9/11 Remembered

Text by Barry Owens, Carl Glassman and Etta Sanders


Ground Zero is the epicenter of grief each Sept. 11, as families of the lost gather and the gut-wrenching reading of names is broadcast from the pit. But in the orbit of the World Trade Center site, Lower Manhattan observes the day in countless other ways.

		Even along the very public viewing fence that borders the site on Church Street, the hundreds who flock there during the ceremony are not so much a crowd as they are a patchwork of patriots, mourners, political zealots, and press, each with a ritual all their own. On this day, there was Orlando Suarez, dressed in his emergency medical technician's uniform and, as he does each year, standing still for hours as he held a framed portrait of his co-worker, Yamel Merino, who died at age 24. "She was in the initial staging area of Tower One just before its collapse, helping to move people into the triage area," he said. "She had no idea the building was going to come down a couple of minutes later." "There are a lot of us out here," he added. "She had a lot of friends from the Bronx."
For artist Dai-Giang Nguyen, a native of Vietnam, this was the time and place to hold up the canvas he painted, in anguished strokes, on Sept. 12, 2001. It was where Rosanna Caringi chose to hand out fliers proclaiming solidarity from the citizens of Assisi, Italy, and where a Bangladeshi video crew was making a documentary for people back home. They had spent time with the families of the six Bangladeshis who died in the attack. "We feel very bad for what happened. It shouldn't happen in this world," said one of the crew, Amir Gir. A Korean war veteran named Sammy, dressed in uniform, said he had come here because "as a military man you never forget." "It makes me feel good to be part of this," Sammy said. "My son was a captain in the Fire Department. He retired three months before it happened."

On the opposite side of the site, hundreds of people lined the sidewalk just across West Street in front of the Winter Garden. Some were on bicycles, pausing in the bike path with their helmets in their hands. Others perched on security bollards and concrete barriers. Many spread across the lawn. They listened as victim's names were read. Some on the list were delivered with personal messages and terms of endearment attached. We miss you, bro'. Shake it easy, Sal. Semper Fi, Paul. You're a prince, my knight in shining armor-everything a little sister would want from a big brother. "You can feel a whole life story in the personal references," said Carla Rupp, an Independence Plaza resident who joined a small crowd on the lawn in front of the World Financial Center. Dave Lashman, 40, an engineer from Severn, Md., sat crossed-legged in the middle of the lawn, absently plucking at blades of grass. "Listen to her," he said, as a woman on the microphone sobbed as she spoke of her sister. "She's emotional and there is nothing I can do about it. I want to go up and give her a hug." Rhonda Villamia, 50, from Queens, sat nearby with her sister, Denise, 45. Both were volunteers in the cleanup effort and said they attend the anniversary events each year.

"It's bittersweet," said Rhonda. "It's a chance for all of us to come together, but it is also a time for grieving and remembrance. I'm glad I'm sharing this with my sister." A few blocks north, at the Hallmark senior residence in Battery Park City, the Rev. William Grant opened the service of the Tribeca Spiritual Center. "We are here with our hearts in two places," he began. On this morning the 50 people gathered were there to remember the 2,743 who died nearby. Their thoughts also were more than a thousand miles away, with the displaced people of the Gulf Coast. For Grant's wife, Cynthia de Ben, a New Orleans native whose extended family is now part of the diaspora, the tragedy of both events felt even closer to home. "The ones I know about are alive and scattered all over in many states. They can't go home right now. Lots of them have no home left to go to," she told the gathering. "But I'm so grateful they're alive when so many people have died from 9/11 2001 and now from 8/29/ 2005." Two songs framed the service. "The City of New Orleans," strummed on guitar and sung by Independence Plaza resident Bob Horan, and "My City in Ruins," which brought the group to their feet as they and clapped and sang the refrain, "come on and rise up." Horan later spoke about his daughter, now 17, who had barely started her first year of high school a couple of blocks east of the site when she and the other students fled in terror. She is moving on, Horan said. "She went off to do something with her friends today. I couldn't be happier."

		But for Caroline DiPilato, who cried all through the service, moving on has not been easy. "I didn't know anyone who died, but I felt I was related to all of them," she said. "I just can't get over it." Amid the tears and hugs and the reading of poems and scripture, what was remembered most about that day four years earlier were neighbors helping neighbors. Residents brought meals to the elderly and helped a local pharmacist stay open when stores in the neighborhood were closed. "The story is people went into the street and they helped each other," said John Scott, an IPN resident. "The memorial is an important part of 9/11, but what is another important part of 9/11 is the compassion of the people that lived here."
We sold a lot of Budweiser," he said. "We haven't sold that much since." For many firefighters, the anniversary brings painful reminders of the many "brothers" who are gone. Following the Ground Zero ceremonies each year, release is found in some neighborhood bars. At A&M Roadhouse, 57 Murray St., they crowded out the regulars and by nightfall many had loosened the ties on their dress blue uniforms. Bar owner Arthur Gregory said the Roadhouse has remained a popular Sept. 11 anniversary stop for many firefighters and volunteers. The bar was one of the first close to the site to re-open after Sept. 11. For months following the attacks firefighters enjoyed $2 beers. Outside the bar, just before sundown, a piper played an impromptu tune for the smokers gathered on the sidewalk.

Things were surprisingly quiet at the seldom-retiring Patriot Saloon, 110 Chambers St., where signs on the sidewalk often extol the virtues of cheap liquor and fast women. On this day, however, there was a different sign. "With respect, we are closed on Sept. 11," it read. Not so at the Reade Street Pub, 135 Reade St., where the grill was going with free burgers and hot dogs outside, and firefighters and visiting British constables made for a singing and dancing mix inside. "I'm not celebrating anything but remembrance," owner Bruce Barasky said. "We all know people who died here because they were neighbors." Because he had an announcement to make, he climbed onto the bar and got the noisy customers' attention. "A lot of the fire department has endured a long day of hearing the roll call this morning, hearing the names of their loved ones who were lost," he said. "It's not easy. I want you to know that we appreciate you saving life in New York City. You saved a lot of people's lives." "May I interrupt you for a second," a deep voice boomed from somewhere in the crowd. "I want to thank this man for his kind comments." "We appreciate you appreciating us on this day," another firefighter shouted.

With that the patrons cheered, raised their bottles and chanted:
"Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce…"

As night fell, the "Tribute in Light" beamed from atop a parking garage at Morris and West Streets. They rose above some 30 Battery Park City residents who had gathered in Wagner Park for an evening of song, belting out standards like "Blowing In The Wind," "Down By the Riverside," and "If I Had a Hammer."

Rosalie Joseph, who had helped organize this event as she has so many others in Battery Park City since soon after the Sept. 11 attacks, sang and clapped the heartiest of all. And even at the end, as song leader Judith Zweiman was putting away her guitar and the few remaining singers folded their song sheets and prepared to leave, Joseph was still filled with music.

"We can sing a capella," she said wistfully.