“Opening My 9/11 Diary”
by: Gary Marlon Suson
Official Photographer at Ground Zero
Hon. Battalion Chief, Fire Department of New York
Founder, Ground Zero Museum Workshop

(Look for many more images from Marlon’s Diary in the new issue of Artworks Magazine on newsstands 9/14)

On that brisk, March morning in 2002, I finally sat down in the dirt of Ground Zero after having shot images for what seemed like an eternity and into the wee early morning hours. Nighttime was my favorite period to document at Ground Zero, as it was much quieter, with less Recovery workers and even a sense of peacefulness that seemed to hang over the site. I appeared to be able to collect my thoughts better during these hours – able to reflect on both myself and this bombastic period in world history. Somehow, I had wound up in the middle of American History and I honestly didn’t know what I was doing there. I was an out-of-work actor/playwright who, just six weeks earlier, had finished major reconstructive surgery in Heidelberg, Germany with the famed knee surgeon, Hans Paessler. I was certainly not a famous photographer and in my opinion, didn’t fit the bill for this important position, yet here I was, given access to doccument every area of the Ground Zero site; a position envied by some well-known fashion photographers, one of whom offered to carry my equipment if I could get him into the WTC site to ‘assist’ me. What he didn’t realize was everything comes with fine print and this was not a position he would have wanted. Nothing glamorous down there…Looking back, I now believe that innocence is bliss; I had no idea when I said “yes” to this position the atrocities my eyes would be exposed to over six months nor the residual effect it’d have on me. I rarely slept during my time spent at the World Trade Center site; I was an insomniac of sorts, a sense of fear always hung over me; fear i would miss “the shot.” The concept of sleeping to me was the equivalent of playing Russian roulette. What if I missed that one important image during that three hours I chose to sleep? It wasn’t as if there was anyone else documenting the Ground Zero Recovery; The reality is “I was it” and that was a big responsibility for a guy from an Illinois farm who didn’t move to New York City to become a photographer at all. Oh, there was this one old-time photographer named “Joel” who had access thru the Museum of the City of New York – He would come down every few weeks with his massive view camera and shoot the ever changing scenery, but he wasn’t shooting in the trenches with me and the firefighters nor did he have full access to every area that I did. That left me with a big responsibility sitting upon my shoulders. While I am responsible for shooting the Recovery Collection, many of my images were made possible by those who looked out for me. I was often woken up from a dead sleep at 2am at St. Paul’s Chapel, our relief center, by firefighters proclaiming, “You better get your butt down to the hole, Suson – you’re about to miss an important shot.” I learned to catnap here and there, only to get back into the hole and wait for events to unfold. Often, when I wasn’t shooting, I would dig for human remains – an art taught to me by an Italian-American Fire Chief named Steve. Delineating between what was a human remain, bone fragments and actual rubble or concrete was sometimes not easy. It certainly wasn’t something I learned at the University of Texas. It was an honor to dig for victims but quite disturbing at times. I hadn’t held a 4-pronged rake since digging for earthworm fishing bait in my Mother’s vegetable garden in the Chicago suburbs.

