The wind sweeps through the city, shaking the shaken. The people packed against each other at Ground Zero on this cool morning rub at the corners of their smarting eyes while leaves and dirt dance in swirling columns before them. The dead ground has come alive.
There are no sounds beyond the quiet murmur of voices, for the microphones are not projecting loudly enough to allow the crowd just outside the inner ceremonial circle to hear the speeches. Police officers and firefighters from across the world stand behind barricades in their colorful uniforms and curious hats; the 300 firefighters from Oregon are spectators, for the processional they had anticipated marching in never materialized. The moment of silence at 8:46 a.m. goes largely unnoticed, for our watches are all set to a different time.
On a morning when nothing seems to work, men and women from numerous countries and states -- from Canada and Italy, from California and Illinois -- wait together, for nothing, and roll their eyes because nothing is happening and yet they will not leave. Smiling with strangers, drawn together by communal complaints, New Yorkers begin, in a way, to put September 11, 2001 behind them. We are officially no longer in the immediate aftermath of tragedy, and our responses must mature accordingly.
People began collecting at the site before dawn, searching for closure and a forum for commemoration. Now they stand shivering as the wind gusts through, the crisp conditions eerily reminiscent of this time last year. The rumble of aircraft-- military helicopters and fighter jets -- sends heads swiveling nervously to the sky. But the wind sends the American flags draped over the buildings -- and the smaller versions dispersed throughout the crowd -- crackling. And that is the sound everyone embraces.
New Yorkers will catch themselves when they talk about the September 11 "celebrations" planned for later in the day. There is surely nothing to celebrate. But they will use the word all the same.
We know what September 11, 2001 was. We do not yet know what September 11, 2002 will be. This morning at Ground Zero, New Yorkers are preparing to take their first crack at finding the right balance for the rest of the day between reflection and resolution.
On the car radio, as I head uptown after the ceremony, a family member of one of the victims calls the wind a sign that the loved and departed ones are watching, their feisty spirits sending a message that they are surviving in death. The vibrant gusts, reaching speeds of 50 miles per hour, curl around cars and tickle tourists. Some feel its fingers, and are filled with hope.
"It's nice," says Brooklyn native Rafael Baez, 35. "It's a nice cool day."
The wind is a killer. It pries a piece of plywood from the roof of a building on Columbus Circle and hurls it at the head of a construction worker, who is critically injured and will later undergo surgery for head trauma. Two women are also bruised by the flying debris and police hastily shut down more streets in the traffic-clogged city. All the buildings in the area are evacuated.
It rips a 30-foot limb off a towering tree next to Westfield High School in northern New Jersey, and drops it on 13 teenagers eating lunch outside. Officials estimate the branch's weight at 1,000 pounds. One student is flown to the hospital with a severe head injury.
If it is the spirits of victims, the spirits are angry.
The stillness of the space sets it apart. On a spare stage in a dimmed theater, at about 3:30 p.m., a man stands soberly in front of a microphone, looking over the smattering of people sitting alone in Symphony Space on the Upper West Side.
"My name is Sam Meyer," he says. "But that doesn't seem so important today."
Symphony Space has chosen to host an open poetry reading from 8:30 a.m. to 8:30 p.m. There have been long silences and mass readings by school children, polished poets and awkward amateurs. Each person in the audience sits apart from the others and the distance is comforting and intimate rather than isolating.
"We had no idea what to do," says the center's co-founder Isaiah Sheffer, a man with wandering white hair and deep crinkles around his eyes. "I thought we wouldn't put on a show at all. This isn't a show. We've had some people I've never seen before in my life, a couple who were dreadful, but it doesn't matter."
"There are different celebrations -- this isn't a celebration," he continues. "It's an opportunity for people. I don't call it a celebration. If I did, I misspoke. There's not much to celebrate. Some are a little too celebratory, too self-serving. Maybe that's necessary for the soul, but it edges on self-serving behavior. I agree with the mayor -- who I don't always agree with. Let's not turn this into a three-day weekend with picnics and swimming."
Meyer is reading an Emily Dickinson poem that meditates on pain and loss, and I start to cry. It is the second time today; the first was when I walked to Ground Zero this morning -- my first trip, even though I am a native and current resident of lower Manhattan. I had avoided those streets for a year. Now the quiet in Symphony Space moves me in a different way: It is dark and intimate, soothing and sad.
Outside the wind howls in low harmonies with itself. Each time the door to the theater opens, a fierce suctioning force roars through. But with the door closed, we are all protected here, alone, warm and able to think.
Meyer, pleasantly pale and rotund, works as a film editor for CNN and recently moved to New York from Atlanta. He had been dreading this day, the impending "glurge."
"Glurge?"
"To 'glurge' -- overly sentimental, mawkish," he says, smiling.
"I've been seeing a lot of that," he continues. "Slow dissolves and oboe music." His goal as a journalist is "not to try to make audiences arrive at a particular conclusion."
"I was expecting a lot of that today," he says. "It's been better than I thought."
Walking through Times Square, Meyer says he sensed a contemplative mood among city residents.
"No jingoism, haven't seen xenophobia, haven't seen demonstrations," he says. "Seems to be sane."
The streets of the city are filled with garbage. It is about 5 p.m. The wind has rustled through trash cans and waste bins, flinging newspapers, cans, crumpled napkins and strips of cardboard onto the sidewalks.
