On September 11th, 2001
Everything became still; it was as if the very ground itself held silencing power. At first, my sight was overpowered by the gleaming Freedom Tower that loomed 1,776 feet above me. But then my gaze turned to the trees. I was surrounded by 400 White Oak trees in the middle of loud and busy New York City. And it was quiet. I stepped slowly in effort to fully embrace each element of this grandiose memorial around me. There was so much to take in. I reached the reflecting pools after only a few moments. I walked up and stared down at all the names. I was reluctant to touch the engravings because it felt like I wasn’t worthy of resting my hands on the name of someone meaningless to me, but so special to somebody else. It felt like a sacred monument that I didn’t deserve to touch because it didn’t belong to me. I continued to stare. I shifted my eyes to the glimmering water cascading down the walls into a black abyss. I tried to see the entire pool at once, but it was too vast to take in. Before walking away, I let my hand fall and I traced the name closest to me. It was a name forever etched into the hearts and minds of the people in this city. It felt cold. My fingertips glided across its carefully crafted edges as my eyes shifted back to the water. I didn’t notice anything else going on around me. I probably could have stayed there for hours.
I approached the museum as the sunlight hitting off of the Freedom Tower emitted a luxuriant shine. It was magnificent. I shuffled through the doors and passed through security. Upon grabbing my things, I headed toward the first staircase. To my right were two rusted out, enormous steel tridents that stretched from the bottom of the staircase to well above my head. They used to be located in the base of the twin towers. I continued on into the first part of the museum. It was dark. The lights were turned low with the walls a dark grey and the floors a dark wood. Photographs of the minutes and days prior to 9:03 AM on September 11th, 2001 were everywhere. It hurt the most to look at those.
Slowly, I made my way through the hallway. There was a light grey map spanning the far side wall that showed where all four planes took off and eventually came to rest. I turned to my right to be greeted by tall grey panels with blue lettering illuminating them. Every language imaginable was displayed on these panels. They each told the story of 9/11. There was an audio playing that read aloud different parts of what was on the columns. It was in that moment that my heart first began to feel the pain and respect that 9/11 demanded.
As I followed along the path, I came to a section where “missing” posters were lighted in blue onto the wall. They changed every few seconds. My feet were cemented to the ground as my eyes darted from one poster to the next. Eventually, I kept going. There was this staircase heading down to the next lower level. It’s known as “Survivor’s Staircase”. It is the only staircase remaining after the collapse of the buildings. Hundreds of people fought their way down on that staircase and lived. I imagined that happening as I stopped to take a photo. I put myself in that position and all I could feel was afraid. My heart fell deeper into my stomach as dense, acrid smoke along with violent coughing, screaming, and blaring alarms covered my mind. I turned away.
A luminescent, blue tiled wall dominated the new space. In the center of it was a quotation by Virgil: “No day shall erase you from the memory of time.” It’s true.
The next section had me floored. Hundreds of wires and mutilated steel stared me in the face as I took in the base of the cell tower that was one atop of the north tower. When that fell, all communication was cut; the airwaves went quiet. Fire engine three was only a few feet away. Every single member of fire engine three passed that day. They were the first of the first responders. Seeing their tuck completely mutilated had me stunned. I never thought I would see the destruction so personally. I’ve avoided everything to do with 9/11 since it happened 13 years ago. I never watched the news, never viewed documentaries or looked at photos or listened to interviews or attended ceremonies. Upon seeing that fire truck, I was overwhelmed. I remembered why I avoided all those things.
I walked a bit further down the corridor and came face to face with the original foundation belonging to the World Trade Center. The last twelve feet of the wall slanted inward. On this section was a blue map projected out that had messages written from people visiting the museum. The messages scribbled were from people belonging to every corner of the world. Some were stories, some were thanks, and others were of hope. It felt like the whole world came together in that one little spot.
Further into the room was an immaculate glass case. In it, was a photo of my friend’s dad. His name was Dennis Michael Edwards, a partner with Cantor Fitzgerald on the 105th floor. After that, I felt the full weight of the exhibit. I turned silent.
I then made my way into the crux of the exhibit; no photography was allowed. The room was set up as a timeline. I slowly and carefully made my way though each remnant and story surrounding that day and the days immediately after. Audio clips were playing of emergency calls and news broadcasts. The day was happening all over again inside that room. I was lost in everything around. Each one of my sense was fully encapsulated in that day, in that moment.
Eventually, I found myself in the jump section. There was a series of photographs of the brave people who jumped from the highest floors to avoid suffocating and burning to their death. They only had two choices. My heart was grabbed by a quotation on the final wall. It read, “She had a business suit on, her hair was all askew. This woman stood there for what seemed like minutes; then she held down her skirt and then stepped off the ledge. I thought, how human, how modest, to hold down her skirt before she jumped…I couldn’t look anymore.” I stopped looking too.
A little further down the way was a bike rack. This rack and each bike were at one time completely covered by the white, ghastly soot that the felled buildings produced. Above one of the bikes it said, “I didn’t want that day to end. Terrible as it was…it was still a day that I’d shared with Sean.” I walked away with my heart ready to sink into the floor and my eyes more wet than usual. It was too surreal.
Everything about the 9/11 Museum and Memorial was elegantly put together. Every single last piece held meaning. From the way the names were grouped by association and not alphabetically, to using personal messages recorded by family and friends. There was meaning in building down rather than building up, in not putting everything in a glass case, in not having bright lights, by keeping the space open and clean and simple- Not one thing was done arbitrarily. That alone makes this museum and memorial a feature of reverence and a feat of strength.