On this particular early, Spring morning, I lifted the heavy camera bag off my shoulder, which in of itself was a treat for me; the feeling started to rush back into my shoulder and my three-hour cramp disappeared. Before me was the rich, brown dirt and assorted rubble of what once was the North Tower – dwarfing me from about 80 feet above my head was the lip of what once was the main plaza of the World Trade Center. Standing at the bottom of an empty swimming pool is the best one could fathom in terms of what I was experiencing; only this bathtub was 6 acres wide.  I sat down in the dirt, letting out an “umph” as my rear end hit the ground. The dirt felt quite comfortable, that is, if I could forget for a moment that this was sacred earth and comprised of the energy and matter of 3,000 innocent victims. Permeating the air was the chemical-laden stench of burning steel as ironworkers cut relentlessly through decades-old multi-ton beams before they were to be carried by flatbed trucks out of the WTC site. To my right, poking it’s head out of some mud and thick rebar wire was a 1960’s file photo of President Nixon, which most likely came from a Secret Service worker’s file cabinet.  Before me in the dirt was a hand-sized, mud-caked chunk of World Trade Center window glass, quite rare to find in its own right. I shot a photo of it and saved that piece of glass, putting it in my pocket. I had been given permission by an FDNY Officer to retain certain remnants that were not victim’s belongings nor to be used in the investigation. Many of those remnants appeared in my images so I felt it was wrong to watch them be simply thrown away. I remember my fascination with puzzles as a boy and the immediate intimidation I’d feel as I opened a fresh box and dumped all the pieces on the table. Somehow, I had to make all those little pieces come together and show the scene on the outside of the box. At Ground Zero, I was surrounded with thousands of artifacts, scenes, people and ever developing dramas and now, as an adult, I had to somehow make it all come together thru my little lens so it would tell a cohesive story. This was my real life puzzle. I knew I was the eyes for millions, if not now, perhaps one day and I had to both shoot and then finagle all the images correctly in order to portray the ‘Recovery’ at Ground Zero and what life was like down in the “hole.” That is why many times I felt the inclination to quit. Often times I’d walk away from the job for a few days, only to return to ground zero after my conscience got the best of me. I had picked the right time to rest as within a few minutes, the sun began to rise over the Woolworth Building. It was quite beautiful to see; the warmth was certainly welcome, despite the fact that the light illuminated my filthy brown overalls, signaling a date with a washing machine. My hands were stained brown and it mattered not how many times I attempted to wash them. It would often take 2 or 3 hot showers just to get the unique stench out of my skin. Removing my Carhartt gloves, the now-cold hand warmers popped out onto my lap. I laid back and looked up at the sky, asking myself what in God’s name was I doing there?

For months I had been documenting the after effects of our nation’s worst tragedy on home soil. I had become an accepted member of the Ground Zero “brotherhood,” allowed to photograph the most sensitive and intimate of moments as they unfolded. If a group of firefighters uncovered their fallen brother, I was there to document it. If they said prayer over his body, they would not flinch as they heard the clicking of my oversized Mamiya camera just a few feet away. The men knew my images would not wind up in the following day’s paper and that brought me their respect and the luxury to document intimate moments as they unfolded. To have such trust was indeed an honor. My more kinder, gentler thoughts of photography were of shooting my dogs and horses as a young boy on my instamatic camera. Sitting there that morning, I thought about my humble beginnings, in Barrington Hills, Illinois and the first time my mother, Sherry Suson, had placed a beautiful, Canon camera in my hands on my 14th birthday. Although she felt I had an “eye” for this art, I did not agree, but I continued shooting because she insisted there was “something there” in my images. Our horses made a wonderful subject to photograph and in particular, one pitch-black horse named “Snake.” Snake was abused, whipped and prodded by his previous owners, so by the time we got him he wouldn’t come within a stone’s throw of anyone. His home was a 5-acre field behind our house and only feeding time would entice him near me. For months I tried to get near Snake but he would not have it. However, he did get a little closer in proximity to me when I came out with carrots and sweet treats. One day, much to my surprise, he walked up to me, dwarfing my little frame with his massive, equine body and reached his head through the fence, quickly grabbing a carrot out of my hands. From that day on, I had a new friend, within reason of course. I never rode Snake, but he trusted me enough to come close and take treats out of my hands. When I first began shooting Ground Zero, firefighters would stay away from me, not accepting any of my attempts at conversation. A quick, dirty look was considered progress. My camera represented a threat to them. The big, FDNY Chiefs who ran operations at WTC of course knew who I was and kept an eye on me to make sure I was safe, but that didn’t mean the front line firefighters down in the “hole” needed to like me nor my camera. On one occasion, a firefighter named “Jimmy” who had lost fifty of his friends in the 9/11 tragedy, attempted to push a lit cigarette into my right cheek, only to be grabbed by an FDNY Chief, who told him, “get away from him.” I didn’t take it personal; Jimmy was known to hate cameras and wanted no record of the Recovery. Just as when I was a boy, I once again had to earn trust. I stayed near the firefighters but not too close and when I had the chance, I would shoot them at work and come back the next day with a nice print for them so they’d have a memory of this period, however dreadful it was. Nothing made me happier than to give them those images. The looks on their war-torn faces as I presented them with high-end images were reward enough for me. Many of them had lost between thirty and sixty friends each, so these were emotionally harsh times for them. In time, they started talking to me and then joking and soon enough realized that I was no real threat. I was not a member of the press nor did I wish to exploit them and they understood that.

