It was my chic downstairs neighbor Kathleen who helped me discover that there was a way I could stay involved in the WTC tragedy and actually remain above Canal Street.
Being the hardcore type of gal that I am, I've felt all along that the only way I could help was by getting within a couple hundred feet of the towers. Like the sheer amount of dust I inhaled would deem me worthy in same way.
Hey, I never said I was fully screwed in.
Anyway a friend of Kathleen's was heading up an organization called Safe Horizon that was giving financial aid to WTC victims. Kath got us signed up for a night shift.
Safe Horizon is sponsored by United Way and the September 11th Fund. It's a huge operation nestled into Pier 94, the one-stop-shopping oasis for the bereaved, jobless and homeless victims of the WTC collapse.
The giant structure on the pier, normally used for fashion shows and other large-scale functions has been divided into countless booths and tables, where representatives from the many agencies offering help to WTC victims sit waiting to cut through the red tape and offer food vouchers, money and counseling, pronto.
To see this place is awe-inspiring. There are family help centers, mental health support units, free food cafeterias, give-away items, and everyone from the armed guards to the Red Cross water girls seems to keep smiling.
After Kathleen and I went through three security checkpoints, we were given temporary passes and sent to Safe Horizon for training.
We sat through a 45-minute talk that explained the process of interviewing victims for financial compensation.
For those who lost jobs below Canal Street, we would look for pay stubs, work ID and possibly a note from an employer. We would then present the person's case to an approver who would hopefully give it a thumbs-up, and we'd be able to tell our client that in about an hour, they'd have a check for two weeks' net pay.
For the homeless, we would look for a lease, mortgage statement, driver's license -- whatever they had that would prove they lived in an area that had been deemed unfit. Then we were authorized to reimburse them something toward their hotel bills, clothing bills or rent.
For family members of the missing, we would try to just help them out on whatever bills they brought with them.
Mostly we were told that we'd been running back and forth to the approvers asking questions a lot.
We did.
We were all asked to sign a confidentiality form, which is why I won't mention anyone's name here. Not that I would want to.
My first, shall I say, client, was a driver.
The bulk of the victims turning up in recent days have been drivers from car services who lost a lot of their business in the WTC disaster. Once the word got out that we could offer them up to a thousand bucks, a whole lotta drivers started coming down.
It's a lengthy process for compensation. You have to sign up for an interview, wait about a week for the interview, then wait several hours before your name is called.
But it's worth it. I hope.
The man was young and Middle Eastern, very polite and very nervous. He came prepared with vouchers and pay stubs that proved he had at least 10 drop-offs in the WTC area in one average work week. I was able to match the account numbers on his pay stubs to WTC-area companies, which proved very quickly that, in fact, a noticeable chunk of his weekly pay was now missing.
I took him over to our notary, had his signature notarized and then presented his case to the approver, who stamped an OK for one thousand bucks.
"Why not go have a coffee and a snack for a bit, or walk around? You'll be getting a check in about an hour."
"Thank you!!!!" he said, ecstatic.
What a nice way to start things off, I thought to myself as I walked to reception to pick up my next client.
Naturally, things changed.
We had been told in advance that some victims might be in a bad state emotionally, and that if we were worried, we should offer to escort them to a Red Cross counselor.
I was worried about this young woman from the second she shook my hand. It felt as though she were about to implode.
She'd been working at the Century 21 that you have probably seen on the news. The one right there at the WTC that looked so eerie, rows of new clothes covered in thick, gray dust. She'd watched people jump from the building, lost her job (at least until her employer is able to transfer her), and probably knew plenty of people who were now missing.
She didn't have much documentation. I was able to piece together what she did have, and she was approved for two weeks' pay, plus a hundred bucks toward the three pairs of shoes she'd lost in the wreckage.
After I gave her the good news, she let me walk her to the other side of the pier to the Red Cross station.
She seemed weak, and I couldn't keep myself from placing my arm around her shoulders as we walked.
"You take care of yourself," I said taking her hand.
"Thank you so much!" she said, still shaking.
It was very hard not to cry.
My last client of the night was a young man who had been forced out of his home and was still not allowed back in. An armed guard had escorted him up the 22 flights to his apartment for one chance to get out what items he could. He'd dragged what her referred to as "200 pounds of crap" down 22 flights.
Since then, he and his fiancée had been living in a hotel.
His cell phone bill alone was 900 dollars.
This was a tough case, as he didn't have any receipts, anything really except his driver's license that clearly stated he lived in one of the "unfit" zones.
Ultimately I was able to get a verbal confirmation from the assistant manager at his hotel and, between that and his driver's license, we were able to approve him for $1,500 worth of assistance toward his many bills from being displaced.
It wasn't much, I suppose, but it was something.
"If you're still homeless in two weeks, you can come back and try for another check," I said, shaking his hand.
"At this rate … they won't even tell us if we'll ever be able to move back in."
"Take it easy," I said. He laughed and walked away, scratching his head.
I never seem to know the right thing to say.
"How was your first night?" I asked Kathleen on the way home.
"Not bad, really … but I'm ready for a drink now."
"… And some food!" I screamed, feeling half-starved.
We grabbed a cab on the highway and headed off in search of this thing called "decent Japanese food in Manhattan."
There wasn't any dust on my boots when I got home that night, but I felt as though we'd returned from the trenches all the same.
It was a good feeling.
