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| by Laura Krug and Ben Magarik, |
Sep 23, 2001 |
They’ll need it. The rubble outside is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.
- Laura KrugThe train doors open at Franklin Street, and we step out onto the platform. The first thing that hits us is the air. It’s sharp and piercing, and full of sour pain. We walk out to a deserted street, a Saturday morning ghost town. In the distance, there’s fog, or is it smoke?
Walking to the first checkpoint, we encounter jittery policy officers guarding the street. I’m not sure who’s more nervous, us or them. They deny entrance, telling us to go to the next block, where the story’s the same: keep walking.
We reach the BMCC park, where a man stands near the checkpoint, furiously videotaping. For the first time, I see Stuyvesant, and for some reason, a glimmer of hope strikes me. Here the officers radio their commander and we’re told to walk back to the sergeant, a man in a white shirt.
He’s a tall, stern fellow, full of harsh assurance. There’s no way the two of us are getting in. Looking for “the command post” where we can get mayor’s passes, the two of us ramble around the BMCC area, being turned away by more cops. Laura despairs, she’s sick of walking around, she wants to go to work. I insistently question her about her job, all the time leading us toward West Street. We finally reach some sheriffs from Suffolk County, and I talk to the first genuinely friendly person in Lower Manhattan. He smiles and points to a group of cops milling on the corner. Taking out our school I.D. cards, we walk up to them, and the negotiation begins.
I introduce myself in a firm, steady voice—in stark contrast to the timid, scared tone I’d used earlier. I show them the cards, and they note, in somber jest, that it could be a fake. I take out my wallet, handing over my program, Jewish Theological Seminary I.D., Stuy Ultimate membership card, video rental pass, and my student MetroCard. I pass them over swiftly and with phony confidence. Suddenly, the key turns in the lock, and the officers start laughing. They give us our cards back, saying it’s all right, we can go in. Stay to the left as long as possible, there’s heavy machinery on the right. I look back at the chuckling officers, noticing one in particular. As we walk away, I’m hoping he lives for another hundred years.
We’re in.
After walking on the left side of the highway alongside emergency vehicles, buses and barricades, we have to climb over flowerbeds to cross the street. My heart is pounding. There are soldiers at a command post on our left, heavily armed cops on our right, and everywhere, construction workers. And at the corner of Chambers and West, yet another officer, after yet another explanation, smiles and lets us through. We thankfully tell him to have a nice day.
Into the school we walk, triumphantly holding our I.D. cards high, through the forbidden front entrance. As we enter, a there’s a crowd of cops, rescue workers, and National Guardsmen milling around. They don’t look at us, and we don’t look at them.
It’s a different world down here. You breathe different air, the people move differently, and everywhere there is a quiet sense of urgency. Round here, there’s no time for politics, despair, or flag-waving. As we walk away from the school, I see the site—the twisted skeleton of a dead animal, a giant whale. We hike through the empty streets, carrying philosophy textbooks.
- Ben Magarik
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