"It's a world of laughter, it's a world of tears. It's a world of hopes, it's a world of fears..." Mini plastic figurines spinning and twirling to the amazement of young children and especially my Aunt Mary who will remain ageless to protect her professional reputation. She loves that ride. We must've ridden it five times. Maybe it's how cute the girls from Ireland look doing a jig (with no potatoes in sight) or that damn song? Or the supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, decadent, daydreamy perfection? Or how well people seem to get along in Disney's fantasy world?

But Cinderella's castle is not lying in ruins. The real world is. My dad's office is. For some insane and sadistic reason I thought going to 'Ground Zero' would be cathartic. Yeah, that's a big no.

1:15pm- My distant relatives, my mom and I pile into the minivan.
2:30pm- Parked at the Harrison, NJ path station.
3:07pm- Arrived at Ground Zero.
3:15pm- The hot pokers were jabbed into my side.

I knew it wouldn't be fun. I knew I'd cry. My dad tried to prepare me. He knew it would be bad. But I didn't know it'd be like Disney World. It was not supposed to be a place where smiles are a reflex, like turning your rubber neck at a four car pileup. There was no flowery theme music for my Aunt Mary to butcher, only the distant, silent memories of Broadway.

People were posing their kids in front of the wood barriers that surround the site, with cranes in the background. And the very same hustler you looked down your nose at in July, (he made you late to your front row mezzanine seats to The Producers) is now making you proud to be an American...in your red, white, and blue beanie. Or if you or your mourning relatives are in need of a Fraud-a purse or a "Rolex" for the low price of "twen-de dolla's" go to the nearest corner.

From this point you will get on the ride (so to speak) in approximately 2 hours. I waded through a mob of winter coats until my heart and stomach could take it no longer.

3:45pm- I stopped telling off the venders and sightseers because the tears in my eyes started giving me frostbite.
3:50pm- I begged my mommy to let me go back to Harrison by myself (grandpa lives there).
3:53pm- I got lost in the crowd and asked a police officer where the path train was.
3:53:15pm- An ambitious photographer took my picture while I was crying and asking the cop for directions. (A great picture to pull at reader's heartstrings.)
3:53:35pm- I stopped myself from harming the nice photographer.
4:10pm- I boarded the path back to real life.

After I had recovered, in the loosest sense of the word, I went back. Into the temple, with moneychangers at every corner. I made myself be a reporter, not wholly human.

I spoke with a few sightseers, including Richard McDonough, a music teacher and church worship leader from Williamsburg, Virginia. He, his wife, Robin, and three children, Rachel, 18, Chris, 15, and Heidi, 11, all braved the frigid January weather without complaint.

He was surprised by what he saw, or didn't see. "I was trying to picture the two buildings, what was here, all the devastation." He thought Ground Zero looked more like a construction site, than a recovery site. "It was totally empty. I saw nothing. There was only a hole in the ground." While waiting in line for 1 hour and 45 minutes, the McDonough family saw people from many different countries who were "concerned with what happened to America." McDonough thought the observation deck allowed Americans "to start to hope again." Enough time had passed to allow wounds to heal. It still "brought up emotions of anger, thanksgiving [that no one in his family was hurt], and fear [for the future]." Overall Richard McDonough was happy to have visited Ground Zero with his family instead of going on a conventional vacation.

Perhaps the location wasn't as close to his heart, but his hope helped me see. I stopped my crying and saw September 11th as a historical event, not a personal one. I am not a victim. But why am I unable to get over this single date in billions of years of history? Maybe this site is fantasy to those not so close to it? And seeing, smelling, and breathing it in is like a 7-year-old shaking Minnie's gloved hand for the first time. Maybe fantasy is reality and there is no explanation or distinction to be found. Since the average tourist helped and confused me, I decided to step it up a notch and seek a professional's opinion. Maybe logic could help me be objective? I called Matt Higgins, the Vice-President of Communications for the Lower Manhattan District of the Mayor's office. This former Press Secretary, under former New York City Mayor, Rudy Guiliani witnessed the events of September 11th as they happened. His newly appointed position was established to deal with the constant need for information about Ground Zero. When it comes to a question about the cemetery that is Lower-Manhattan, Matt is the guy to ask. If you can get a hold of him.

Tracking down Mr. Higgins was by no means an easy task. His secretary and I were beginning to develop a rapport. And as a politician, he gave political answers to my personal questions. In my five-rapidly-dwindling-minutes I shared my story and concerns with Higgins. He admitted "people question having a memorial there [former World Trade Center site]. Our feeling is as long as they're respectful...this is a place people will want to see and reflect on what it is to be an American." He equated the 9-11 crash sites with the Pearl Harbor and Vietnam memorials. Although those who lost their lives were mostly civilians, in his eyes they were soldiers and casualties of war.

Higgins predicts that the Ground Zero site will be around for "some time longer." (Do you see? Political. Grrr.) Tributes have been established elsewhere to offset the tourist phenomenon that's surrounding Ground Zero. Interested parties can visit Battery Park in Manhattan to see the sphere that once sat in a fountain in the plaza of the WTC. Higgins believed "the sphere will be in place indefinitely."

Six months after September 11th architects Richard Nash Gould, Julian Laverdiere, and Paul Myoda flicked the switch on their "Tribute in Light." On March 11, 2002 at 7p.m. two beams of light glistened in the night sky, filling the gap in our hearts. A light spectacular with enough power to call upon and remember a hero or two. Our Gotham City.

7:17p.m. SEA BRIGHT, NJ- We looked over the river. At our skyline.

Heel slides into heel
Arches hover above powdered glass
Toes curl to a point.
His footsteps
Deeper than mine.
Steeled-toed boots
weighed with life
leave ridges for bare feet
to make their own impressions.
The ocean's rings
extend leagues and erase
the memories.
Of the day my hero
was one.
And it all became too real
in the stars and clouds
to look anywhere but down.

Even though we couldn't see clearly through the haze we knew they were there. We knew that no matter what is done in the future, no memorial will ever be enough. And no matter how irreverent it may seem, if one person can find solace in sensation, it is worth every elbow that was jabbed in my side.

My memorial is perfect. Every moment of everyday he takes a breath will last longer and mean more than Walt's imagination.

I've never really liked "It's a Small World." It's too picture perfect, a visual spectacle for those with a heart condition. It's a one-time ride. The bouncing buggies of "Mr. Toad's Wild Ride" are more my style. You go through hell, then the doors part, sending you out, into a sea of fanny packs, into the concrete jungle.

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