The Firehouse

In the months after September 11, 2001, all anyone in New York could talk or think about was the attack on the World Trade Centers. I wrote the message below for friends on that occasion, and as it references shines I thought it would be of interest – this is how I was first exposed to shrines.

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Here in New York, in the days after the event, shrines sprang up spontaneously all over the city. Initially people were putting up xeroxed signs with photos and physical descriptions of their lost loved ones (including details like "butterfly tattoo on back of right shoulder" - rather sad and distressing). Of course flags came out everywhere. All along Madison Avenue, the stores removed their entire commercial displays and put silver frames in the windows with carefully composed messages of sadness. I found I never got tired of reading them, whether they were full page ads in the paper, these store messages, or xeroxed statements that spontaneously appeared everywhere you looked.

As time has passed, the initial overwhelming expression of distress has died back somewhat - after all, Rudy Giuliani has asked us to calm down and spend money, something New Yorkers are very able to do. So we are trying to do what we are told. A few weeks ago I was planning to buy some flowers on my way home from work, so I decided to walk over to 8th Avenue and down to 42nd Street where I catch the bus, hoping to have a few cheaper flower choices over there. Rockefeller Center is not known for flower bargains! I walked briskly down 48th Street (our office is at 48th and 6th) and as I reached 8th Avenue, I saw dozens of papers and banners on the wall to my left. Then I saw large 5-gallon white plastic tubs filled to overflowing with flowers. The pages were signed by hundreds of people, sending their good wishes to the City of New York and the Firefighters. I had reached a fire station.

It is hard to explain the feeling that came over me as I turned the corner. I live here, but somehow I had missed any news coverage of what had happened to the fire stations. It was an amazing shrine. This particular fire station had lost 15 men in the World Trade Center collapses. They had placed large photographs of the lost men into a giant frame and hung it on the pillar between the doors where the fire trucks come out. At least 25 white buckets were lining the sidewalk against the fire station, each one with dozens of bouquets stuffed in as tight as they would fit. There were hundreds of small candles in red glass holders, like they have in Catholic churches, all lit and making a big glowing fire carpet below the large frame with the photos. They had a table with a book on it one could sign, and a line of people were patiently waiting to sign it.
 

 

The 9/11 WTC Fallen Heroes American Flag, Photograph by Rob Hans – I bought this image as a result of searching for a flag image; it touched me deeply.

This shrine must have been there for a month, and I'd missed it because I never took that route to the bus. I was stopped in my tracks. So were dozens of other people. Everyone just stood there in tears. The fire guys were standing around, being nice and helpful. They had been enduring this for a month! The constant outpouring of grief and sorrow that the average person couldn't help but express upon seeing them must have been difficult to bear. I signed the book, and read the tributes. Many photos of the lost men with their families, their dogs, and their fire buddies were taped to the building. Flags were everywhere. The entire face of the building was completely covered by people's offerings of love and condolence, and expressions of patriotism.

When I could go on, I walked down 8th Avenue and the banners and letters continued halfway down the block, nailed to the blue construction wall that surrounded the building next door. There were things from Santa Barbara, Japan, Denver, from school children, from anyone and everyone you could think of. It was unbelievable.

The other day I took Mark to see it, wondering if it would still be as intense. Fortunately it had receded  somewhat, most notably in that the fire guys had closed the big doors to the trucks, and were no longer standing out front - though the flowers were still as numerous and fresh. I remember reading how similar messages of hope and sadness had been coming by the mail sacks full to schools in New York City, and that they eventually stopped showing them to the children because it was all too much. Someone had remarked, "they need to do these things and send them, but we don't need to read them any more." I think I didn't realize what that meant until I saw the fire station.

The smaller shrines are fading now, with the newer concerns with anthrax and the need to get on with things. I am very aware every day that we now live in a war zone, and have taken to listening to Bach on my headphones while I walk up from 42nd Street every day, wary and watching but trying to maintain balance. We've heard that in Afghanistan they are still going to the market, going to school, making products and selling them, getting married, listening to the radio; as I didn't experience WWII or any other war, I guess I never realized that you still have to make dinner and go to work, even if a war is on. I dearly hope that we don't have any more incidents here, but we are all very aware that it is only a matter of time.  November 2001