The sun was becoming stronger by the minute as the WTC site was aglow in that early morning hour. As I sat there in the rubble, the harsh reality setting in for me was that probably nobody was ever going to see this massive collection of images that I had amassed over months of documenting. If I thought otherwise, I was fooling myself. I was forbidden from releasing the images for the time being based on an agreement I had with rudy sanfilippo of the firefighter’s union and furthermore, I was going broke since nobody was funding me. On no less than three separate occasions in 2002, I had arrived home after working long days at Ground Zero only to find that Con Ed had shut off my electricity due to non-payment. I was going broke and had nothing to show for it. On an ironic note, it was actually warmer outside than it was in my dark, lifeless studio.

Early mornings at Ground Zero usually consisted of a skeleton crew,  comprised mostly of firefighters digging personally for family members or their missing firehouse members. After finishing their regular FDNY shifts, they’d come down to the site to spend the rest of the night and early morning intricately digging with small garden rakes. It was on that Spring morning that I decided I was the dumbest guy in the world. I decided this was a wasted effort; shooting and stockpiling images and for what? Nobody would ever see them. Were it not for a few men digging near me, I would have cried right there but that was not an option, so my Adam’s apple just sat like a baseball in my throat. My passion was to document this period in history and while honored to be the only one in the world with full, 24/7 access to every area of Ground Zero, truth is that this ‘special’ position and a dollar would maybe get me a cup of coffee. Nobody knew there was an official photographer at ground zero (I was told to keep it a secret) and nobody really cared what I was doing, or so I thought at the time. The Recovery would be ending soon and then what would become of this collection? I had followed my passion, which is a common curse of all artists, depending on how you look at it.  Sometimes that passion rewards you with others recognizing and acknowledging your art and other times it doesn’t. Being an artist is playing the game of roulette. You follow your vision and passion with money being a non-issue. You may be rewarded with the chance of others seeing and appreciating your work; you may even touch them emotionally and make a difference in their lives. I was convinced at the time that all these images would wind up in a file cabinet and that I had wasted many months of my life while draining my savings account of twenty thousand dollars. Sitting there, I also realized I was on the brink of exhaustion and with that always came my deep philosophical and self-analytical moments. I needed some warm food and rest over at my safe haven, St. Paul’s Chapel, which served as the relief center for Ground Zero Recovery workers. I stood up, turned around and saw before me an image I will never forget: a firefighter kneeling in the dirt with a shovel in his hands. The sun behind me was casting the most beautiful light upon him and he was all by himself on this mound of dirt, digging for his brothers. I froze for a second and mumbled something of a “Whoa.” I unhinged the clips on my camera bag nervously with my right hand and let the bag fall to my feet with only the camera in my hands. My other lenses rolled into the dirt but I didn’t care. As I raised my camera up to shoot this man digging for the missing, he paused for a moment in rest. When the camera frame clicked, I knew instantly what I had captured. I didn’t need to wait until the film came back (yes, we used real film back in 2001) – I just knew what I had.

