911 memorial and freedom tower

Oh, the 9/11 Memorial is such a peaceful and beautiful and heartbreaking sight.

I think everyone has seen the pictures—two great holes in the ground with waterfalls on all four sides and one dark and seemingly endless hole in the middle. Shining black marble surrounds the pools, and the names of the people who died are inscribed on it.

3000 people died that day.

24 Canadians.

But as horrible as that number is, it is just a number. Numbers don’t move us. Numbers don’t break our hearts. Numbers don’t bring us to tears.

The individual stories do.

As we walked around the memorial site, we heard of Mychal Fallon Judge, (link here) an NYC Fire Department chaplain who rushed from his church to give comfort and with some, the last rites. He rushed into the first building to help others, to give them comfort and support, then into the second building where he was killed by falling debris.

Rick Rescorla (link here) was a security specialist at Morgan Stanley who had long warned of the dangers of fire in such a huge building. He had to push hard to get anyone to practice how to evacuate, but those drills, on his floor, saved lives. 2700 lives. After evacuating his floor, he went to the next one to help others. Many more made it out. He did not.

Keith Roma (link here) was not even a member of the NYFD, but of the New York Fire Protection Department. When the calls went out, he raced to the towers, calling his father (NYPD) saying “You’d better get down here because they’re gonna’ need everybody.” His dad, though buried in rubble, survived. Keith did not. His body wouldn’t be found until Christmas Eve, surrounded by nine more evacuees he was attempting to escort to safety in his last moments.

Police officer Moira Smith (link here) was the only female NYPD officer to die that day. She went to the underground concourse to help evacuate people and direct them to safety. Smith’s husband, Jim, a fellow police officer, would go on to raise their 2-year-old daughter, Patricia without her. 

So many saw a need to help and acted. They saw flames. They saw damage. They saw people in danger. Selflessly, they rushed inside to help. Many did not come out.

The youngest victim to die was 2 ½, one of eight children killed. His stuffed rabbit can be seen in the Freedom Tower.

All those stories, and so many more, were very moving. The names on the marble plaques surrounding the pools, for example, were grouped by people they knew, not in something like alphabetical order. So you were listed beside your coworkers and friends.

I cannot think of a better idea.

We heard stories of sacrifice and heroism. We heard stories of resilience after the attack. We heard stories of the people, good people, who woke up in the morning with no idea they would never kiss their kids again, or hug their mom or see their spouses again. And for me, the thought from the other side, that they would never see their loved ones who went off to what they thought was another day at the Twin Towers.

I didn’t cry. It was close. Those stories were very emotional. The-Prettiest-Girl-in-the-World and our cousins were deeply affected, though. Between them, I think they went through all the Kleenex, napkins, and eyeglass cloths in their purses.

None of the first responders, none of the policemen stopped before entering either of the towers, saying, “jeez, I ain’t going in there.” They all went in.

And many died.

None of the first responders stopped working. Exhausted and traumatized, they continued day after day. There are pictures of their faces. They look like dead men walking. Like they’d been to war. Like they’d seen something no one should ever see.

Walking around the memorial, we saw a sculpture (The Sphere) that had mostly survived the destruction of the towers. It was melted and peppered with holes but it had survived.

 We stood in silence and looked at a moving display of stones from the original towers, now artwork in the park surrounding the pools.

We saw flowers placed by loved ones on the names of people who died. We saw the rebuilt buildings all around the memorial, good as new, a symbol of the spirit of NY.

We walked by the Orthodox church that had become a shelter for the wounded and traumatized.

I don’t see how anyone could visit this place and not be moved. Even those who were not alive on 9/11. Twenty-odd years had passed since fanatics flew planes into the buildings for the sole purpose of murdering innocent people. I think that touched all of us. I think it changed us.

But as Canadians, we can also be proud of what we did that day. When all the flights were canceled, Gander Newfoundlanders took in the passengers from 37 flights. This small community had only 10,000 people and yet hosted more than 6,000.

We all mourned with America. We all wanted to help. We felt a fraction of what they felt.

It was a pilgrimage I was happy we had made. It was sobering. It was painful. It was horrific. But it was something everyone should do when they go to NYC.