metrocake

It’s been seven years now since the Towers came down. I’ve gotten used to not seeing the Towers when I come down Fifth Avenue, hearing “if you see something, say something” chanted as a mantra on the subway, and accepting long security lines at the airport. I still don’t feel secure.

Today’s weather is eerily like that beautiful September day. There’s still a huge gaping hole where the Towers used to be — I can’t believe that we still don’t have a memorial. Everything changed, but then nothing has changed. If I sound bleak, it’s because I am.

This is what I wrote a few days after the Towers came down. The pictures are of the Lexington Avenue Armory, which was the original “missing persons” center for the first few days after the attacks. This is for those that were lost.

9.18.01: the wall

I was in an okay mood as I walked to school this evening. I was excited and a little nervous about starting class; I was supposed to have started last Tuesday, but we all know what happened then.

I was walking from Park Avenue over to Lexington Avenue when I saw some handwritten signs upon the ground. As I got closer, I saw that they were more than signs; they were signs, paintings, candles, flowers — all about those who were missing from the World Trade Center attacks. I found it sad, and tender. I also found it extremely curious, that these things should be here, on a nondescript street, practically in the middle of the sidewalk.

I turned the corner onto Lexington Avenue.

faces
faces
faces
faces

“Missing” posters were everywhere — plastered thick upon the walls, crammed on every available space.

missing
lost
searching
help us
help them

It was the armory, the 69th Regiment Armory, the one that had been serving as a clearinghouse for families of the missing. They only moved to a larger location yesterday, across the city, and the posters were still here.

mommy
daddy
sister
son
father
husband
daughter

I’d seen it on the news, of course — some reporter called it the “Wall of Hope” as the posters began to go up. I didn’t realize that it would be on my way to school. I wasn’t prepared to see this. I mean, I’ve been seeing “missing” posters all over the city, but not like this. Nothing like this.

age 32
age 56
age 24
age 47
age 21


It is a grouping of the missing — hundreds and hundreds of posters, for three city blocks straight, on both sides of the street. Where there aren’t posters there are messages, where there aren’t messages, there are prayers. You cannot just stroll by, because that is blasphemous. That is disrespectful. These people are missing and most are probably dead and you must acknowledge that, must acknowledge their loss and the loss of their families and friends.

last seen wearing red shirt
last seen wearing blue jeans
has a tattoo
has a birthmark
has a Florida tan
has blonde hair
has brown hair
blue eyes
green eyes
gray eyes

When I rounded that corner, I stopped and could only stare because I was unprepared for the reality of this. It is very easy to be horrified at the thought of 5,400 missing, yet very difficult to visualize exactly what that means. Is that a concert hall full of people? A football stadium? Just how many is that, exactly?

Seeing entire streets full of pleas, requests, each face attached to a history and a family who loves them — that is something completely and utterly different.

come home
help them come home
come home to us
please come home
please