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Everyone is on Ground Zero These Days: One worker's account

Photos and Text by Nanci Rose
Published by the American Red Cross and on The Ithaca Journal opinion page on Thanksgiving Day, 2001

Standing behind a small crowd at the Chambers Street barricade, I put on my Red Cross vest, hard hat, goggles and dust mask. I was about to tromp bravely into the "hot zone" but suddenly became conscious of flowers, candles and plastic-covered photos along the pavement. I hadn't expected tributes to be here, on the street like this.

For a respectful few moments, I bowed my head and listened to a woman softly sing "Amazing Grace," then I lightly touched mourners' shoulders while feeling my way gingerly toward the gate's small opening. Guards nodded at my badge and into my eyes. I took my first steps onto ground zero.

And I entered an altered reality. Crossing deserted streets lined with ash-filled store windows, I tried to fathom the magnitude. The 16-acre devastation was broader than the entire downtown of some cities. The eeriness was science fiction, the loss of lives palpable. The distinctive wafting toxicity of multiple modern materials and death, not comparable to any other scent on earth, permeated the air. I felt honored and humbled to be here.

There were no concepts for this, nothing but gutteral response. Tears would come each time I entered the zone. When looking into others' red eyes, one could never quite tell if this stinginess was from the air or from grief. Most likely it was both and there was no need for explanation.

Walking toward my assignment -- the 4 pm until midnight shift, as part of the logistics team distributing ear plugs, flashlights, work gloves, boots, coats and toiletries to workers on "the pile" -- I exchanged greetings with soldiers stationed at the barricaides.

"Where you from?" I'd ask. Many young enough to be first year students in the St. John's University building which in this crisis had become Respite Center #1, the camouflage-clad soldiers smiled proud answers, rising above the implications surrounding them.

More than any other impression, the frank openness of workers at ground zero is what stays with me most. Hearts were wide open. In the land beyond metal barricades, the invisible barriers of our psyches had been torn down. Firefighters, city police, construction workers, national guard, FBI, medical teams, Red Cross, Salvation Army, together we bonded in commonality of mission during the grim work of recovery.

We were polite. We looked deeply at each other and said "thank you" more genuinely than ever before. We had honest conversations. And we laughed. At one point, I was to stand at a door and prevent others from entering. "Loading zone," I'd tell police. Each was gracious and lighthearted about going around the building. When else can you tell a cop what to do?

Many of us never had to uncover the remains of victims or mourn the loss of someone close. But we shared something that changed New York City, something the nation was sharing, the entire world was experiencing. Sorrow. Fear. Bravery. And in the midst of the chaos, we knew that.

As trained workers, our fates brought us to the physical space called ground zero, yet somehow we understood that everyone is on ground zero these days. The end of something familiar, the beginning of something unknown. The shock of what is horrendously possible in human experience, the cusp of what is grandly honorable in humanity.

There is hot food around the clock, and cots for weary workers who could not rest at home. Clergy, mental health professionals, massage therapists and chiropractors are available 24/7, all American Red Cross volunteers from across the country. Teddy bears were mailed to big men from small children. There is a TV and computer center with big easy chairs. The Respite Center is a small city with a "mash" unit nearby.

The laborers from the pile, exhausted and in shock, disclosed fragments of stories from their seemingly endless work in the rubble. One evening, two firefighters informed me, in the almost nonchalant manner of traumatized individuals, that they'd collected six bags of body parts that day. I expressed sympathy and support as best I could. Later I wondered, "What kind of bags do you use for that? Laundry bags, body bags, certainly not garbage bags?" The surreal and bizarre were ever-present.

On October 28, the City of New York held a memorial service for 9,000 family members at the Twin Towers site. Platforms and rows of chairs were set up for mourners to sit directly on the spot where sisters, husbands, sons, daughters, wives, brothers and others were lost. It was to be a powerful experience and we workers were ready to comfort and assist those who decided they needed to be there.

One after the other, loved ones broke down in tears as they turned the corner and were confronted with the now-famous tottering shell and the concrete blocks that swallowed their own parents, lovers, spouses, children, friends. And one by one, we Red Cross workers gently walked over to grieving family members to ask if we could assist them to their seats and put caring arms about them.

It was a long service and we were very busy. Loved ones created a line in which they tossed flowers over the barricade and into the pile; again they wept profusely. It was heartwrenching for all. Later I heard one firefighter say to another, "I had no idea how much the Red Cross really does."

Each evening at midnight, when I left the St. John's building, I paused at the perimeter of the brightly lit work area at ground zero and was reminded of America's pioneer days when neighbors came together with lanterns, in unity, to rebuild a barn that had turned to dust in its flames.

The image followed me on the bus toward Broadway, its usual glimmery self except for more stars and stripes. And a new pioneer image, one we'll build in the joy of our diversity, grows in my mind as an ideal for our response to this massive loss.

I can only hope we keep our hearts open -- and keep opening our hearts.