Ruminations on the 9/11 Memorial

The most striking aspect of the 9/11 Memorial is that its context is so bizarrely out-of-context in the generic sense, and yet the memorial itself could only make sense in such a setting.

That sounded much more coherent in my head.

In English:

I exited the 5 train on Wall Street and Broadway and figured I would wander around until I found the memorial. It would be big and imposing and official-like.

I was wrong on that account but I found it anyway. The signs were everywhere, small enough to miss if you weren’t actually looking for just that- a sign pointing towards the memorial. The little prompts only heightened my anticipation. What I found at the corner of Greenwich and Albany was a large area enclosed in grey-painted plywood. It was anticlimactic but not disappointing.

Being in the memorial- being a part of the memorial- was an equally strange experience.

It was noisy.

I suppose I expected it to be mournfully quiet and sedately peaceful, like a museum.

And then I realized that the memorial- no, the event  being memorialized- couldn’t be removed from the city in which it happened. And the city- downtown Manhattan- is noisy. The horns are blaring, sirens wailing, people talking, and now, a new sound of water rushing. If the memorial were placed, pristine, in a museum, with a quiet floor all to itself, the memorial would become antiquated before the exhibit even opened. It would already be dead. If the purpose of the twin pools is to guard the memory of the deceased then it suits that they should be a living memorial. The noise of the eight waterfalls blends with the beat of the city.

I wondered, then, what the memorial meant to the people visiting it- to the officers gaurding the sight that now gaurds the memory of the departed; to the people like us who are coming to see and to remember; and to the people who have nothing to remember becasue they weren’t yet born when the towers fell.

I approached a few officers and asked them what it felt like to be at the memorial. The responses were unexpected. Two of the five I approached posited in uncertain terms that it was “an honor” but couldn’t elaborate. Two queried suspiciously if I was a reporter and weren’t very cooperative. And one didn’t say much worth recording. Upon reflection, I realized it isn’t wise to approach police officers on duty. I also realized I was expecting some bold statement about bravery and dedication to one’s country. What I got was a far more realistic response. One officer informed me he was in college when the towers fell. He said being at the site made it feel real. As it turns out, they may be wearing suits and carrying guns but the officers protecting the site feel much the same about it as we- the visitors- do.

What I found most interesting, though, were the children, the two year olds and five year olds who are looking at history; this memorial is dead to them. It is an historical monument to an historical event, much like every other monument in the city or in Washington D.C. is to us. I snapped this adorable picture of a five year old snapping a picture of the memorial and another one of an infant in a stroller, playing in the water of the memorial. They will grow up in the shadow of the new tower, looming large and shiny and rocket-like over the memorialized remnants of the two that dominated the Manhattan skyline when we were their age.

I can’t fault them. When I saw the memorial for the first time, stood by the rushing water and ran my fingers over the cold stone, cut with the names of the fallen, I did not think of my fourth grade classroom, stuffy and cramped. I did not contemplate the fact that I still remember my desk was four rows back on the aisle. I did not think of my principal abruptly disrupting class to tell us the twin towers had fallen. I wasn’t thinking about my confusion, that I didn’t know then what the twin towers were nor could I comprehend my teacher’s panic.

I didn’t think: “So this is it”.

The memorial has a life of its own, so to speak. The value imparted to it by the horrific event that happened there is real. The emotions the viewers, visitors, and spectators feel when seeing it are more closely related, though, to the memorial itself and not to the event it memorializes. Even for those of us who were alive when it happened. Those staring into the depths of the twin pools, punctuated by two gaping holes, cannot fail to feel a sense of loss. No doubt the memorial was constructed like that- built downwards with streams of tears disappearing into a gaping hole in the ground- to convey a deep sense of loss. At least, that was the impression I got.

———————-

And on a completely unrelated point, I played “spot the American flag” while at the memorial.

I counted fifty.