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After the World Trade Center
 After the
AA/orld Trade Center
RETHINKING NEW YORK CITY

MICHAEL SORKIN and SHARON ZUKIN EDITORS

Routledge
Taylor & Francis Group
New York London
Permission to reprint images on pages 92 & 133 is gratefully acknowledged.

Berenice Abbott. Radio Row, Cortland Street between Washington and Greenwich
Streets, April 18, 1936. Reprinted by Permission of the Museum of the City of New
York, Federal Arts Projects

Berenice Abbott. Lebanon Restaurant, 88 Washington Street between Rector and

Mor~is Streets, August 12, 1936. Reprinted by permission of the Museum of the City
of New York, Federal Arts Project

The following excerpt was previously published. Permission to reprint granted by Basic
Books, a division of Perseus Books Group.

s
Darton, Eric. Excerpt from Divided ~ Stand: A Biography ofNew York World Trade
Center. Copyright © Basic Books 1999, pp. 118-19.

First published in
2002 by Routledge
29 West 35 th Street
New York, NY 10001

This edition published 2012 by Routledge

Routledge Routledge
Taylor & Francis Group Taylor & Francis Group
711 Third Avenue 2 Park Square, Milton Park
New York, NY 10017 Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN

Copyright © 2002 Michael Sorkin and Sharon Zukin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be printed or utilized in any form or by any
electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafrer invented, including
photocopying and recording, or any other information storage or retrieval system, with-
out permission in writing from the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-In-Publication Data is available from the Library of Congress.

Sorkin, Michael and Sharon Zukin

After the world trade center: rethinking New York City
ISBN: 0-415-93479-6 (hardback)
 CONTENTS

I MICHAEL SORKIN AND SHARON ZUKIN

Introduction vii

1 | MARSHALL BERMAN

When Bad Buildings Happen to Good People 1

2 | SHARON ZUKIN

Our World Trade Center 13

3 | EDWIN G. BURROWS

Manhattan at War 23

4 | JOHN KUO WEI TCHEN

Whose Downtown?!? 33

5 | BEVERLY GAGE

The First Wall Street Bomb 45

6 | DAVID HARVEY

Cracks in the Edifice of the Empire State 57

7 | MARK WIGLEY

Insecurity by Design 69

8 | ERIC DARTON

The Janus Face of Architectural Terrorism:

Minoru Yamasaki, Mohammed Atta,
and Our World Trade Center 87

9 | NEIL SMITH

Scales of Terror:
The Manufacturing of Nationalism
and the War for U.S. Globalism 97

10 | M. CHRISTINE B0YER

Meditations on a Wounded Skyline

and Its Stratigraphies of Pain 109
Vi AFTER THE WORLD TRADE CENTER

11 | ANDREW ROSS

The Odor of Publicity 121

12 | M0USTAFA BAYOUMI

Letter to a G-Man 131

13 | ARTURO IGNACIO SÁNCHEZ

From Jackson Heights to Nuestra America:

9/11 and Latino New York 143

14 | PETER MARCUSE

What Kind of Planning After September 11?

The Market, the Stakeholders, Consensus-or . . . ? 153

15 | SETHA M. LOW

Spaces of Reflection, Recovery, and Resistance:

Reimagining the Postindustrial Plaza 163

16 | ROBERT PAASWELL

A Time for Transportation Strategy 173

17 | KELLER EASTERLING

Enduring Innocence 189

18 | MICHAEL S0RKIN

The Center Cannot Hold 197

19 | MIKE WALLACE

New York, New Deal 209

ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS 225

INDEX 231
 MICHAEL SORKIN and SHARON ZUKIN

Introduction

THEIR ABSENCE IS INDELIBLE: the Twin Towers were land-

marks, buildings you could not lose sight of no matter where
you were. They told you which way to face when you wanted
to walk downtown, were your first view of the city when dri-
ving in from New Jersey, and anchored the skyline when you
were flying out of JFK. As you rode the D train over the East
River into Manhattan after dark, they were fluorescent chess-
boards against the black night sky. Sometimes sinister, some-
times beautiful, sometimes just banal, they were icons of New
York City—the best-known buildings in the world, the Ever-
est of our urban Himalayas.
When we saw the smoke and flames streaming from the
towers in the hour before they fell, none of us imagined the
collapse to come. And no matter how often we saw the media
replays, it remained hard to believe these buildings were mor-
tal, let alone the instrument of the death of thousands. How-
ever numbed we were by the compulsive repetition, we still
couldn't get enough of it, couldnt stop staring at the plume of
smoke that marked the void for weeks.
Suddenly, New York's gorgeous mosaic was tiled in tomb-
stones by this equal-opportunity mass murder. The third-gen-
eration Irish, Italian, and Jewish stockbrokers, the women
who had worked their way up to executive assistants and vice
presidents, the Indian and Pakistani computer experts, the
Caribbean security guards, and the Mexican cooks: of 50,000
who worked in the World Trade Center, nearly 3,000 died
there. And they remain incredibly present—in moving daily
vii AFTER THE WORLD TRADE CENTER

obituaries in the New York Times, in the missing posters that still cover so
many walls, in the lists of the fallen outside our firehouses.
Forced into a citizenship of common loss, the city banded together
soberly, spontaneously, generously, and with moving and unaccustomed
civility. We lit candles in our doorways at dusk. We gathered in Union
Square, turning it into a shrine and memorial, layered with photos, hand-
written messages, schoolchildren's drawings, expressions of sympathy and
sorrow from flight attendants who had been spared by the luck of the
draw. New York was ready for its close-up in those early days, and the rest
of the country responded movingly. One night, a girl called one of us
from a small town in Oregon. "Just dialed your number because I wanted
to tell someone in New York how sorry we are."
But the mist of emotion also concealed both the dimensions of the
loss and the gradual worsening of old problems. It is estimated that
95,000 jobs were lost as the result of the tragedy, but we had also lost
75,000 jobs in the previous year. City finances are teetering at the brink
of fiscal meltdown, and the mayor has prepared us for a new round of
cutbacks that we can ill afford. Our picture of the city as a place of toler-
ance and freedom, where poor people can get an education and rise in the
world, is more and more at risk.
New York, the country, and the world are in the midst of an economic
recession. A Republican president who got little support from New York
City voters is fighting a new kind of war, and hands are daily wrung
about the difficulty of extracting promised aid from Washington. A Re-
publican governor who is mounting a reelection campaign has set up his
own pipelines to Wall Street and is counting on the imminent adoption
of a rebuilding plan with his name on it. And a new Republican mayor,
whose career has been made exclusively in the financial community, must
cope with radically diminished resources and raised expectations. All this
occurs amid a heightened sense of global risk. We already have new
deputy police commissioners in charge of intelligence and counterterror-
ism, drafted from the CIA.
What, then, should we rebuild? Should the site be left as a memorial
as many—including numerous survivors of the victims—urge? Okla-
homa City and Berlin have been wracked by prolonged conflicts over the
Introduction iX

shape and meaning of such memorials. Do we want a garrison city, barri-

caded against future attacks? Lower Manhattan hasn't been one since the
threat of a British invasion subsided in the early nineteenth century. Do
we want another downtown corporate financial center? Wall Street has
been propped up by public subsidies and urban renewal plans for years,
including, most recently, a huge—if suddenly shaky—tax giveaway to the
New York Stock Exchange to build a new headquarters across the street
from its old one. The office market itself has dramatically softened, sug-
gesting that new space downtown is unlikely to be produced by simple
supply and demand.
Since the fifties, companies in Lower Manhattan have been moving
their headquarters to cheaper, greener pastures in the suburbs and setting
up back offices far away, from Brooklyn to Bangalore. The computer rev-
olution of the eighties, with its opportunities for radical decentralization,
accelerated the trend. And with the advent of electronic trading in the
nineties, all financial markets have had the potential to "dematerialize,"
leaving Lower Manhattan as the historic cradle of New York and a cul-
tural center but eviscerating its old logics of concentration. Clearly, new
styles of density must be introduced, new kinds of mix. Most important,
new voices must be heard.
Unfortunately, the public agency that holds the power to make deci-
sions about the site, the Lower Manhattan Development Corporation
(LMDC), is cast in the old Port Authority mold. A committee of the
powerful with only one representative from the local residential commu-
nity, its chaired by a Republican deal-maker and former director of Gold-
man Sachs (itself about to move its entire equity trading department to a
new billion-dollar complex in New Jersey). This Robert Moses-style au-
thority has been given huge powers of legal circumvention and freedom
from democratic oversight. On the bright side, this reversion to cronyism
and the rule of money has been oflfset by the formation of numerous new
civic associations bent on studying the rebuilding issue and producing
schemes for renewal. None, however, has any real authority Though the
LMDC declared an initial "listening" period, it has held no public meet-
ings. What it actually hears remains to be seen.
Anyone who is seriously listening, however, will hear a loud cacoph-
X AFTER THE WORLD TRADE CENTER

