There doesn't seem to be a way of invoking the topic of September 11, 2001 without it appearing as if one is striving to make some sort of point, statement, slight or commentary on the so-called "War on Terror." Even this many years after the fact, the topic is still punted around like a political football, invariably used as a scare tactic or patriotism litmus test. Suffice to say, it's still a sensitive subject that can raise significant ire. Despite my unwavering stance as a liberal lefty, I assert that this post is merely an observation and nothing more. I also apologize if it reads a little histrionic. I'm just in that sort of mood.
There's a sharp, triangular-shaped chain-link fence here in Manhattan where the North end of Greenwich Avenue intersects with 7th Avenue and 11th Street, just across the way from St. Vincent's Hospital. In the immediate wake of the events of September 11, 2001, St. Vincent's was the primary recipient of patients rushed from the site of World Trade Center. In the hours and days that followed, the seeming entirety of lower Manhattan was covered in flyers crying out for information on missing loved ones. Virtually the entire Southern side of St. Vincent's on 11th Street was covered with these flyers (as was the facade of Ray's Pizza just up the block to the East). As we all doubtlessly remember, exceptionally few of the individuals pictured on those countless flyers were recovered alive. It is still a painful, incalculably surreal chapter in this city's history that, by this point, has been well documented. I don't need to try to do so here. Despite the myriad, flaccid dramatizations and documentaries on the subject, I'd suggest that the events of that fateful day and its accompanying fallout are still very fresh in the minds of anyone who was living here at the time.
In any case, back to the chain-link fence. The last shop on the West side of that stretch of Greenwich Avenue was a do-it-yourself pottery design place called Our Name Is Mud. I once painted a caricature of Peggy and myself on a large, ceramic bowl there as a birthday present that we now use as "the mail bowl." Shortly after September 11th, Our Name Is Mud had a bunch of people -- presumably mostly children -- design a huge selection of memorial tiles. These tiles were then hung all over the chain link fence, facing both Greenwich and 7th Avenues, creating a colorful mosaic. Images on the individual tiles ranged from American flags, bald eagles, Uncle Sams, hearts and peace signs to frowny faces and the very occasional invocation of revenge. One could spend a couple of hours looking at each tile on the de facto memorial. It was a heartening, virtually spontaneous expression of art and human emotion in the wake of such an unimaginable event, and I think everyone in the community took a little something from it.
Almost seven years later, it's a strange, lonely scene. The Southern-facing wall of St. Vincent's --- which had been re-christened as a "Wall of Hope And Remembrance" -- is now back to being a bare brick facade. For some reason, the missing person flyers that had been on display were all taken down. Our Name Is Mud, meanwhile, vacated the shop some years ago (although the space looks primed to re-open as something called "Canine Styles"). The tiles, meanwhile, are all still there. Some have cracked. Most have faded. Some have fallen off. Some are missing entirely. With the shop gone, no one seems to be looking after them. They appear to be a largely forgotten after-thought in a state of gradual atrophy. I was walking down that way on a stormy night a few weeks back and the whipping wind caused the tiles to rattle and clink against their fence in an aptly ghostly fashion.
A lot has transpired in New York City since 2001, and not all of it has been positive. The strangely comforting, collective empathy its approximately 8,000,000 citizens felt in the months immediately after the attacks has subsided, but so too has much of the original spirit and character of the city. Perhaps it's true that you can't go home again after an experience like that. I'm not sure what the character of Manhattan is anymore, but it's barely recognizable. For me, those lonely ceramic tiles not only serve to commemorate the fallen on September 11th, they also serve as a shrine to the New York City that used to be. And given the current nature of this place, I wouldn't be surprised if I walked down Greenwich Avenue some day soon to find them all gone, replaced by a sign announcing the arrival of a new South Fork bank.
Go check them out while you still can.
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