Originally Published in NJBlueNow, 9/6/16
By: Jay Martinez (A shovel-man at the top of the bucket brigade)
I had no problem driving on a deserted highway on Tuesday September 18, 2001 at about 1800 hrs. The weather was cool enough for me to exit my home dressed in Cami- trousers along with a long sleeve, black T-shirt. But after five minutes of this I realized I was the only weary traveler on the road. The exhilaration quickly vaulted out of my heart.
In order to reach the financial district of NYC (an area I frequented thousands of times throughout my life) I chose to ride on the Pulaski Highway. As I approached the Jersey City and Hoboken side of that extension, tears fell from heaven. Seeing those rain droplets bounce off of my front window in conjunction with the choice of navigating along with no music, immediately struck a chord.
I could still see the dismal, faintly lit Holland Tunnel lights try their best to light the way. If my vehicle could speak it would of stated, “let’s turn back I don’t like aura here.” The tunnel route took forever. I exited, my oh my what my eyes beheld. The greatest city on earth, the place where my mother met the American Dream, my birthplace, the Big Apple, Gotham, I Love NY, the Capitol of the world brought to its’ knees. The teardrops kept falling. Mine fell as well. I frantically searched for a place to park and finally stop my vehicles reluctance to turn back to Jersey.
I grabbed my gear- water, some chow and pulled up my weapons belt. As I cleared approximately three NYC blocks, desolate turned into chaotic organization. I stopped once, twice, three times and pinched myself. The Recon Marine in me spoke. We are in America correct Jay? Perimeter gates manned by Warriors adorned in Camouflage flanked by other warriors dressed identically the same. Eyes possessed meaning and intent, even the security dogs had the look. M-16’s pointed into the dark, these small arms were symbolic, and the statement was clear and poignant. We will find those responsible for this atrocity and we will fight back. Where are you, come out and fight like men!
I finally cleared several checkpoints; I did my best attempting to greet others. The best I could muster was to meet eyeballs. I was now approaching the famous ground zero, tears and nighttime fell and out of somewhere someone handed me a white mask. I donned it, I kept moving. I reached from a distance what looked like a miniature skyscraper; it was not, it was a heap of rubble, 20-30 stories high. I stood in dismay, I pinched myself, my heart reminded me, this is America. America the beautiful, at this time Lady liberty had tears draped all over her face.
At some point I searched for my purpose to come here and assist as a fellow Law Enforcement Officer. My inner man longed to be a U.S. Marine, my heart longed to be a 0321 and go to a foreign land with my three-teammates and do my job in locating who had masterminded this cowardly act. Ultimately I did track white buckets. White buckets and shovels. I followed their direction until I turned the corner and looked heavenwards. What my eyes beheld words will fail! Ground Zero, my heart sank, my tears rolled, my fists clenched, my heart raced, my eyes stared, my spirit called upon my Almighty God to make sense of this to me. “Hate my beloved son, this is what hate is capable of becoming.” I shook it off.
I moved towards a convoy of men dressed in dark uniforms, white buckets everywhere. Welcome to the bucket brigade Marine an LAPD Firefighter stated, “how did you know, we know our types he replied.” We shook hands. I could not stand at the back of this formation; my eyes could see that a certain type of person was needed to climb a steep, high, heap of rubble. A job fit for me. I grabbed a shovel and set aside the bucket, I would now fill buckets from the top not pass them.
As I moved there, everything came to a screeching halt. A body was located, but not just any ordinary body. This one was unique, this one was found facing the fury, carnage, confusion and the hell of this sinkhole. His body was torn into two pieces. He was delicately placed into a body bag and given a heroes honor ceremony. The NYPD Chaplain, grey hair, grey mustache, stout shoulders, eagles eyes with spectacles spoke words I could hardly make out. The constant clanging of a titanic machine smashing the earth every second with the fury of a hammer wielded by Jehovah kept me from listening intently. Nonetheless, as the rig drove by we all set aside our tools and saluted. We saluted amidst white smoke that rose to the heavens. I realized that underneath my black Cadillac’s the earth was alive, people were alive.
Work resumed. What my eyes beheld at this time once danced in my head for a long period of time. My shovel dug, dug and dug. It collected nameplates, family photos, telephones, personal mementos, the heavenly tears kept falling, and mine never stopped either. At some point the tip of my shovel discovered a FDNY truck door. I didn’t budge it, once I announced its discovery FDNY Firefighters lifted it high amidst the teardrops like the Stanley Cup. I stood in amazement; this experience, this entire experience has overwhelmed me for a lifetime, truly Godsend.
In closing, upon leaving the bucket brigade, I ate on a small vessel that night/morning. I met workers from all over the world and as far as France. I gathered my own personal photos that night and am reluctant to look at them to often, I’m afraid of what those images might rekindle in my soul. But all in all my time at Ground Zero has inspired my soul and has always been a true blessing in my career, with the help of my Brother Richard Martinez my shovel now sits at the 911 NYC Museum for the world to see. My Mother would be so proud of her baby son.