ony. Every issue past our initial grief has aroused conflict. Control over
the World Trade Center site by firefighters or the police, the lack of insur-
ance companies willing to pay for injuries sustained in clearing the site,
and the inability or unwillingness to protect both workers and residents
from environmental damage provoked the earliest expressions of conflict.
Then there is the thorny issue of the memorial. How much of the W T C
site will be dedicated to "unproductive" use? What will be the final de-
sign? Who are the "stakeholders," officeholders, and financial authorities
with the power to decide?
Not unexpectedly, there has been a rapid and unseemly return to busi-
ness as usual by many. Encouraged by the media, architects and planners
trotted after the ambulance, ready to try to get the biggest job of their ca-
reers, joined by politicians and developers eager to thump their chests and
proclaim the importance of rebuilding immediately. Everywhere the bro-
mide is retailed that to rebuild something bigger, taller, and better than
ever is the only way to respond to the terrorists. Few seem to suggest that
our "victory" can lie only in a consequence that is positive for all of us,
not in reflexive machismo.
More recently, we have seen ugly conflicts over political correctness
and moral worth. A memorial statue of the three firefighters who, Iwo
Jima-like, raised the American flag at the smoldering site, was redesigned
to honor the city's ethnic diversity, even though these firefighters were all
white, like most of the Fire Department. The quick unveiling of a federal
government program for compensating victims' families with emergency
funds also became grotesque. Though government officials tried to
achieve a rough sense of equity by reducing the amount of compensation
to reflect payments from other sources—a schema that reduced payments
to more affluent families—those affected complained bitterly. We were
then caught up in the spectacle of public calculations of actuarial worth,
in which the potential earning power of stockbrokers from New Jersey
was weighed against that of restaurant workers from Queens, reducing
the victims to accounting abstractions.
We cannot reclaim the World Trade Center site without respectfully
addressing its many ghosts. Although world trade in one form or another
has always shaped this part of the city, the purveyors of its merchandise
Introduction xi

and the public spaces of its markets and entrepots have changed dramati-
cally over the years. The earlier ghosts of this place are also victims of
transformations that, if they have not always been cataclysmic, have often
been violent. From the 1920 bombing of the Morgan Bank to the dis-
placement of the largely Arab community that once thrived on the Lower
West Side, to the destruction of an intimate architectural texture by
megascale construction, this part of the city has been contested space.
Though the destruction of the Twin Towers has reformulated the terms of
conflict for the foreseeable present, it does not change this history.
The World Trade Center was the eye of a needle through which global
capital flowed, the seat of an empire. However anonymous they appeared,
the Twin Towers were never benign, never just architecture. Recovering
this site for the living city is, therefore, inescapably political. Political, to
be sure, because New York now takes a place in the long line of cities that
have been damaged or nearly destroyed by terrorist and military attacks
stretching, through the recent past, from Hiroshima and Berlin to Sara-
jevo and Kabul. Political because of Wall Street's role as an epicenter of
world capitalism. Political because of Manhattan's site at the nexus of fi-
nance and real estate development—the city's most important industry.
Political because of the power-brokering that will determine Downtown's
future development. Political because of the growing clash between hal-
lowed ground and buildable space.
Our intention, as a group of urbanists who live and work in New York
City, is to use September 11, 2001, as an opportunity to speculate
broadly about the future of the city we all love. The shadow of the towers
demands that we both reconsider the past and think hard about the fu-
ture. This book seeks to make a collective statement of purpose and of
hope. We want to speak up for the task of history, the responsibility of ar-
chitecture, and the needs of the living city, the whole city. We do not
want our critical faculties to be subverted by our sorrow; we do not want
the rebuilding of what was to take the place of building what should be.
Above all, we want to open a discussion wider than we have seen so
far. We freely admit we do not know what lies ahead. By filling these
pages with questions, however, we widen the door through which unex-
pected answers might come.
 1 I MARSHALL BERMAN

When Bad Buildings Happen to Good People1

The weight of this sad time we must obey;

Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
—Edgar, at very end of King Lear

1 LIVE AND WORK at the other end of town. The radio told me
to turn on TV fast; I was just in time to see the second plane
crash, and then the implosions. My first thought was "Oh my
God, it's like my book!" I meant All That Is Solid Melts into
Air, a book I wrote in the eighties about what it means to be
modern.2 Now All That Is Solid is a good book, and it's full of
wrecks and ruins and early deaths. A moment later, I thought:
What's wrong with me? Parts of buildings and parts of bodies
areflyingthrough the air (if you had TV on, there was no way
not to see), and I put my ideas and me in the foreground? But
soon after that, on the screen and then in the street, I heard
people talk, and I saw they were doing just what I'd done:
making enormous mythical constructions that would make
the whole horrific event revolve around them. We were like
needy sculptors rushing to produce instant replacements for
the giant stabiles that had stood on World Trade Plaza. We
threw up anything we could hide behind, to hide our panic,
1
The earliest version of this piece was written for Lingua Franca, won-
derful magazine, late victim of the blast.
2
All That Is Solid Melts into Air: The Experience ofModernity (Penguin,
1988).
2 AFTER THE WORLD TRADE CENTER

our helplessness, and our instant, boundless sense of guilt. Shrinks call
this "survivor guilt." Whatever else lies ahead for us, we can be sure
there'll be plenty of this.
When we mourn a loved one or a leader, we often feel we are going
back to something very, very old. September 11, 2001, was something
else. Its instantaneousness and enormity made it new: this year s model in
death. All of a sudden, "many thousands gone" was no cliché. We who
didn't lose loved ones at the W T C had to ask: Where do we start to
mourn? There was no shortage of places to start. There were all the devas-
tated families and survivors; the thousands of people who lost their jobs in
an instant on the 11th; the thousands more whose jobs kept vanishing all
through the fall. Many of those who lost jobs were kitchen, delivery, and
janitorial workers who served the W T C s thousands of offices. The media
did well in getting us close to these people. The Family Assistance Center
at Pier 94 seems to have done well in securing social services for them. But
many were illegal immigrants, terrified to ask anyone for anything. All
through the fall, when we saw more and more ragged, distraught-looking
men in the subway and on the street, looking like they didn't know where
they were going, we could be pretty sure it wasn't our imagination.

Firehouse, East 13th Street, September 2001. Photo by Richard Rosen.

When Bad Buildings Happen to Good People 3

Or we could start our mourning at the firehouse. All over town, it was
the fire companies that took the worst hits. Live or on TV, we could see
them rush into the bombed buildings to save people like us, and often not
come out again. New York's firehouses are situated directly on crowded
streets, legacies of our nineteenth-century "walking city." We pass them all
the time and walk on by. Thanks to school field trips, our kids know the
men and their gorgeous engines better than we do. But this fall we
couldn't pass by the photos of the dead: the handsome young guys, the
chiefs who looked like (and often were) their fathers and grandfathers.
And we couldn't pass by the survivors, who looked just like the guys in the
pictures, and who hung around outside, staring shakily into the middle
distance, as if waiting for their friends to come back. One day I passed a
company where no one was killed. I said I was so glad they had all sur-
vived, and a fireman with moist eyes said, "We shouldn't have." It seems
that when Building No. 1 collapsed, they pulled everyone out of Building
No. 2. But if their company had got downtown a minute earlier, they'd
have been sent into No. 1 and died there with their friends. Is there balm
in Gilead for their pain and guilt? They put their lives on the line, and
their friends went over the line, in the name of public service. Many New
Yorkers had to ask: Are we as a public worth this service? Can we even
imagine being one? Sometimes I could, then the idea slipped away. I
thought that if we could imagine it, maybe then we could touch their
hands and look into their eyes, and help them heal their wounds.
There has probably been more talk about the Fire Department in the
last six months than at any time since its formation 150 years ago. The
media overflowed with stories of their courage and heartbreak. There was
a widespread sense of civilian guilt—that we had taken them for granted.
I certainly plead guilty. A fireman student gave me an FDNY T-shirt
twenty years ago, but somehow I never wore it. What bottomless drawer
is it at the bottom of today? If it turns up, will I dare to put it on?
A persistent question on many people's minds has been: What can we
do for them? One recurrent answer has been direct, immediate offers of
sexual healing—even from very respectable women who might have been
firemen's sisters. I remember seeing on a local news broadcast a fireman
who said he'd been hugged and kissed more times since September 11
4 AFTER THE WORLD TRADE CENTER