As I walked out of the site that morning, I could not wait to get some warm food and then collapse in the pews of St. Paul’s. People had donated hundreds of stuffed animals and Teddy Bears to the Church and they actually made the best pillows while sleeping on the hard, wooden pews. A friend of mine once shot an image of me sleeping in a pew and I actually looked quite cozy. As I exited the hole at Ground Zero, I made my way up to the Chapel and began to see the throngs of visitors who had lined up around the block extra early just to have a chance to stand on the newly built viewing platform. The platform gave people the bird’s eye opportunity to look down into the “hole” and see the workers digging, along with the wereckage. Many men I knew didn’t like this and commented, “What? Is this friggin’ Disney World?” I saw their point, however, I understood why people wanted to look; they truly cared and wanted to understand what was going on. Most could still not believe that such a heinous crime could have been committed and needed confirmation that it was all “real.” Wanting to ‘connect’ for them was imperative for their healing process, if not always appreciated by the Recovery workers. The firefighters I knew felt it was “their tragedy” but in truth it was a world tragedy, affecting everyone. I walked past the long line of visitors but didn’t look them in the eye; I felt safer staying introverted, my head down. I didn’t wish to talk to anyone nor have them say, “Good job” or “We appreciate you.” While they meant well, this tragic event was for me not a platform for adulation or compliments. I felt adulation should be reserved for the poor souls who suffered dearly on that fateful morning, many of whom never had the chance to say goodbye to their families. I had almost made it to the black, wrought iron gates of St. Paul’s when something “got me.” I walked by a beautiful little girl, maybe four years old, standing with her parents from Ohio in the line. She was wearing a beautiful, white Sunday dress; her skin and complexion was that of an angel. Her little eyes caught mine and in that second, she got to me. I didn’t realize until years later what it was that ‘got me’ but I walked a few more steps and stopped just short of the gates. I did not turn around, but instead stuck my hand into my overall pocket and removed the mud-caked chunk of WTC window glass. Turning around, I stared at her for a second, then walked over. Her parents somehow knew I was there to talk to their daughter and kneeling down on my knee, I asked her name. “Hannah” she replied, looking back at her parents for permission to talk to the mud-covered stranger. Her parents nodded in acknowledgment to her that it was okay to speak to me. I asked her if she understood what happened here at Ground Zero. She looked at me with those innocent eyes and told me that some bad people had made the buildings fall down. Now, I was in trouble as my throat began to swell with emotion; Perhaps earlier, I should have kept walking into the Church, but now it was too late. I said, “Yes, that is what happened here but there are also a lot of good people working here so promise you won’t focus on those bad people.” Looking up, I told her parents I wanted to give her something and asked if they had a Kleenex, which I placed over her palm. I placed the piece of glass in her hand and explained the importance of what I was giving her. At the age of four, I don’t think she comprehended the importance of what I was giving her, but a sweet grin from her parents signaled that one day they’d explain it to her. Giving away a rare artifact was not the norm for me; However, I knew that piece of glass would serve a higher purpose for the time being for her and her family. I stood up and walked into the Church, finding my way to the bathroom and let a trough of tears go; my arm bracing me against the wall, which was covered ironically in children’s ‘thank you’ letters. I later realized that for me, she represented the exact opposite of what I was seeing at Ground Zero every day. Perhaps I walked up to her for my own selfish needs just as equally as to do something nice for her. What I was viewing every day at WTC was the end result of all the evil that man can do. In comparison, what was seen on TV by the masses was the sugar coated version as opposed to the uncut version I was viewing eighty feet down. Ground Zero was 100 feet deep and each level of dirt contained human remains in every size, shape and manner you could fathom. Tens of thousands of individual remains were uncovered over nine months, most of them unidentiafiable as a result of the valuable DNA having been burned off them from the intense heat.

