When you're from New Jersey, like I am, you meet loads of people who have powerful memories related to that date. There are thousands of people who have a more personal connection to the tragedy, but I'm having trouble thinking of much else today, so this is my memory.
At the time, I was working on a job site in Newark, right on the hillside abutting the Passaic river. In the distance, the NYC skyline was visible, poking up between the highrises of Jersey City. My work had me on site before dawn to set up my instruments before the construction guys showed to fire their engines. It was a gorgeous day.
The first time we knew something was wrong, one of the operators was calling from his excavator that there had been a terrible accident. He'd heard on his radio that a plane had somehow struck the World Trade Center. In the distance we could see the smoke streaming into the sky. Then the sirens began to wail, fire engines and ambulances began to flow across the river in a stream that would not end. For a brief interval we all stood and watched, saddened. Then we went back to work.
It wasn't until the second plane struck that we understood. Maybe we'd known all along and hadn't wanted to admit it, but now there was no way to deceive ourselves. Machines stopped. We all stood there and watched. Cars pulled off the road onto the site for a view or just to be with someone else. The foreman's voice broke through the stillness and the ceaseless sirens' wail. "Alright, let's get back to work." We didn't even see them collapse.
No work day could be more surreal. Machines ran, moving earth. My instruments needed maintenance. In the background was that everexpanding stream of smoke gashing the brilliant blue sky. I picked up lunch from the food truck up the street and ate in silence. Morgan, my normally gregarious colleague, spent the day in the office trailer, emerging only to take photos to document the site.
At the close of day, machines quieted and instruments packed, we dispersed. It was driving that finally made the day hit home. Growing up in New Jersey teaches a certain resignation towards the presence of traffic, but that afternoon the streets were empty. I didn't know that the tunnels were closed. Driving past Newark Airport was awful. The Jersey Turnpike was silent, but for one car streaking north. Finally I pulled up in the driveway of my parents' house, went inside, took my mother in my arms, and wept.
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