than in his whole life. But the trouble has been that posttraumatic stress
didn't appear to be any easier to heal at Ground Zero than it was thirty
years ago at Vietnam's China Beach. The New York Times had a rueful
piece in early December about Nino's restaurant and its throng of women
volunteers: "To Serve and Flirt Near Ground Zero" by Victoria Balfour.
So many of the encounters ended in mutual sadness. (But it's said that
many women left their cards.)
There is another, collective form of healing that needs to be done at the
FDNY. Through the years, the department's one big problem was that the
deep bonds of family and networks of friendship that made it so humanly
strong also made it impermeable, resistant to any initiative for civil rights.
But so many were lost on the 11th, and the fire companies must be rebuilt
fast. This will probably not be possible without including large numbers of
blacks and women, who were excluded for so long. Their presence in the
department can make it humanly strong in an entirely new way.
For weeks, and in some neighborhoods for months, the sense of loss
has thickened the city air, merging, like the murky smells that drifted up-
town, with incense from the candles on the streets, making it suddenly
hard to breathe. The smell went away; then it came back. "Does it hurt?"
"Only when I breathe."
For my wife and me, miles from the wreck, unable to get downtown
till the first week's end, the most striking thing we saw all over was the
signs. There was something special about these signs. At first they resem-
bled the missing person signs you can see in every American city, with
photo portraits and descriptive texts. We know that every year thousands
of Americans walk out of their lives. But most do it on purpose—as sug-
gested in the idiom "gone missing"—and most will eventually come
back. If those signs scare us, our fear is that this man or woman or boy or
girl has got so far out, all alone, that he or she won't be able to come back.
But the new signs broke our hearts in a different way. For them, we only
wished we could be afraid. We knew all too well these folks didn't "go"
missing; we also knew they wouldn't be coming back. Working for the big
companies in the W T C , or for the police or fire department, they were
integrated into collective life. Mounted together on a hundred walls,
these men and women had a stronger collective identity after death than
When Bad Buildings Happen to Good People 5

they ever had in life. And they created a collective identity for us, one we
didnt want but couldn't shed: survivors, the survivors of mainland Amer-
ica'sfirstgreat air raid. But the signs on the streets also gave off a surprising
individuality. As we walked around through the West Village, near the
river, we noticed the names of several people repeated on signs that had
been mounted by different signers, containing different portraits, different
texts (sometimes endearments), and different numbers to call; it gave us an
intimation of the complexities and ironies of their real lives.3 The signs
were windows; they helped us see some people just a little—sometimes
more than the signers intended. We couldn't bring them back to life, but
at least we could get to know them as more than numbers of the dead.
All through the fall, people kept coming back to these signs. What was
so poignant about them? The signs dramatized one of the central themes
of modern democratic culture: life stories. Life stories were a crucial force
in the culture of the New Deal and the Popular Front, a culture that in-
sisted that every ordinary person's life had meaning and power. Think of
Joan Blondell singing "The Forgotten Man," or James Agee and Walker
Evans's Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, or all the giant all-inclusive 1930s
murals of ordinary people living their lives. But the ontology of the Popu-
lar Front was unfolded just after World War I, with the publication of
James Joyce's novel Ulysses. Plenty of us cheered in 2000 when the New
York Public Library judged Ulysses the greatest book of the twentieth cen-
tury—so great, the library said, because it goes so deep into the life of a
deeply ordinary man and his wife, and shows us how heroically extraordi-
nary their ordinary life can be. Joyce's fascist ex-friend, the poet and
painter Wyndham Lewis, condemned Ulysses as a sin against the spirit of
the avant-garde; he mocked the book for its "Plainmanism."
The signs we saw downtown—with names like Ciccone, Lim, Mur-
phy, Rasweiler, Singh, Morgan, Barbosa, Sofi, Vasquez, Pascual, Gam-
bale, Draginsky, Bennett, Gjonbalaj, Vale, Alger, Holmes, and so many
more—were triumphs of Plainmanism. The firemen rushing up the stairs
were plain men very like the office workers rushing down. Together they
3
On the inwardness and "narrative drive" of the creators of these signs, see Vivian
Gornick's beautiful piece, "Why the Posters Haunt Us Still," New York Times, September
23,2001.
6 AFTER THE WORLD TRADE CENTER

give us some sense of the depth of being out there, in people we pass by
on the street or rub up against in the subway every day. The diversity and
contrasts of the names highlight Americas most attractive quality, its
"transnational," global inclusiveness, its openness to what Sly Stone called
"everyday people" from everywhere. Some papers and television programs
carried it on, broadcasting short lives.
The talk wasn't all Joycean in subtlety and depth. There was a ten-
dency not to speak ill of the dead, and an inertia that bore us toward a
"Lives of the Saints." I thought I would throw up if I had to hear about
one more Little League coach. (Didn't they know how many of those par-
ent coaches are pure poison?) Some informants offered details that made
the dead real: this one hated his job, and had sued his company; that one
was a lousy husband, and used malfunctions at the W T C as alibis—but
still she'd take him back any day alive; another, a security guard, had car-
ried on simultaneous affairs on floors 28 and 45—all dead; still another
was a loan shark to five whole floors; so it went. Ironically, the more we
heard embarrassing details, the more the victims came to life, and the
more we missed them. In the dread light of those fires, all life seemed so
sweet. I hope the great pain doesn't make us numb, and the empathy
lasts; I hope it gets extended to those who have made the signs, the sur-
vivors, people who are here trying to live now.
It's a lot harder to feel empathy for those buildings. The earliest epi-
taphs for the towers were of the don't-speak-ill-of-the-dead variety. The
Discovery Channel did a show on the buildings, hosted by John Hocken-
berry, an NPR commentator I used to admire. "Everything that is best in
America," he said, "was embodied in these buildings." I felt America's en-
emies could say nothing more insulting about us than this compliment.
By now, if we "speak what we feel, not what we ought to say," we should
be able to face the fact that they were the most hated buildings in town.
They were brutal and overbearing, designed on the scale of monuments
to some modern Ozymandias. They were expressions of an urbanism that
disdained the city and its people. 4 They loomed over Downtown and
4
This story is told brilliantly in Eric Dartons critical history, Divided We Stand: A Bi-
ography ofNew York's World Trade Center (Basic Books, 1999).
When Bad Buildings Happen to Good People 7

blotted out the sky. (I admit, for the few with a view, they were glorious
at sunrise and sunset, for about a minute apiece.)
The Twin Towers were purposely isolated from the downtown street
system, and designed to fit Le Corbusier's dictum " We must kill the street"
Compare them to the Empire State and Chrysler buildings, located on
main streets in the middle of city life. They evoked Corbusiers Platonic
ideal of a modern building, "the Tower in the Park," only guess what?
There was no park. The WTC was bedecked with noble language about
global unity, but its real life, and the changes it went through, belonged to
the swampy history of Manhattan real estate deals. It had plenty of "public
spaces," but they were remarkably unfriendly to real people: too cramped
and broken up, like the underground shopping arcade; too vast and void,
like the windswept outdoor plaza, whose main achievement was to prove
to the world that you can construct a desert in the midst of a metropolis.
I only wish I had a dollar for every New Yorker who has ever wished
those buildings would disappear. And yet, and yet! "But Daddy," my
seven-year-old son asked me late in September, "if you wanted those
buildings to vanish, why did you get so sad when they did?" Because in
the real world, when buildings disappear, they take innocent people with
them. That's one of the ways we can recognize the real world.
Rereading this, I see how my petulant trash-talk dates me: it places me
in a generation that can remember life BWTC. People who were too
young to remember, who took their existence for granted, enjoyed them
as landmarks and felt in awe of their size. And after the bombing of 1993,
many people came to feel their vulnerability, and took pity. (On this evo-
lution of feeling, see the moving 1998 poem by David Lehman, "The
World Trade Center.") I shared this feeling, but I don't think it should be
confused with love.
In its form, the WTC was brutal; in its functioning, it was a drag. As
the eighties turned into the nineties, more and more people came to live
downtown, and the neighborhood developed many interesting cultural
scenes. But the Port Authority, the WTC s owners, seemed entirely unin-
terested. Remember where Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz says, "I have a
feeling we're not in Kansas anymore"? As far as the WTC's directors were
concerned, their buildings could have been in Kansas. Some people
8 AFTER THE WORLD TRADE CENTER

