April 11, 2002

April 11, 2002

Seven months after that cloudless bright blue sky day in September when the planes rained down, I had the opportunity to travel to New York City with my sisters and nieces as a last minute stow away. The trip had been planned as girls time in the Big Apple and they had planned for a day of spas and shopping and tickets to a TV show taping. As I was a late addition to the group, I did not have spa reservations or talk show tickets, so me and my companion took a walking trip of the city. My companion was my film camera.

When 9-11 happened my mind shut down. I didn’t want to hear the details; didn’t want to watch the endless replays of horror. I spent the days and weeks afterwards immersed in “The Andy Griffith Show” and “Gilligan’s Island”, the pain of real life was just too much. I remember well the day it happened and the reaction of one patient at the hospital. A young mother called the pre-op department to cancel her son’s tonsillectomy that was scheduled for the next day. As procedure called for I asked why they were cancelling. She answered very quietly, “It’s the end of the world.” It felt like it. Then very quickly, October 13, my life got serious and busy as my husband Don was called to receive the “Gift of Life”, a kidney transplant. So the images of 9-11 were pushed far away to the recesses of my mind.

So on April 11, 2002, we began our happy journey, my first trip, to New York City. Being the only one in the car who had never been to NYC, it was tough to hide my excitement as we crested a hill and for the first time I saw The Statue of Liberty standing tall and bright in the harbor. I was humbled to think of what she means to all of us and I couldn’t wait to see her up close. Soon we approached the Holland Tunnel which carries Interstate 78 under the Hudson River and into Manhattan. Traffic was bumper to bumper in the 2.5 mile tunnel. My mind began to linger on the fact that I was in a tunnel, underwater, and the traffic was at a stand still, but that wasn’t the most disconcerting fact. It soon became obvious that New York City was still a city in turmoil 7 months after 9-11. Throughout the tunnel were soldiers equipped in full combat gear. My mind reeled back to the day, to 9-11.

We arrived at our hotel on West Broadway and I soon realized that we were just a few blocks from Ground Zero and we all agreed we should go there first. I prepared my camera with film but I didn’t prepare my heart for what we would see. Some of the stores close by had just re-opened for business and many had photos on display of the damages they had overcome. The words were flowing from shopkeepers, where they had hidden and how they gotten out of their and back to their homes. The tears were flowing as well. We then walked closer to Ground Zero and were drawn to St. Paul’s Chapel of Trinity. The church, which is the oldest in New York City, was built in 1766 on land donated by Anne, Queen of Great Britain. The church served as a respite area for rescuers and family members for 8 months. Volunteers worked in 12 hour shifts serving meals, making beds, counseling and praying with fire fighters, construction workers and police officers. Massage therapists, chiropractors, podiatrist and even musicians gave their talents to help. The fence around the church became the gathering spot for family members to place impromptu memorials of their loved ones. Officials at the church decided to place panels along the fences to help folks with their memorials. They figured they would need ten; they eventually needed 400 panels. I shot many photographs of the different posters, signs, teddy bears and candles. There were displays from the Louisville Fire Department and a memorial around a bicycle that was still chained to a post. A bicycle messenger had never returned to his ride. I noticed a quietness even in the middle of the largest city in the United States.

We lingered for a long time around that fence. 9-11 wasn’t something I could hide from any more; Andy Griffith couldn’t wash it away. It became real to me that day as I photographed the pleas of many for help in finding their missing love. Since then, I’ve watched every year the history of that day, I’ve immersed myself in it’s tragedy. I don’t want to forget; I don’t want any of us to forget. We can’t forget.