story638.xml
Title
story638.xml
Source
born-digital
Media Type
story
Date Entered
2002-05-17
911DA Story: Story
Martin Luther King Day ~ January 21, 2002
Rain spatters on the train windows as we barrel toward the city. It?s Martin Luther King Day ? gray, foggy, and cold. This time I am here with my parents. The last time they were here was maybe five, six years ago.
After arriving we take the subway to the City Hall/Brooklyn Bridge stop. I'm amazed, still relatively unfamiliar with the layout of the city, that the bridge really is right there, rising up into the fog.
We walk in the opposite direction, downtown, as icy drops pelt our shoulders. It is truly a miserable day to be sightseeing. My hands are already numb with cold. We brush quickly past St. Paul?s Chapel and the soggy, yellowing flowers, stopping for only a moment to read a few notes and signs. Much of the ink is running in the rain.
"That was it," I say, trying to catch my breath. "Did you see the cranes a block over? That?s where it is." For my parents, the moment is anti-climatic.
"You can?t see anything," my mom says. I know what she means. This isn?t our place. We can?t picture how it was before.
Today Ground Zero is not our destination. We want to take the ferry to Ellis Island. The Statue of Liberty is still closed to visitors. After purchasing tickets the woman behind the glass tells us we just missed a boat, and that we need to get in line, because it takes a long time to get through security now.
The rain is drenching us. My umbrella seems useless as the wind whips it around and droplets cascade down my pant legs. We groan at the sight of at least one hundred people in front of us in line, waiting to get into the "security tent."
We stand behind two older couples, one British and one American, who are trying to put on their best front about this ? laughing at the puddles and the cold, joking with one of the National Park Service worker, who is keeping an eye on the line. The man, who must be in his thirties, has a surprising gleam in his eye as he chats with the crowd. "I?m sorry, but this is just the way it is now," he keeps saying. "We have to have this level of security." But he doesn?t sound resigned.
When we finally get into the screening area, they make us take off hats, gloves, and belts; open bags; turn out our pockets. We have missed another ferry because the searching takes so long. Finally, we are excused to move on and wait.
On the boat finally, I revel in warmth and dryness. Looking out across the dreary waters, I can barely see the city, which is shrouded in fog and low clouds.
At Ellis Island, we eat, look around a bit, and grab brochures, but it?s not until we go up to the next floor, to the Great Hall, that the history of the place hits me. Reaching the top of the stairs, I stop for a moment and look at almost nothing. The room is practically empty. Sunlight has come and now streams through the windows; my feet echo as I take a few steps.
I can feel people here. I hear laughter and chattering voices. I see, hazily, faces of hundreds of people. They all came here. It?s almost hard to talk in that room. It?s better to stand quietly and imagine.
Close to sunset, we wait for the ferry back. Outside the day has drastically changed. The sky is orange. I can see the city. On the lawn in front of the museum a flock of geese peck at the ground, covered with the faintest blanket of snow that clings to the blades of grass. I watch them and the city behind them and the others who are out there watching, just like me.
?
?
Rain spatters on the train windows as we barrel toward the city. It?s Martin Luther King Day ? gray, foggy, and cold. This time I am here with my parents. The last time they were here was maybe five, six years ago.
After arriving we take the subway to the City Hall/Brooklyn Bridge stop. I'm amazed, still relatively unfamiliar with the layout of the city, that the bridge really is right there, rising up into the fog.
We walk in the opposite direction, downtown, as icy drops pelt our shoulders. It is truly a miserable day to be sightseeing. My hands are already numb with cold. We brush quickly past St. Paul?s Chapel and the soggy, yellowing flowers, stopping for only a moment to read a few notes and signs. Much of the ink is running in the rain.
"That was it," I say, trying to catch my breath. "Did you see the cranes a block over? That?s where it is." For my parents, the moment is anti-climatic.
"You can?t see anything," my mom says. I know what she means. This isn?t our place. We can?t picture how it was before.
Today Ground Zero is not our destination. We want to take the ferry to Ellis Island. The Statue of Liberty is still closed to visitors. After purchasing tickets the woman behind the glass tells us we just missed a boat, and that we need to get in line, because it takes a long time to get through security now.
The rain is drenching us. My umbrella seems useless as the wind whips it around and droplets cascade down my pant legs. We groan at the sight of at least one hundred people in front of us in line, waiting to get into the "security tent."
We stand behind two older couples, one British and one American, who are trying to put on their best front about this ? laughing at the puddles and the cold, joking with one of the National Park Service worker, who is keeping an eye on the line. The man, who must be in his thirties, has a surprising gleam in his eye as he chats with the crowd. "I?m sorry, but this is just the way it is now," he keeps saying. "We have to have this level of security." But he doesn?t sound resigned.
When we finally get into the screening area, they make us take off hats, gloves, and belts; open bags; turn out our pockets. We have missed another ferry because the searching takes so long. Finally, we are excused to move on and wait.
On the boat finally, I revel in warmth and dryness. Looking out across the dreary waters, I can barely see the city, which is shrouded in fog and low clouds.
At Ellis Island, we eat, look around a bit, and grab brochures, but it?s not until we go up to the next floor, to the Great Hall, that the history of the place hits me. Reaching the top of the stairs, I stop for a moment and look at almost nothing. The room is practically empty. Sunlight has come and now streams through the windows; my feet echo as I take a few steps.
I can feel people here. I hear laughter and chattering voices. I see, hazily, faces of hundreds of people. They all came here. It?s almost hard to talk in that room. It?s better to stand quietly and imagine.
Close to sunset, we wait for the ferry back. Outside the day has drastically changed. The sky is orange. I can see the city. On the lawn in front of the museum a flock of geese peck at the ground, covered with the faintest blanket of snow that clings to the blades of grass. I watch them and the city behind them and the others who are out there watching, just like me.
?
?
Collection
Citation
“story638.xml,” September 11 Digital Archive, accessed January 16, 2025, https://911digitalarchive.org/items/show/11892.