blamed their unresponsiveness on their leaden private/public institutional

structure. But in fact, enormous "public authorities" can create environ-
ments far more humanly appealing than the WTC's. One of them is just
next door: the Battery Park City (BPC) luxury housing complex and the
office towers of the World Financial Center (WFC).
The BPC/WFC development arose about a decade after the W T C ,
and it is still rising. When Mario Cuomo, then governor of New York,
appointed Meyer (Sandy) Fruchter as the BPC's first chairman, he in-
structed him to "give it soul, Sandy"; he was too polite to mention other
megacorporate developments without soul. The BPC/WFC includes sky-
scrapers half the height of the W T C but far more graceful; they gave the
space an organic form, like foothills leading up to a mountain range.
There is a Winter Garden with giant palm trees, grassy knolls, a Jewish
Museum, several vest-pocket parks, a bike path, a ferry slip, a yacht basin,
a long and winding esplanade, a gorgeously landscaped cove, a platform
where you can almost reach out and touch the Statue of Liberty. My wife
and I had our first hot date there. WTC-type institutional structures can
generate dramatic, romantic, and entertaining public spaces where huge
city crowds can feel at home. But not at the WTC! It seemed so perverse.
On any nice weekend over the last decade, the BPC/WFC was packed,
the W T C virtually deserted—except for the great bank of escalators lead-
ing to the New Jersey PATH train. For years, the Port Authority kept the
place as bleak as a bunker. Then, last July, it gave it up and leased it to de-
veloper Larry Silverstein for the next 99 years. Why did the PA hold on
for so long, and why did it finally throw its hands up? The men and
women who signed the lease went down on the 11th, so we'll never know.
For Jews who marked Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, on Sep-
tember 27, past and present seemed weirdly to collapse into each other.
One of the day s central themes is trying to stay human in the aftermath
of mass murder. We read, meditate on, and talk about the destruction of
Jerusalem. This is an event that has really happened in history more than
once, and could happen again, but it is also a symbol of the incommensu-
rable horror that comes with the territory of being human. One
prophetic text we read on this day is Isaiah 58. The author of this book,
who is conventionally called "Second Isaiah" (some scholars say "Third
When Bad Buildings Happen to Good People 9

Isaiah," but I will settle for second), lived about two hundred years after
the prophet Isaiah, during the Jews' Babylonian exile. He addressed their
hope to return home:

. . . your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt;

You shall raise up the foundations of many generations;
You shall be called the repairer of the breach,
The restorer of streets to dwell in.

But God would support the project of rebuilding only if the Jewish elite
fulfilled certain tasks. These tasks are not ritual, but ethical, directed not
to God, but to other people:

To loose the bonds of wickedness,

To undo the heavy burdens,
To let the oppressed go free,
And to break every yoke. . . .
. . . to share your bread with the hungry,
And bring the homeless poor into your house;
When you see the naked, to cover him,
And not to hide yourself from your own flesh. . . .
Then shall your light break forth like the dawn. . . .
If you pour yourself out for the hungry,
And satisfy the desire of the afflicted,
Then shall your light rise in darkness. . . .
And you shall be like a watered garden. . . .

If you want the power to rebuild, you need to share your wealth and your
resources—your food, your clothes, even your homes—with those less
fortunate than you. But beyond this, you have to learn new structures of
feeling: recognize people less fortunate than you as "your own flesh";
dont "hide yourself" from people any more, but "pour yourself out."
Only then can the city rise again. At least that was how we read it on this
Yom Kippur.
Will Larry Silverstein "pour himself out" and share the big house that
10 AFTER THE WORLD TRADE CENTER

real estate economics has placed in his hands? With billions of dollars of
disaster relief at stake, I expect he will for a while. Before he can exploit
the property as his private cash machine, he will have to treat it as public
property for a time. But what then? Ideas seem polarized between those
who want to freeze the site in an agony of unending nothingness and
those who just want to get business going as if nothing had happened.
My feelings are mixed. I want life to go on. I know I'll feel better when
Downtown fills up once more with all those limos honking at each other,
and all those Sex and the City characters swaggering up and down the
streets. But I don't want all those good people who were trapped in those
bad buildings to be trapped again in our need to forget the worst. We
need some way to keep those ruins alive, ruins that in some mysterious
way were greater than their source. We need a memorial that can capture
the vividness, spontaneity, and "narrative drive" of those signs. I want us
to show New York's power not only to remember but to represent, in
ways the world won't forget, the bond between the living and the dead.
But even as we remember, we need to resist the undertow, the after-
shock, the time bomb of survivor guilt. The people who died came to
downtown New York and put up with the dirt and noise and high prices
and high rents and free-floating nastiness because they wanted to live and
to make a mark in the world. If there is a bond between us and them, one
thing we owe them is to be where we are, in the world, and stay more
alive than ever.
New Yorkers need time to sort it all out. We should try to open fo-
rums where people can say what they think and feel. We need a world-
wide competition. Those first buildings were lousy, but there was
something grand and inspiring in the global vision that underlaid them.
That grandeur is what led many younger people to adopt them as sym-
bols of the city. But maybe we can symbolize New York in ways that are
more imaginative, playful, and humanly sensitive next time around.
One thing that may help us get it right is a chance to participate. This
idea has many meanings. One is that we need to talk. New Yorkers are fa-
mous for being big talkers, remember? "The weight of this sad time" has
made many of us unusually sensitive to people very different from our-
selves. America says it loves us now, but as the Daily News headline said it
When Bad Buildings Happen to Good People 11

in the seventies, "Ford to City: Drop Dead," wasn't so long ago. We need
to "speak what we feel, not what we ought to say." It s distressing, months
after September 11, that people want so many different things—basically,
as usually happens in New York, they all want exactly what they wanted
before—and no overarching vision has emerged to bring them together.
Maybe serious public dialogue will yield a shared vision of what we
should build on the ruins? Maybe it won't; but we'll be happier if we
know.
I even have a place for this rendezvous: Union Square. When Parks
Commissioner Robert Moses closed the Speakers' Corner during World
War II, on the grounds that somebody might say something damaging to
national security, the suppression of talk started half a century of decline.
The city rebuilt the square in the late 1990s. But it didn't really catch on
as a public space—until September 11. Then, abruptly, it was flooded
with candles, flowers, missing person signs, poems and drawings. Some
art students unrolled a scroll of paper three feet wide and several hundred
feet long. A great assembly of people gathered round the scroll, and wrote
radically contradictory messages and meditations. Overnight, Union
Square became the city's most exciting public space: a small-town Fourth
of July party combined with a 1970s be-in. I knew it was too good to be
true, and indeed, at the end of Week 2, the city shut it down. The mayor's
office said that homeless people had begun to colonize the square (indeed
they had), and that the city's campaign against the homeless trumped
everything. Fences were put up to keep homeless people out, and of
course they also kept out everyone else. I heard that some of the kids tried
to hang on, on asserting the right to be a public there. Our new mayor
may not share Rudolph Giuliani's hostility to live public space. In any
case, it's nice to know that the space is there.
There was another sense of participation that would have made a lot
of New Yorkers happy: to schlep, to get down and dirty, to help clear the
endless rubble on the W T C site and open up the space. The task sounds
like one of the mythical labors of some Hercules or Prometheus. But
there was a time when a great many people would have been thrilled to
offer their bodies, to exhaust themselves, to help the city come back to
life. It could have brought people together as citizens, as a public. It
12 AFTER THE WORLD TRADE CENTER

would have been "urban renewal"—or maybe I should have said "com-
munity service"—for real. I can't imagine how it could have been worked
out. But I know it's happened before at many points in history, after
floods and fires and earthquakes and civil wars. I wonder if some of our
business executives, whose brilliant creativity we are always hearing
about, and who love to talk about New York's global grandeur and glory,
couldn't have helped the city organize a job like this.
Though my suggestion for public participation in the largest public
works project of our time—what they called the "cleanup job"—is no
longer as relevant as it was when I first put these thoughts to paper in
September, when the fires were still burning, it still raises an overwhelm-
ingly important question for the future. How can New Yorkers partici-
pate in the changing life of the city? Talking in public space is good, but
coming together for public work would be a better reason—the best rea-
son I've heard in a while—to get up in the morning and go downtown.
 2 I SHARON ZUKIN

