OUT"
Rage to OUTRAGE
Our
Community Responds
Gays
and Patriotism: A Volatile Relationship
Other
Brief Shots Columns
|
|