"It's really ugly," says Gavin Smith, 33, standing in Union Square. "You want to tell tourists, 'It's not that gross looking every day.' "
He has just added to a colorful quilt of chalked messages that spread across the entire square:
Speak your peace -- free chalk
Don't believe the warmongers, they only believe in profit
Pas y amor [Peace and love]
You monsters you will never take our freedom
Colombia esta contigo Nueva York [Colombia is with New York]
Large boards are strung up around the square, with dozens of handwritten messages and pictures drawn in markers pasted to each side. People are gathered in a circle around one of several tables set up with colorful pieces of paper, where they can sit and write their thoughts, advice, condemnations and condolences.
"It's a conspiracy," someone is saying sarcastically.
"Damn conspirators," someone else chimes in, shaking his head in support.
A motley crowd is assembled in the park. Ranging in ethnicity, age, gender and religion -- and politics -- men in suits mingle with pink-haired teenagers. Braids, dreadlocks, yarmulkes, buzz cuts, ponytails and glistening bald palates abound.
So do arguments. Toward the back of the park, a mostly pacifist circle of people argue with an older man. He stands back from the table and focuses his attention on a younger man, who is sitting down and scribbling on a piece of paper, while offering good-natured deflections.
"Everything going on in America is political," someone tells the dissenter.
"Memorialize," he responds angrily. "Support your country."
"Let them memorialize the way they want," mutters an onlooker.
"See, this is beautiful," says the seated man enthusiastically. "We're debating."
"Sometimes you have to go to war," the angry man says. "Look at all the people who criticize Churchill. You must fight against evil."
A tall man with an African accent says, "And when does America alone get to decide what is evil?"
The Empire State Building rises in the distance. American flags are pasted against the message board and bouquets of flowers and candles lie beneath it. A young woman wearing an American-flag bandanna sits strumming a guitar and singing softly against an African drumbeat that rumbles beneath all activity in the square.
Elsewhere in the park, other debates are unfolding. "Don't be ashamed of the fact that you're a Jew," a man says to someone as others listen. "America is a country I love, it makes mistakes. Israel is a country I love, it makes mistakes."
"Israel is your country? Do you vote? Why don't you move there?"
A few steps away:
"I don't want to believe in that. Today of all fucking days --"
A white man with lanky brown hair and a long face is arguing vigorously with a tall slender black man in a dark tailored coat.
Someone tries to interrupt the white man, but the crowd shushes.
"I don't think this was orchestrated by our own people," the man finishes.
"You can't even get sick because you may not have medical coverage," his adversary replies smoothly. "We could all pretend that this is not happening . . ."
Outside the square stands a woman trying to persuade bystanders to help her create a painting of human blood. She and her family arrived on Saturday and have been collecting names of people who will show up for an appointment to have a single drop of blood extracted for use in the painting.
"We're all one blood," says the woman, Claire Lemmel. "It's a very visceral experience. My idea is that the connection that we're all one will help us evolve. We can't continue killing."
Gavin Smith stands and surveys the scene. "A year ago I was living on 13th Street," he says. "I spent a fair amount of time here in the aftermath. They had this with the chalk. It was a place for people to come and speak in front of people, sort of how it had been in years past. That's what brought me back to this place. I like this that's happening here. I just wish it was happening more."
"Why is there the temptation to label the day a celebration?" I ask.
"It's a strange day, because it's not a holiday," he says. "But you can't treat it like a regular day. At least in the city, it's been the primary focus. I think -- it's an emotional day. Emotions can cross over into each other pretty quickly. It's not a happy day, but expressing sadness gives release, which is a positive thing."
"There were lots of flags waving down Fifth Avenue, which I'm indifferent about," Smith continues. "There are so many flags, and that's fine, but I wish I had seen more people with the kind of flag I have on." He tugs on his tie-dyed T-shirt, which sports a peace sign.
"But if this symbol of America stands for freedom, I'm with them," he adds, referring to the flag. "I'm as patriotic as anyone else. But you have to be brave to be free. I think we're a little less brave, and a little less free, than we were a year ago."
At night, my mother and I join thousands of people streaming into Central Park for the concert on the Great Lawn. Billy Joel and Wynton Marsalis are scheduled to perform; Meryl Streep will read.
"This is the difference between uptown and downtown," my mother says. "Uptown is serene and peaceful and spiritual -- and removed from reality. Downtown is raw. Uptown is the Ang Lee version."
I agree that Union Square is raw.
"That's what I'm used to," she says. "That's how my generation responded. I almost feel it's a betrayal to be here, rather than downtown where it's rawer."
We sit silently.
"Union Square, like you said, was messy, loud, polyglot," she continues. "It's more reflective of tensions, divisions that helped contribute to the event in the first place."
"But isn't that part of the problem?" I ask. "I liked Union Square, but it was so in-your-face. I needed that but I needed this, too."
We look out over the heads of people. A few candles are starting to flicker.
"I guess I grew up in a time that was in-your-face," she says. "This feels too civilized."
Behind us, a white poodle rests contentedly in a black handbag. A man walks by in a fitted leather jacket, talking on a cell phone. Was it Kevin Bacon? The clouds have disappeared and the sky stretches out into a darkening blue dome, pale light in the west stark against the blackening trees.
"Of course," she says, grinning, "that's a ridiculous response. I guess I just don't feel people should be allowed to feel they're going to a lovely musical evening."
But that wasn't the real problem.
"I just know," she says finally, "that on that day" -- one year ago -- "uptown felt normal. And downtown was a different dimension."
Quiet and thoughtful music starts to play and more and more candles begin to glow. I lean forward and hand my candle to the person in front of me, who passes it back lit. The wind whistles through and snuffs it out. We try again, and as I light my mother's candle, both flames disappear in a gust. One more time, and we keep it going by cupping our hands around a single candle. But our arms get tired and slowly we separate.
The wind blows it out.