Our World Trade Center

Now THAT THE WORLD TRADE CENTER has been destroyed,

and the sixteen-acre platform on which it stood has been
forcibly flattened into the small-scale, almost medieval, street
plan of Lower Manhattan, we can grasp more clearly what the
place once meant to us and what it could mean to New York-
ers in the future. Ugly, awkward, functional—like the city it-
self—the Twin Towers made their great impression by sheer
arrogance. They took over the skyline, staking their claim not
only as an iconic image of New York but as the iconic image of
what a modern city should aspire to be: the biggest, the
mightiest, the imperial center. Once we gazed upon this site as
a landscape of power, but since September 11, we have viewed
it in sorrow—as if it holds both the dark side of grandeur and
our unspoken fears of decline.
"This is Wall Street, still the financial capital of the world,"
the conductor on a Brooklyn-bound subway train announces
after 9/11, as the cars shuffle through a nearly empty station.
His optimism cheers us, for the nearby "Cortlandt
Street-WTC" is now a moot destination. Closed forever, its
ceiling temporarily propped up by wooden crossbeams, a large
American flag suspended vertically at the midpoint, this sta-
tion is where thousands of people jammed the platforms every
morning on their way to work. Most of the office workers,
stockbrokers, computer programmers, sales clerks, and mes-
sengers whom I used to see crowding through the turnstiles
are gone, and we who remain on this line don't know whether
14 AFTER THE WORLD TRADE CENTER

they have just shifted to another route for their own convenience, moved
to Midtown or Jersey City with their firm, or gone missing in the debris
underground. The drivers slow the train when they pass through the
empty station—in the first days after 9/11, the sadness in the car was pal-
pable at these moments—and I cant help but think of the empty U-bahn
stations in East Berlin that were boarded up for all those years after the
Wall was built in 1961. Just as those ghost stations bore witness to
Berlins division between warring ideologies, so Lower Manhattan is now
a site of conflict between two hostile regimes: the regimes of memory and
of money.
A regime of memory must be organized around a central event or vic-
tim. But where do we draw history's fine line: whom and what do we re-
member? The families of the terrorists' victims and the survivors of the
attack want to commemorate those who died on 9/11. In their desire for
an instant memorial, they follow the example set by the nearest and dear-
est relatives of those who have perished in other recent disasters, espe-
cially in the bombing of the federal building in Oklahoma City. We feel
the families' pain not only because their loss was so colossal, so sudden,
and so senseless, but because we, too, might have died if our paths had
taken us to Lower Manhattan that day.
But some of us also remember the World Trade Center s more distant
past. We want to commemorate those people and stores, wharves and
markets, that were fixtures on the Lower West Side before the World
Trade Center pushed them out and away. We do not just mourn the vic-
tims of terror; we mourn an older city, a bustling and gritty urban center
that didn't have chain stores or welfare reform or companies that do busi-
ness just as easily from New Jersey, Trinidad, or Hyderabad as they do
from Lower Manhattan. Our memory of this city is both evocative and se-
lective. It resonates with the black-and-white photographs of street scenes
taken by Paul Strand and Berenice Abbott. But it edits out Robert Moses
and Austin Tobin, Tammany Hall, and David and Nelson Rockefeller,
each of whom was memorialized in the giant construction scheme mas-
querading as an urban renewal project that the Twin Towers represented.
In the last quarter-century, we have surrounded our cities with memo-
rials. A generation of Holocaust memorials, not only in Berlin and
Our World Trade Center 15

Auschwitz but also in Washington, D.C., and Lower Manhattan, are hal-
lowed sites in a tourists itinerary of collective pain. The Vietnam Memo-
rial on the Mall, the Civil War battlefields and battle reenactments: we
have plenty of inspiration for revisiting grief. Closer to home, we work
through our grief by recalling the hundreds of spontaneous memorials
that we ourselves erected after 9/11, when we transformed the entire city
into a regime of memory. Shrines made of flaming candles dripping wax,
fading floral bouquets, hand-lettered signs, and crayoned drawings filled
Union Square Park for weeks. At the park's entrance, the statue of George
Washington mounted on a horse was covered with wreaths of flowers,
and love and peace signs were painted as white graffiti on its base. Follow-
ing George Washington's pointingfinger,we peer into the sky downtown,
toward where we used to be able to see the tops of the towers. Our mem-
ory completes their outline in our minds. We find comfort in the old-
fashioned buildings that remain: the Empire State Building on 34th
Street, the loft buildings of Tribeca and SoHo, and the ornate, early twen-
tieth-century skyscrapers of Wall Street, whose arrogance so perturbed
Henry James.
A regime of memory seeks permanence—yet this is the very quality
that James complained was absent in New York City. Skyscrapers have al-
ways been built for love of money, not for permanence, or public purpose,
or art. No one could confuse the World Trade Center with the Palazzo
Pubblico or New York with Siena, Athens, or the Valley of the Kings near
the Nile. Even if remembrance is the sacred religion of our time, our pro-
fane, daily culture—as James well knew—is based on money.
Though we can summon memory by building monuments, who con-
trols the even more elusive regime of money? The Twin Towers didn't be-
long to the former regime—they belonged to three concentric circuits of
money and power, which tightened in a narrow noose around the sixteen-
acre site on the Lower West Side.
The towers belonged, first, to a global circuit of capital flows, where
money—or its abstract symbols—passed through national stock ex-
changes, multinational banks, and global trading firms just as their local
employees passed through the turnstiles at Cortlandt Street. Some of
these firms were located in the World Trade Center, more were clustered
16 AFTER THE WORLD TRADE CENTER

in the financial district around the towers, and many more were a phone
call away in Midtown, Brooklyn, or New Jersey. Their business was the
world's business—raising funds, guaranteeing credit, moving money
from one portfolio to another. It is not surprising that several of the em-
ployees who died on 9/11 were corporate travel planners, for the emblem
of this circuit is travel.
But the World Trade Center also took part in a circuit of money and
power that was centered in Lower Manhattan, a circuit that has deeply
changed in recent times. Wall Street—the historic financial district—
claimed to be the geographical capital of capital, yet how metaphorical
"the street" had become during the past few years, when Merrill Lynch
and Dreyfus opened branch offices in local banks and shopping malls all
over the country, and mutual funds and electronic trading systems began
to control a larger share of small investors' savings. In fact, Wall Street as a
real geographical space, a functioning center of capital, has existed on ar-
tificial life-support systems since the fifties. The Chase Bank's plans for
urban redevelopment, the Port Authority's giant construction project at
the WTC, the outlying apartment houses and public schools of Battery
Park City: all would have collapsed after the stock market crash of 1987,
had it not been for the unexpected diversity brought by small-scale cul-
tural industries such as TV and film production, graphic arts studios, and
restaurants, and by the aesthetic draw of Hudson River Park. If not for
this infusion of new people and activities, the whole district would likely
look, at best, like Chambers Street, with its discount stores, XXX-rated
video shops, and fast-food restaurants. I could see the emblem of this cir-
cuit changing from finance to culture in the nineties, when I overheard a
man dressed in a business suit say to his friend in the lobby of an office
building on 43rd Street, "I went down to Wall Street yesterday—I had a
great dinner in Tribeca."
And yet the Twin Towers owed their brief life directly to the third cir-
cuit of money and power, the one based on the marriage of global finance
and local real estate interests. In contrast to other cities, New York's main
business is and always has been real estate development. Developers are
the engines of the city's endless cycles of boom and bust; they abandon
the old and make a fetish of the new, and there are always fresh ones who
OUT World Trade Center 17

can be persuaded to try to make their fortune by promising to rebuild

Manhattan. Unfortunately, politicians believe their promises. And the
World Trade Center was a prime example of how deeply indebted the
public sector becomes to private-sector development. The World Trade
Center merged the roles of public and private developer: the Port Author-
ity—a public authority of New York and New Jersey—took the financial
risks that private developers are supposed to take, while reaping few of
the profits.
The shift from the Port Authority's ownership to Larry Silverstein's
leasehold just before 9/11 signaled that a new boom for office building
owners was under way. A small boom had been nurtured during the past
few years by the Alliance for Downtown New York, Wall Street's own
Business Improvement District. This boomlet promised, however, to
steer development onto a somewhat different path, one that would capi-
talize on museums, walking tours, and residents who also work in the cre-
ative arts. It s hard to know whether this represented a newfound realism
or was just a straw in the wind. Would any business group really give up
control so Wall Street could return to being a real space instead of being
the metaphorical capital of financial capital?
It s not easy to force the regime of money to conform to other priori-
ties. Certainly now, with both the state and the city on the cusp of a new
fiscal crisis, the regime of money is playing the card of realpolitik. I don't
think they're bluffing. Republicans hold the White House, the State
Capitol, and City Hall. Though 25 million square feet of office space
were removed at one blow from Lower Manhattan, vacancy rates are
alarmingly high. And corporations managed by a footloose elite won't
prop up Wall Street forever. These institutions will not invest in Lower
Manhattan without clamoring for big public subsidies, as the commodi-
ties and stock exchanges have already shown us, with their threats to
move from the capital of hubris into the eager arms of humble New Jer-
sey across the river. Even the saddest firm that was left bereft by the
World Trade Center's demise—the stock and bond traders at Cantor
Fitzgerald—has shown us how companies quietly shift their business
strategies without thinking about the social costs. Improbably, in light of
the great loss of lives the firm suffered on 9/11, Cantor Fitzgerald
Overlapping the regimes of memory and money: street banner, Broadway, February 2002.
Photo by Richard Rosen.
Our World Trade Center 19

