Sad Loss For Neighborhood

By Diane Goldie | NEWSDAY.COM

September 12, 2001

They hit us where we live.

When the two planes smashed into the World Trade Center Tuesday, crumbling the gleaming silver skyscrapers into a heap of twisted metal, concrete and bodies, my 3 1/2-year-old daughter Grace and I watched in disbelief from our apartment seven blocks north on Duane Street.

Why did the plane crash into the towers, mommy? she asked. Maybe they didnt know where they were going, she said, earnestly answering her own question.

It was a glorious sunny morning and I had been trying to get her to walk down to the farmers market, which was set up most Tuesdays near the World Trade Center.

Will the ice cream man be OK? Grace asked, trying to assess the the impact of the disaster on her tiny world.

The day before, her babysitter had bought her an ice cream cone from one of the many vendors who hawked hot dogs, sandwiches, t-shirts and trinkets in the huge plaza at the base of the towers.

After 'reading hour' at the Borders Book store or a free noon concert, Grace often would splash her hands in the fountain that gushed at the heart of the plaza. Pretty purple, pink and white flowers decorated the area in recent weeks.

She had delighted in seeing Elmo, Big Bird, Thomas the Tank Engine and many other childrens characters prance around that plaza.

During the summer, hundreds of people would gather in the shadow of the mighty towers to dance to salsa bands, sway to a country singer or watch a ballet performance.

While thousands labored away at the World Trade Center and went home in the evening, scores of area residents regularly shopped, ate and played there. On cold or rainy days we would browse around the shopping mall that sprawled under the buildings. The Warner Brothers store, The Childrens Place clothing store, Bath & Body Works, Ben & Jerrys and Sbarro's pizza were favorite stops.

Mommy, Im scared. Whats happening to the towers? Grace asked, as we stared at the unfolding devastation from our 14th floor apartment. The blaring sirens and the booms that rattled our Tribeca neighborhood and sent people screaming and crying into the soot-dusted streets, heightened her fears.

Will the plane crash into our building, too? she wanted to know.

Looking at the two gaping holes belching orange flames and thick columns of grey smoke, and then seeing the towers drop, made it hard to convince her that we would be safe in our 53-story brick building.

We gathered with neighbors in the lobby. Some were crying, some were chatting on phones, some were carrying blankets to the firehouse across the street. Firemen hung their heads as word spread of fatalities among New Yorks bravest. Ambulances from around the region lined up outside.

My husband -- who was working at 100 Church Street, one block from the WTC -- dodged falling debris as he made his way home. I saw people waving white cloths out the windows. Others jumped or were thrown out of the towers. It was awful.

He huddled with Grace in our lobby as I walked the streets. Once the crowds cleared out, the neighborhood was eerily quiet. The grey-white soot blanketed rooftops, cars, store awnings and people as they wandered north on Church Street. They looked like ghosts emerging from a curtain of dark smoke.

I looked up. The towers that had shone so brightly in the brilliant morning sunshine, were no more. There was a hole in the skyline, as if someone had punched out its two front teeth.

I was sad for the loss of the towers and the people who died working and enjoying life in those giant buildings.

There would be no more salsa Fridays, or Sesame Saturdays or farmers markets -- at least not for a long time, if ever. Even if they rebuild, the area will be forever tainted by the worst disaster on U.S. soil.

Im sad, too, Grace told her daddy. No. Im not. Im angry. ... That was a mean thing to do.