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| Fresh Kills, from the Wellcome Collection on Dirt, 2011 Exhibition, London |
If
I wasn't wrapped in this Tyvek spacesuit and struggling inside the
breathing apparatus I'm sure I would be getting cold. The sun is
brilliant but the November wind is rolling off the Jersey highlands and
there's nothing at all to block it up here at the top of the pile except
the remnants of the fire trucks.
We
stand out here literally between sunrise and sunset. In the morning the
slight glow out across the open Atlantic finds us dressing. An eternity
later the last light fades behind the mountains of northern New Jersey
and we wash ourselves off. We fill that stretch of time sifting through
the untold tons of rubble and dust that were once the World Trade Center
in this oddest of places, the special re-opening of the world's largest
garbage dump. One hundred and eighty feet above the tidal marshes that
centuries ago gave this place a Dutch name for clean waters, Fresh
Kills, we work the crime scene of the worst single-day event in North
American history.
I've
been here a little more than a month now. Since they looked into my
eyes and told me Ground Zero wasn't for me anymore. That was true.
Twenty-three straight days in the smoking rubble and home only three
times, but that wasn't rare. Most of us who could, stayed. What else
would we do?
The
search here is unlike the search there. There we could, at least in
that first week, hold onto the vague thought that this was a rescue
mission. Here, where nine thousand tons of, well everything, arrive
daily, those illusions have never stood. Here where the stink of methane
leaking from below mixes with the stench of human death and the salt
air of the ocean. Here where we follow the gulls as they dive for the
remnants of human life, then chase the birds with fireworks and gunshots
so we can have first pick. Here where we keep our separate boxes for ID
cards, and jewelry, and clothing, and shoes, and bone, and tissue. Here
where crushed emergency vehicles mix with shattered office furniture,
millions of office documents, and, in one day's discovery, a pile of
tiny brass Trade Center figurines that probably came from that tourist
spot just off PATH Square. Here where we hunt for evidence while
desperately trying to give something back to everyone left behind.
This
week I've found seven rings and four fingers, a laptop computer, two
wallets-one more or less intact, part of a foot, a singed copy of Steppenwolf
with a name and email address from nyu.edu written inside, the kind of
badge-holder cops and firemen wear around their neck when off duty, six
pairs of jeans from The Gap with price tags still attached, the top half
of a human femur, someone's tax return, two earrings, a piece of
white-painted aluminum I'll guess came from a plane, a phone message
slip telling someone to "call home. 8:32 am, 9/11."
This
week, as every week, people have come to the gates below us. Mothers,
fathers, children, husbands, wives. There is nothing we can do for them
here but they come. They come looking for answers we'll never be able to
offer. They come hoping to salve unsalveable wounds. Or they come to
say "thank you" and to say that they appreciate what we are doing. That
is the hardest. It would be easier if they were angry.
I
have worked for this department for more than twenty-one years. I have
seen way too much. I have lived through way too much. Eight years ago
when I worked the case of the first Trade Center bombing I realized my
head was beyond full. I retreated into meaningless office work, became a
researcher who happened to carry a gun. I started telling people
simply, "I work for the city." I moved to the woods of outer Staten
Island and pretended I was someone else. Then, on that incredibly clear
day in September, drifting up Church Street, coffee in hand and late as
usual, I stared up at my favorite buildings and watched a huge airliner
plow into the north tower. When I pulled that shield, "Detective-Field
Services Specialist, New York City Police Department, 1476" out from
inside my shirt and ran across the street my carefully constructed dream
world vanished. For 69 days I have been a cop again, in all the best
ways, and, of course, all the worst.
It
is important to know when to stop. That moment isn't now, but it is
coming. I will keep driving here every day, and pulling on all this
gear, and walking up to this, the world's tallest tomb since the great
pyramids, and sifting the dust with gloved fingers, until we are all
sure there is nothing left to find. When that is done, I will be too. I
will take off the spacesuit. I will take off the badge. I will throw the
gun into the harbor. I will go away to the smallest, calmest place
where I can buy good coffee and sit in a good library and stare into
open waters. And I will look again for peace.
(copyright 2003 by Ira David Socol)
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