declared a fourth-quarter profit at the end of 2001, thanks to a strategy

already in use of replacing human traders with an electronic system, and
thanks to their ownership of eSpeed, a separate, electronic trading firm.
This is why I feel ambivalent about the juggernaut of public and pri-
vate interests that is catapulting Lower Manhattan toward rebuilding
offices for financial firms. Can we alter cycles of growth—or destruc-
tion—for the common good in a way that does not end in greed and self-
ishness? We have already heard too much ominous rumbling over money,
from the reluctance of Swiss Re, the insurance company that holds the
policy on the WTC, to pay rebuilding costs to Larry Silverstein, to the
sudden withdrawal of policies against terrorist attacks by other insurance
companies. And we have also seen too many turf wars over the available
resources, from the victims' families' claims for unlimited reparations, de-
spite a plan to share the benefits developed by federal emergency officials,
to the scandal that enveloped the American Red Cross because of the way
the organization allocated the money and blood it collected after 9/11.
Yet money is the city's lifeblood. While the Lower Manhattan Devel-
opment Corporation promises to promote economic development by re-
building office space downtown, the city urgently needs to rebuild jobs.
But in which economic activities, and at what levels, would these jobs be?
Who will get the money? The $250,000-a-year stockbrokers and bond
traders who threaten to move to New Jersey, or the welfare mothers who
take care of the city's parks and have already been demoted to temporary
workers at $7.83 an hour?
To be sure, the World Trade Center supported tens of thousands of
workers at many different levels: bond traders who commuted from the
suburbs, office managers and clerical assistants from the Bronx, Polish
janitors and young data analysts from Brooklyn, Mexican cooks and Sal-
vadoran delivery men from Queens. And then, in the nearby neighbor-
hoods of Lower Manhattan, there were waiters who moved here from
Fukien, garment workers from Hong Kong, and taxi drivers from India
and even Afghanistan. But the prosperity of some never ensured the
livelihood of all.
The regimes of memory and money overlap to some degree in the
tourist economy—in the city s museums, theaters and cafes, and ethnic
20 AFTER THE WORLD TRADE CENTER

neighborhoods—where the performance of life is a salable commodity.

But the many tourists who have come to New York in recent months
come to witness the performance of death. An impromptu infrastruc-
ture—small but growing—has sprung up to cater to their needs. Street
vendors near the viewing platforms of the W T C site at Broadway and Ful-
ton streets sell American flag pins and picture postcards with views of the
Twin Towers at twilight. You can pick up your free viewing ticket at South
Street Seaport, file past the site, then buy an NYPD cap and an FDNY
sweatshirt, without forgetting to take a snapshot to show the folks at
home. But many New Yorkers feel uneasy about this sort of sightseeing. It
doesn't memorialize the dead so much as it tries to make a connection be-
tween the dead and the living, with the "dead" being the media images of
destruction we all saw on TV and the "living" taking the form of branded
logos we can wear on our backs. Between the individual memories of hor-
ror and the trivial act of buying a souvenir, the city disappears.
And that, of course, is our worst fear.
To disappear by the wrecker's ball or the terrorist's bomb, in the
blitzkrieg of war or with suddenly downgraded credit ratings on munici-
pal bonds: we dont want to contemplate these terrible alternatives. Yet
suddenly, at the World Trade Center site, we look them all in the face,
and we slip back and forth between memory and money—between re-
membering the grandeur of being "the capital of the world" and detesting
the arrogance of power.
No, we who live here don't want New York to disappear. Many of us
don't really care about the regime of money, as long as we don't get the
2012 Olympics or two new baseball stadiums the city doesn't need, and
the poorest New Yorkers don't wind up paying for a $4 billion municipal
budget deficit while the wealthiest 1 percent get federal tax cuts. We do
care about the regime of memory. And the finest memorial to 9/11 would
be to use the destruction of the World Trade Center to understand
people's ambitions in other parts of the world—and to understand our
own ambitions, also.
What are our ambitions? We can't get back the willful innocence we
shared with the rest of America; we never had real innocence—even in
colonial New Amsterdam, they kicked out the Munsee Lenape, imported
Our World Trade Center 21

Africans to do much of the work, and drank water from polluted wells.
But we can capitalize on our history of self-invention. Let s not build of-
fices in Lower Manhattan and pay companies to move there; and let s not
downsize, but reshape New York.
Let s encourage creativity in both the arts and business by nurturing a
supply of low-rent space. Let s prevent crime by creating jobs for ordinary
people—light manufacturing jobs to make the things dreamed up by cre-
ative designers; communications jobs; building and supplying jobs. Let's
enhance the comfort factor of the old—by making our old subway trains
run on time, by renovating our old buildings, by putting humans back in
customer-service jobs now badly performed by automation. Let's make
the wealthy less visible: eliminate the celebrity photos and gossip columns
of Page Six, limit the number of high-price designer boutiques. Vow to
maintain a walkable, aflfordable shopping center like the Bronx's Arthur
Avenue in every neighborhood. Let's get the City Council to work to-
gether with the Community Boards—not to scare away businesses, but to
treat them as real anchors of the community.
We have seen how a city looks when large parts of it are destroyed.
From the devastation of Kabul in our time to the recent history of the
South Bronx, Bushwick, and Harlem—not omitting Newark, New Jer-
sey, and Bridgeport, Connecticut—cities cry out to be rebuilt. But let's
not rebuild in arrogance. We don't need more superblocks and mammoth
centers, we need many, smaller centers. We need to rebuild a lower-scale
Downtown where life hums and throbs on every block. This is what the
World Trade Center has taught us.
 3 I EDWIN G. BURROWS

Manhattan at War

T H E TERRORIST OUTRAGES of September 11 serve as an unwel-

come reminder that Lower Manhattan has abundant experi-
ence with the violence spawned by international trade and
war. In 1625 the Dutch West India Company chose that site
for a fur-trading post in New Netherland, "purchased" the en-
tire island from the Lenape Indians, and began work on a
massive fortress at the foot of Broadway (now the site of the
Museum of the American Indian). The fort's location made
military as well as commercial sense: it was the prime site
from which to control traffic along both the East and Hudson
rivers, and it would also guard New Amsterdam, the burgeon-
ing settlement outside its walls, from attack by the Spanish
(with whom the Netherlands had been fighting for decades).
In the years that followed, the ebb and flow of world events
would reveal new enemies and compel the residents of Man-
hattan to improve and extend their defenses. I want to sug-
gest, indeed, that that sense of exposure, of precariousness, of
vulnerability was central to their historical experience.
Because the fur trade failed to generate the profits it had
hoped for, the West India Company devoted less attention to
the security and development of New Amsterdam than to its
extensive operations in Africa, Latin America, and the
Caribbean. It never entirely gave up on the town, however,
and the population climbed, by fits and starts, from perhaps a
few hundred in the early 1630s to some 1,500 in the early
1660s. During those same years, two public works—the erec-
24 AFTER THE WORLD TRADE CENTER

tion of the first municipal pier near the foot of Whitehall Street and the
transformation of a sluggish creek into a shipping canal that sliced into
town from the East River—promoted the gradual expansion of overseas
trade, as local merchants sought markets in Europe and the West Indies
for locally produced tobacco, grain, timber, and potash. Both the pier
and the canal also helped fix New Amsterdam's orientation toward the
East River waterfront and foreshadowed the increasingly ambitious con-
struction projects that would transform the geography of Lower Manhat-
tan over the next several hundred years.
A third project—the building of a wooden stockade across the island
along the route of present-day Wall Street—bore witness to the shifting
fortunes of the Netherlands in both America and Europe. In the 1630s
and 1640s, English colonists began to move across the ill-defined borders
dividing New England and New Netherland, occupying land claimed by
the West India Company and defying efforts by the Dutch to drive them
off. Peter Stuyvesant, director-general of the colony since 1647, tried to
stem the tide through a combination of diplomacy and the organization
of new Dutch towns on western Long Island. His efforts were compli-
cated, however, by the looming crisis in Anglo-Dutch relations that fol-
lowed Parliament s adoption of legislation that excluded the Dutch from
trade with English overseas possessions. In 1653, with the two nations at
war, word reached New Amsterdam that English forces were massing in
Boston for an attack on Manhattan. Fearing the enemy would strike by
land as well as by sea, Stuyvesant and the magistrates hastily stockaded
the northern perimeter of the town and ringed it with a number of small
breastworks. The danger passed when England and the Netherlands
agreed to begin peace talks, but it was more evident than ever that the fate
of Manhattan was inextricably tied to the outcome of conflicts orches-
trated thousands of miles away by politicians and generals who would
never set foot on it and might have had no clear idea of where it was.
That lesson was underscored a decade later, in 1664, when the English
raided Dutch outposts in Africa and King Charles II authorized his
brother, the Duke of York, to seize New Netherland. In August of that
year, the duke's small fleet anchored in Gravesend Bay and dispatched an
advance party of 450 soldiers and sailors to seize the ferry at Breuckelen,
Manhattan at War 25