Hannah, for me, represented all that was still good, pure and innocent in the world. She was a breath of fresh air, a looking glass into the past, when we as a nation were innocent and lived without terror alerts and TSA agents, who now make us take our shoes off at the airport. We didn’t realize how good we had it until this tragedy struck. I was completely non-religious during that period since my faith had been challenged. How could there be a God? Would God allow such a horrific crime to be committed against innocent people? I was hateful and I didn’t care what anyone thought of my views on the world. I saw a dark side of myself that I never knew existed. Seeing up close the result of evil can change a man. The very act of walking up to innocent Hannah and seeing her in that angelic, Sunday dress, was my first attempt to consider the scant possibility that maybe there still was good in the world and maybe even a God. Looking back, I often think that she stopped me from continuing on down a very dark path. The day prior to this we had some unique ‘finds’ at WTC. The remains of a flight attendant from American Airlines flight 11 had been found by accident at the base of the Deutsche Bank building, some 300 yards away from where the South Tower once stood, fifteen feet down and below large chunks of debris. Her AA wings and name were still attached to what was left of her uniform and one worker inappropriately suggested I take a photo. It was at that moment I realized I was perhaps the right person for this position because never in a million years could I even think of taking such an image. I don’t think he meant bad by the suggestion, but he clearly didn’t understand the sanctity of the dead. The image of ‘the photographer’ has been hurt in recent years by those looking to exploit certain situations with their camera and I was not about to add to that. Standing there, looking down, I thought about her family and where they were at that moment, wondering if us recovery workers were going to ever find her remains. They probably jumped off their couch every time their telephone would ring. It is moments like these that are etched in my mind which help me to appreciate the beauty of life; after all, we only get one. Hers had come to an abrupt end on that sunny, September morning and all she was guilty of doing was going to work. She donned her flight attendant’s uniform at five that morning, took the shuttle to the Boston airport, had her breakfast in the employee lounge and probably noticed through the boarding gate window what an incredibly beautiful day it was going to be. She committed no crime against anyone. I have often felt that the flight attendants and pilots who got back on airplanes September 12 are heroes in their own right. They had to take a gulp and say to the world, “We are going right back into the sky and living our lives, despite what happened yesterday.” I have great respect for them, as they were the first true representation in terms of showing the world that we needed to dust ourselves off and get back in the saddle. Each 24 hours at WTC brought another scenario. Later that same day, we made a rare find of a female civilian who had been entombed inside two, massive, steel beams that had been somehow pushed perfectly together in the collapse. It was rare to find whole victims during the recovery, but this was indeed an even bigger oddity. She had been perfectly preserved, as no air had been able to reach her body inside the beams. It was as if 9/11 had happened just a few minutes prior. Although my time during the Recovery was mostly religion-free, I did stand in from time to time during the Sunday prayer service inside the site. It was something out of the old west, with the Chaplain’s pulpit made of two by fours nailed together and everyone crowding around, just a few meters from the lip of the giant hole. I would often glance around me as the Chaplin read and noticed the stoic, hardened faces. I often wondered how doctors just stand there with those blank faces when they deliver bad news to their patients – now I knew. You just switch off the emotion valve in order to get through the work. At WTC, I was one of many who had to shut the “valve” off. It was not until much later that I would be forced to deal with those unforgiving emotions as they slowly devoured me.

Opening the Ground Zero Museum Workshop in New York City, although done as a gift for others, was also therapeutic for me. I was able to create a place to share many of the special images, stories & artifacts from the Recovery at Ground Zero.  Recording all the stories into audio guides brought me some comfort to know they were permanent if God forbid, anything ever happened to me. I didn’t know what I was doing when I conceived the idea for the museum; all I knew was I needed to build it since nothing was happening at Ground Zero. Seeing Anne Frank House in Holland taught me that a museum can be tiny in terms of size but still have great substance. With that, I converted a commercial loft into NYC’s smallest museum. Now, visitors from all over the world can go home with these stories as well as a greater empathy for the event and its victims as a whole. It is now eight years later and still there is an emotional void at Ground Zero, not to mention the downtown skyline is empty. Politicians bicker, real estate developers debate what design works best and families each have a different idea of what the memorial should look like. In the end, nothing gets built and the frustration mounts. Tourists visit the site and ask, “Why is there nothing here?” After all, this is New York City, the greatest city in the world, so shouldn’t things be rebuilt already? The WTC site has always been and will always be sacred ground to those that had the honor to work those nine months, known as the “Recovery.” Most of us do not go there, as it is too painful. If we didn’t lose anyone personally, we had to watch those who did toil in the dirt and rebar wire with a shovel, looking for some remains of their son or father. Many of them went home empty-handed. I don’t frequent my Museum that often anymore, for the obvious reasons. If I do go, it is to meet and speak with the guests as it makes me feel good to know that people still care about those who died on 9/11. It is inspiring to me. Sometimes, I will even go there late at night when it is empty and listen to some of the stories on the audio tour. It is peaceful then just as it was in those early morning hours I spent at Ground Zero in 2002. In the long run, good does outweigh evil, despite evil always stealing the spotlight in the beginning.

