I remember seeing Mr. Hickey, my seventh grade Social Studies teacher in my school back in Colombia, starring at the black cloud of smoke displayed on the TV screen. It was 9:59 a.m. and the South Tower of the World Trade Center had just collapsed. It would be 29minutes before its twin would follow suit. Mr. Hickey shook his head in disbelief.
Mr. Hickey breathed New York through his pores; he was uptight, fast-paced and somewhat neurotic. No one was ever late to his class and no one ever spoke out of turn. A great teacher, Mr. Hickey also had that sarcastic sense of humor so definitive of New Yorkers. Self-degradation and mockery became common in our class as we became closer to him. Tall and skinny as he was, his piercing blue eyes nonetheless suggested a strong sense of authority.
On September 11, however, Mr. Hickey sat defenselessly in his chair, his eyes filled up with tears. His face of sadness and confusion shocked me. “Sit wherever you want and do whatever you want,” he told us as we stepped into his class. It was right then when I understood the calamity that had just struck the island of Manhattan.
I came to New York a couple of times after 9/11 and walked around Ground Zero with my mother as she tried to explain to me how devastating these terrorist attacks had been. While at a rational level I understood that this had been a tragedy, I was unable to connect emotionally. That intimate pain I had felt when I saw Mr. Hickey choking up in his own tears did not happen during my mom´s description while at my visits to ground zero, and not even when watching TV reruns of the towers collapsing.
Last Wednesday this changed. I again felt the hollowness and almost tangible sadness that I felt back in 7th grade.
My journalism class and I visited the Tribute WTC Center located 120 Liberty Street. We took a self-guided audio tour which included detailed explanations of what happened that day by survivors and people who risked their lives to save others. One such person was the tour´s narrator, who had worked in the rescue team. His son, a firefighter too, died in the attacks. The narrator said that he felt lucky for he was one of the few people who found his loved one´s body and was able to bury him. The idea that burying your son is considered lucky gives me chills. His voice was heavy and painful, as the voice you would expect someone who had undergone so much tragedy in life.
After the audio-tour, we all walked back in silence to the main area of the WTC where we saw items that were recovered at the debris as well as a display of the chronology of all the events from 9/11—The World Trade Center, The Pentagon and the United 93 flight that fell in Pennsylvania. There was also information on the 1993 bomb at the World Trade Center which killed seven people.
After the exhibit we visited a room where the walls were covered with pictures of people who lost their lives in 9/11. People were smiling, wearing Mexican hats celebrating birthdays, on the beach running around in swimsuits. Putting faces on people who passed away certainly made the experience different, perhaps sadder, perhaps just more vivid.
Afterwards we met with Tracy Gazzani, who told us about the loss of her only son, Terry, on 9/11. She hopes that through her experiences she would be able to help others who also lost loved ones in these tragic days. Gazzani was at times painfully honest, saying that as times goes by the pain gets different but the sense of loss doesn´t get any better.
I think this rings true for about every New Yorker who lived through 9/11.
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