directly across the East River from New Amsterdam. Stuyvesant prepared
to make a fight of it, but when the English promised generous terms for a
peaceful capitulation, the townsfolk refused to back him up. On Septem-
ber 8, 1664, the West India Company's colors were struck from the fort,
and the soldiers of its garrison marched down to the pier to board a ship
for the long trip home. New Amsterdam and New Netherland were
promptly named New York. Six months later, England and the Nether-
lands came to blows again.
When the Second Anglo-Dutch War finally ground to a halt three
years later, the Dutch government agreed to let the English keep New
York in exchange for Suriname (Dutch Guiana), whose slaves and sugar
plantations were more highly valued by the West India Company. Dutch
residents of the town continued to hope for a restoration of Dutch rule,
however, and when the Third Anglo-Dutch war broke out, their hopes
were rewarded. A huge Dutch fleet—twenty-odd warships and 1,600
fighting men—crossed the Atlantic in the summer of 1673 to attack Eng-
lish possessions in the Caribbean and along the coast of North America.
The fleet reached New York at the end of July and ordered the surprised
commander of the English garrison to surrender. When he stalled, the
Dutch bombarded the fort and landed 600 marines on the Hudson River
shore near the present site of Trinity Church. Cheered on by the Dutch
populace, the marines advanced down Broadway and took the fort with-
out firing a shot. New York now became New Orange in honor of the
young Prince William of Orange, whose heroics had helped the Dutch
win battle after battle in Europe. But New Orange was a chimera created
by the vagaries of war. When the conflict ended less than a year later, the
Dutch gave it back.
New York remained securely in English hands for another century. Its
population climbed doggedly from an estimated 3,000 in 1680 to 7,000
in 1720, and to 18,000 in 1760—bigger than Boston (15,800) and sec-
ond only to Philadelphia (23,800), the largest city in British North
America. New residential and commercial construction meanwhile
pushed the built-up area of town further and further up the island, past
Wall Street (the crumbling old stockade came down in 1699) toward the
Common (today's City Hall Park). By 1775, New York was home to
26 AFTER THE WORLD TRADE CENTER

some 25,000 people and could boast of a college, numerous churches, a

synagogue, a new city hall, a theater, and busy public markets. Lower
Broadway, well removed from the tumultuous East River waterfront, was
now the towns most fashionable neighborhood, thanks in no small part
to the allure of Bowling Green, a leafy little retreat laid out in 1732.
The very topography of the city was changing as well. To meet the in-
cessant demand for building lots, municipal authorities ran new streets
through orchards and pastures, drained swamps, buried streams, and lev-
eled hills. Back in the 1670s, the old Dutch canal had been filled in to
create an usually wide thoroughfare—dubbed, appropriately, Broad
Street—which soon became one of the towns principal commercial arter-
ies. At its foot, the city built a new stone pier, much larger than its prede-
cessor and protected by two great moles, or breakwaters, that arced out
into the East River. But even this impressive structure could not accom-
modate the swelling traffic in and out of the port, so the city encouraged
merchants and shipowners to construct their own wharves by filling in
and building on tide-lots (a solution facilitated by a new municipal char-
ter, which gave the municipal corporation title to all land lying under wa-
ter between low tide and high tide). During the eighteenth century, as a
result, the East River waterfront began to creep, block by block, beyond
the island s original shoreline—a process that continued at an even faster
pace during the nineteenth century. The same thing occurred on the
West Side. Portions of Greenwich and Washington streets were laid out
and filled as early as the 1720s, and by mid-century new docks and ware-
houses had appeared along the Hudson River between Trinity Church
and St. Paul's. (The expansion of Lower Manhattan into the Hudson
slowed after West Street opened in 1830. It resumed in the late 1960s,
when one million cubic yards of earth removed from the World Trade
Center site were used asfillfor the construction of Battery Park City.)
What did not change in the eighteenth century was New York's inti-
mate and potentially dangerous links to the rest of the world; indeed, as
the city became an integral component of the emerging British Empire,
its residents were arguably more conscious than ever that their prosperity
and peace of mind depended on events far removed from Manhattan.
Everyone understood, for example, how the ballooning slave populations
Manhattan at War 27

of the West Indian plantations—a consequence, in turn, of the rising de-

mand for sugar in Britain—had become a cornerstone of the local econ-
omy by the end of the seventeenth century. The need to feed and clothe
hundreds of thousands of enslaved Africans created lucrative markets for
the surplus foodstuffs and raw materials produced by area farmers and
put money in the pockets of the merchants who transported those food-
stuffs and raw materials down to the islands. Money in the pockets of
merchants meant employment for the tradesmen who manufactured
rope, sails, and barrels for the growing number of ships working out of
the city as well as wages for vast numbers of sailors, cartmen, tavern keep-
ers, and casual laborers. The extent of New York's dependence on its con-
nection to the West Indies was emphasized by the seasonal rhythms of
municipal business—feverish between November and January, as mer-
chants scrambled to get down to the islands in time to take delivery of the
new sugar crop, then again between April and June, as they raced back to
port to escape hot-weather diseases and hurricanes.1
Perhaps the most visible consequence of the West Indian connection,
however, was the extraordinary concentration of slaves within and around
the town. Although the West India Company had relied upon slave labor
for construction projects in New Amsterdam, it would not become indis-
pensable until after the beginning of the eighteenth century, when city
merchants took an increased interest in the slave trade and began import-
ing multitudes of slaves for sale to area residents. Between 1700 and
1775, some 7,400 slaves would arrive in the city—more, in other words,
than its entire population at the turn of the century—and by 1750
African-Americans made up roughly 20 percent of the population, the
highest concentration of slaves north of the Mason-Dixon Line. Mer-
chants used slaves to fill out crews and toil on their docks, artisans used
slaves in their shops, and Long Island farmers used slaves to till their

1
And frequently brought the diseases along with them, with devastating results. In
the summer of 1702, an epidemic of what was probably yellow fever claimed 580 lives,
roughly 10 percent of the population. Milder outbreaks occurred so often over the next
century that well-to-do residents made a point of leaving town during July and August. In
1798, however, the fever killed over 2,000 New Yorkers, close to 5 percent of the popula-
tion.
28 AFTER THE WORLD TRADE CENTER

fields and tend their herds. So insistent was this demand for slaves that as
early as 1711 the city established a market for their purchase and lease at
the foot of Wall Street.
For white New Yorkers, the size and broad distribution of their servile
population—roughly half the households in the city held one or more
slaves—proved a source of constant anxiety. Disobedient and defiant
slaves were a fact of life that required constant tinkering with local ordi-
nances and spawned frequent rumors of revolt, typically linked to lurid
accounts of slave uprisings in the Caribbean. The city's first taste of open
insurrection came in 1712, when a group of slaves set fire to buildings
and ambushed residents who rushed to put out the flames; two dozen
slaves were eventually hanged, burned at the stake, or broken on the
wheel for their part in the business. In 1741, fears of another uprising
swept the city and led to the executions of thirty blacks and four whites.
Although the extent of the 1741 conspiracy remains a matter of dispute,
the panic it caused was fueled by the outbreak of war in Europe and the
departure of many soldiers from the garrison for an expedition to the
Caribbean. That New York now lay exposed to its enemies deeply con-
cerned white residents and did not escape the attention of blacks, who
recognized that they had been handed a perfect opportunity to rise up
against their masters.
Like the fear of slave revolts, war was also a fact of life in British New
York, touching residents in myriad ways. Already twice conquered and
keenly aware of the Anglo-French rivalry that now dominated European
affairs, they spent their days in an almost constant state of alert and
hemmed in by defensive works—the hulking fort that still occupied the
southern tip of the island, gun emplacements scattered along both shores
(one of which, built directly below the fort in 1693, would inspire locals
to speak of the area as "the Battery"), and a new palisade with gates and
blockhouses thrown across the width of Manhattan in 1745 when offi-
cials got word that the French were planning to descend on the city from
Canada (it zigzagged along a route sandwiched between present-day
Chambers and Canal streets). Then, too, because its harbor and location
made the city an especially convenient station for both the army and the
Manhattan at War 29