I was recently asked by a little, blond-haired boy at my Museum, “Mister, what is the greatest image you ever took in all your time at Ground Zero?” Certainly, each image is important to me in it’s own way. The charred, Genesis 11: Tower of Babylon Bible page is special, the ‘frozen clock’ stands out as does the honor guard images. After looking down at him, I responded in a way I had never done before. I looked down into those innocent eyes and said, “Well, I don’t know if I can tell you what the greatest photo is that I ever took. However, let me tell you about the greatest photo I never took.” I began to explain to him about a warm, Spring afternoon at Ground Zero, 2002. All the fallen members of a particular FDNY firehouse were turning up in the rubble and there was a flurry of activity and emotion at WTC. One by one, each member was being uncovered, until just two were left missing. Behind the scenes, wives, mothers and family members of the firefighters were calling each other to share in the news of this discovery. Unexpectedly, the wife of one of the missing firemen showed up at Ground Zero, creating an awkward situation, since families were not allowed in, at least according to the rules. She was comforted and taken to the Engine Ten – Ladder Ten firehouse at the lip of WTC, which served as the FDNY command center. Soon after, her missing husband was found, leaving just one young firefighter missing in the rubble, who also happened to be the son of her close friend. As news came up from the “hole” that his body had finally been found, she informed her friend via cellphone that her son was recovered, leading her friend to ask her, “Will you please stand in the Honor Guard for me since I can’t be there.” This was a no-no at Ground Zero. Family members were not allowed to stand on the exit ramp and salute for the Honor Guard processions. However, she begged the firefighters who gave in upon seeing her face drenched in tears. They dressed her in Fire Department recovery gear and walked her over to the top of the ramp, not far from the awaiting ambulance that would take the firefighter out of Ground Zero and to the morgue. I knew in one second that I was moments away from shooting a very unique and special image. The firefighters, cops and assorted workers lined up on either side of the long ramp that lead out of WTC as the Chaplain began to read prayer into the Motorola receiver over the flag-draped body of her friend’s son. As the firehouse members made their way up the bridge with the body toward her, she stood there, struggling to salute. Her rubber firemen’s boots engulfed her tiny legs up to the knees — the gigantic FDNY turnout coat dwarfed her frame, her hands barely poking out of the end of the sleeves — an old, black fire helmet, two sizes too big, sat crooked atop her head, the plastic visor tilted down into her face. I lifted my heavy camera up to my eye and prepared for what would be a momentous image, watching thru the viewfinder as her salutary elbow shook vertically in fright while she stared forward, peeking right every so often to see if the men were nearing her. Her knees wobbled; a steady stream of tears ran down her Irish face as I prepared to shoot. Suddenly, a lump the size of Mt. Rushmore began to form inside my throat. Yes, the worst possible thing began to happen; I started to care. Shutting down my emotions had been the only thing keeping me alive at WTC and sure enough, my conscience started to bark. I stared at this woman through the viewfinder for what seemed like an eternity, in denial that perhaps I just couldn’t do this. The fact remained that I was unable to push the trigger, because I realized that this was her moment, not the worlds — not mine. The sound of firefighter’s boots dragging across the wet, stone-filled ramp filled the air as the body passed by her – and me. she stood bravely in place for her best friend; yes, a piece of history was not recorded. I have my moments where I regret not shooting it but when I go to sleep at night, I feel good about the choice. I don’t know if there is a ‘moral’ to this story, but perhaps maybe that “Art” is not always something that is recorded or produced for others to see. An artist can accomplish something special without the recognition of the public. As artists, we like to create and touch others emotionally. In some way, I did create something special — for her; I made it her moment and even though it is not on film, I am now able to recreate the moment for anyone reading this article. Some things are better left up to the imagination anyway. I think art is also about personal growth and for me, that moment on the exit ramp taught me it isn’t always about me. Learning to not be selfish can take time.

In 2007, I received an email alert on my blackberry while I was walking at night in a snowstorm on the west side highway bike path. It was from a girl named Hannah. She explained how when she was a little girl, she was waiting in line with her parents for the viewing platform at Ground Zero and I gave her the piece of glass. She went on to explain that she now understood what happened on that “tragic day in time” and the importance of that “special gift” and she keeps it in her jewelry box in her room and won’t let anyone touch it. She wrote, “It means a lot more to me now and I will never forget how giving you were and I will never forget what happened on 9-11-01.”

I don’t think I ever burst out crying so hard in my life, much less in the snow out on the bike path. Anyone looking at me must have thought I was having a nervous breakdown. Yes, I had helped her in some way and she appreciated it. I made a difference in this girl’s life. However, her act of acknowledging me in that email came at a time when I really needed it; Little Hannah helped me, yet again.

It never fails: What goes around always comes around…

Never forget 9-11.

GARY MARLON SUSON