navy, residents must often have thought themselves under more or less
continued military occupation—great warships riding at anchor in the
harbor, throngs of sailors on shore leave prowling the streets in search of a
good time, regiments of redcoats drilling on the Common. In 1755, to
no one's surprise, New York became the headquarters of all British forces
in North America, and the government initiated monthly packet service
between Falmouth and Manhattan, confirmation of the city's unique im-
portance in the empire.
War and preparations for war contributed significantly to the city's
economy as well. Provisioning His Majesty's forces required gargantuan
quantities of food, clothing, shoes, rum, horses, wagons, and other ma-
teriel that meant brisk business for local merchants and artisans, who typi-
cally greeted the outbreak of a new conflict or a new campaign as a boon.
For those inclined to high-risk adventure, it afforded an opportunity to
obtain letters of marque and go aprivateering in the West Indies. In fact,
more privateers would operate out of New York during the eighteenth
century than out of any other Atlantic port, and they returned home with
prizes worth something like two million pounds sterling—an immense
accession of wealth and the basis of more than one family fortune.
During the 1760s and 1770s, as American resistance to parliamentary
taxation spiraled into revolution, New York's strategic value to the empire
would make it a crucial military objective for both sides. Led by George
Washington, the Continental Army, ten thousand strong, occupied the
city in the spring of 1776, throwing barricades across streets, building
forts, and erecting new shore batteries, certain in the conviction that the
British would sooner or later attempt to recapture it so as to drive a
wedge between the northern and southern wings of the rebellion. They
did not have to wait long. At the end of June, lookouts on the Battery
spotted the initial contingents of what proved to be the largest British ex-
peditionary force before the twentieth century. All told, stationed on or
near Staten Island were two great men-of-war and two dozen frigates
mounting a combined 1,200 cannon, plus 400 transport ships, 32,000
soldiers, and 13,000 seamen. The British attack began at the end of Au-
gust, when 15,000 redcoats crossed the Narrows to Long Island and oc-
30 AFTER THE WORLD TRADE CENTER

cupied the flat southern portions of Kings County (equivalent to present-

day Brooklyn). Their goal was Brooklyn Heights, directly across the East
River from New York. On the morning of August 27, fortified by the ad-
dition of another 10,000 redcoats and 5,000 Hessians, the British as-
saulted American positions blocking the approaches to the Heights. By
early afternoon they had driven the Americans from the field, killing per-
haps 1,200 as well as capturing three generals and some ninety junior of-
ficers. Although Washington managed to get the demoralized remnants
of his army back to Manhattan, New York's fate was sealed. In mid-Octo-
ber, the city fell for the third time in little more than a century.
New York lay under enemy occupation until the end of the war in
1783, enduring two catastrophic fires, one of which raged up the West
Side of town and consumed Trinity Church, as well as the widespread de-
struction of both public and private property at the hands of His
Majesty's forces. But once they left, a combination of factors enabled the
city to rebound quickly: the aggressive exploitation of new markets by lo-
cal merchants, an influx of newcomers equipped with both capital and
connections, the organization of the first bank and stock exchange, and
even the arrival of the Continental Congress, which demonstrated its
confidence by moving into quarters in City Hall in 1785. The pace of
New York's recovery can be read in the growth of its population. In 1790
the first federal census revealed that New York's population stood at a
record 33,000—still smaller than that of Philadelphia, but rising more
quickly. Only twenty years later, in 1810, there were more than 96,000
people living in the city, making it the largest in the United States. By
1830, its population exceeded 200,000.
Liberation, national independence, and spectacular demographic ex-
pansion did not, however, allow New Yorkers to feel significantly more
secure than their colonial predecessors. During the Napoleonic Wars, as
both Britain and France tried to break the American government's policy
of neutrality, residents often found themselves facing the prospect of war
with one or the other belligerent. In 1794, when war with Britain seemed
likely, throngs of anxious citizens headed for Governors Island to erect
fortifications (the old colonial-era fort on the Battery having been re-
moved several years earlier); the same thing happened in 1798, when
Manhattan at War 31

everyone expected war with France. After 1800, when Britain was again
the probable enemy, work began on a string of ferts that were expected to
protect the city from naval attack for the foreseeable future: the circular
West Battery (later Castle Clinton, and still later Castle Garden, origi-
nally built on a rocky outcropping about 200 feet off the Battery but now
enclosed by landfill); Castle Williams and Fort Jay on Governors Island;
Fort Wood on Bedloe's (Liberty) Island; the North Battery, which stood
on the Hudson shore at Hubert Street; and further up river, Fort Gan-
sevoort on Gansevoort Street. Ironically, when the United States and
Great Britain did go to war in 1812, the city would be thrown into tur-
moil by reliable reports that the enemy intended to attack overland from
Canada, not by sea. For a month or so in the summer of 1814, thousands
of panicky New Yorkers turned out to build new forts, breastworks, and
blockhouses on Brooklyn Heights, Upper Manhattan, and other loca-
tions around town. The invasion never materialized, but ever since the
first city wall went up in 1653, residents had learned not to take such
dangers lightly.
New dangers emerged during the Civil War, when the city's close ties
to the cotton-producing South made it a veritable battleground between
Union and Confederate sympathizers. In July 1863, thousands of heavily
armed federal troops, many fresh from the recent fighting at Gettysburg,
were brought in to suppress the Draft Riot—a four-day upheaval marked
by savage street fighting, lynchings, and unprecedented destruction of
property. Then, in November of the following year, rumors of a Confeder-
ate plot to burn the city prompted authorities to deploy additional thou-
sands of soldiers at key points around town—to no effect, as it happened,
for once the soldiers pulled out, Confederate arsonists set fire to hotels,
theaters, stores, factories, and lumberyards, triggering a short-lived panic.
By the middle of the nineteenth century, however, two developments
were already conspiring to obscure Lower Manhattan's long history of vi-
olent encounters with the outside world. For one, steady improvements
in military and naval technology required New York's defenses to be situ-
ated further and further away from its shores—down to the Narrows,
then out to Sandy Hook, Navesink, and the Rockaways, out of sight and
mind. By the end of World War II, the last of the big guns protecting
32 AFTER THE WORLD TRADE CENTER

Manhattan was removed altogether, testimony to the new reality of long-

range air power and the intercontinental ballistic missile. Concurrently,
the increasing density of trade and commerce in Lower Manhattan was
erasing virtually every trace of its history as a residential community. As
affluent denizens fled uptown in search of quieter, greener enclaves, their
former homes became crowded boarding houses and tenements for the
laboring poor, who were themselves soon displaced by the construction of
new warehouses, shops, and offices. By 1850, only a handful of families
still inhabited the blocks below Chambers Street—Manhattans oldest
neighborhoods, now inundated five days a week by commuters rooted in
other neighborhoods, other towns, other states. (Surely one of the more
telling facts about the thousands who died at Ground Zero was that rela-
tively few lived anywhere near there.2)
It is perhaps not so surprising, then, that the attack on the World
Trade Center should have been interpreted as a decisive break with the
past, the end of a long period of untroubled isolation from global events
and a warning of new, almost certainly dangerous engagements ahead. Yet
in trying to gauge the impact of September 11 on the future of New York,
it may be helpful to remember that this is an illusion bred of our chronic
present-mindedness—that, in fact, the city has always been deeply impli-
cated in the world, and that this is not the first time its people have paid a
heavy price as a result.

2
These trends did not necessarily mean that New Yorkers stopped thinking of the en-
tire city as a prime target for enemy attack, for in the decades just before and after the turn
of the century, New York's destruction became a favorite subject of speculative fiction.
Thus Arthur Vinton's Looking Further Backward (1890), a parody of Edward Bellamy's
Looking Backward (1888), imagined a Chinese attack on Manhattan in the year 2023 that
slaughters four million residents. Similarly, H. G. Wells's The War in the Air (1908), envi-
sioned a German airfleetbombing the city intofieryoblivion. Although it is beyond the
scope of this essay, I cannot resist the observation that these fantasies of municipal cata-
clysm continue to be recycled in such contemporary films as Independence Day (1996)
and Godzilla (1998).
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