Even though I remember every second of that day, the images can be a shock to the system. With the tenth anniversary approaching, the coverage is understandably extensive. Graphic video clips that have been mercifully shelved for a few years are being shown once again. And I do think it's important that they be shown, so the day doesn't become a meaningless holiday in the future. So the kids that are now old enough to ask questions hear the full, haunting story. But god, it is not easy.
I feel a little guilty even writing my story. After all, I didn't lose anyone close to me that day, and for that I am supremely grateful. Thousands of people have much more to say than I. Still, I love New York City. I love my friends and I love my life. And as horrific as it was, I'm glad I was here to live through it. To have been watching from a distance would have been worse, I think, like seeing a friend in pain but being powerless to help. I wish I could have been heroic, magically protected the city somehow. But I wasn't one of the heroic people. I was just here, trying to make sense of it the best I could. And nothing made sense.
Part of the reason September 11th was so devastating, for me, is because the days prior were pure happiness. Sean and I had spent a long weekend in Cape May, NJ, eating ice cream and salt water taffy, playing mini golf and listening to the waves. Not a worry to be found. On September 10th we left, reluctantly, and headed back to New York City on the bus. Little did we know as we approached the familiar skyline that it would soon be forever changed. I will always keep those days safely in my heart. They were some of my happiest, the memories made even more sweet by the contrasting sadness of what was to come the following morning.
Strangely enough, my mom in Minnesota knew about the attacks before I did. My job at the time was located on the upper east side, in an isolated residential area. I walked the long crosstown blocks from the 6 train to York Avenue and said good morning to the doorman, William, as I always did. He was on the phone and barely acknowledged me.
My phone, too, was ringing when I got in. It was my mom. She never called me at work, and I was a little surprised she even had the number. Her voice sounded funny and she was clearly trying to remain calm about something. She said, "I know you're fine, but I just wanted to hear your voice to make sure."
It seemed a very strange thing to say, out of the blue, so I asked her what she was talking about. All the emotion erupted then, and she told me with hurried urgency what had happened. Still early, details were confused and accounts varied, but it was serious and that was painfully obvious.
Sean worked downtown on Franklin Street, far enough away to hopefully be out of danger, but close enough to make me anxious anyway. He used to go to the World Trade Center on his lunch break all the time. After we'd spoken on the phone I felt a little better, and left the office immediately. I couldn't get home soon enough.
As I rushed through the lobby, William was still on the phone, looking more upset. We learned later that his wife had died in the towers.
It was bizarre because, up there, the skies were still blue. It could have been a normal day - but the unrelenting sirens and chaos told a different story. Everyone was in shock, just hurtling forward. The sidewalks were filled, and people streamed onto the roads. Every few seconds you'd have to scoot to the side to allow a fire truck to pass. Many people were crying, others were staring blankly. It was so mixed up, and nobody knew what was happening. Cell phones weren't so prevalent then, and most of the signals were lost anyway. Sometimes you'd pass by someone repeating a bit of news, and you'd strain to hear what they were saying. Then the next person would have a different story altogether. When the news started circulating that the towers had actually collapsed, a brand new wave of panic hit the streets. We all just kept staring ahead as the cloud darkening the sky became clearer and more in focus.
It took about two or three hours to make it home to the lower east side. Sean was already in the neighborhood waiting for me. I lived on Norfolk Street, and they were renovating the apartment across from mine. I remember sitting on the stoop outside my building, and I must've looked dazed or something because one of the construction workers put his hand on my shoulder and asked me if I was okay. Finally I saw Sean, and was overwhelmed with relief and happiness. I still remember the shirt he was wearing.
Phones were barely working, but I managed to call my mom on a pay phone. My mom. My family. The thousands of people killed would never speak to their mothers again, and they would not speak to their children. Or their husbands. Or their brothers and sisters. Or their friends. That cruel fact was not lost on me in that moment, and I felt so insanely lucky. Sure, I've lost people in my life, but I had a chance to say goodbye, to prepare and grieve. They were not murdered and they didn't vanish into thin air. That kind of loss is incomprehensible to me.
Everything below 14th Street was shut down to traffic for awhile. Going out the following morning to get a paper, I remember my heart just racing. It was too quiet, a living cemetery. There were a few people around, but no one was talking. No one was laughing, or yelling, or anything. People you met on the sidewalk would look up, catch your eye, and sometimes their eyes would fill. Or they'd just look down. Cops and armed troops were all over, and you had to present an ID just to get back on your block. People were buying water and supplies, trying to make themselves feel like they had some kind of control over the situation. It was just so unnervingly quiet. Then the silence would be broken by a fighter plane patrolling the skies overhead, and a glint of terror would rise up in your throat once again. As anyone will tell you, the sound of a plane overhead will never again go unnoticed.
Many local TV stations had transmitters at the World Trade Center, so it was difficult to get the news at first. I didn't even have cable, so it was random at best. For hours and hours we stayed in front of the TV as the story emerged and evolved. Over and over again the scenes played out. Horrible scenes that no one should see. It was too much. Every day it was only the news. This is an odd thing to remember, but late one night an actual TV show came on and it was one of those Twilight Zone rip-offs. In the story, a kid who was part robot came to life and I just remember it being disturbing and really eerie. At any other time it would have been corny, but it touched a nerve somehow and seemed wildly inappropriate. Thank goodness for David Letterman. When his show came back on after a week or so, it was a highly anticipated moment for me. It's a small thing, and probably silly, but things seemed almost normal for a short time. And his monologue, as he worked through his own discomfort with even putting on a show, was the most genuine I'd seen. To this day, I tear up watching it.
The air is beyond my capacity to describe. I lived far enough downtown that the smell was distinct. Fire and acrid smoke and things you didn't want to imagine. But you knew exactly what was in that air, and it was hideous. Sometimes the scent would fade, but then the wind would change and there it was again. At times I would wake up at night because the smell was so strong and there would be sirens in the distance. But I couldn't find any news. I'd get up and go out to Rivington Street and try calling my mom on the pay phone. Had something else happened? She'd assure me things were OK and I'd sleep again, if I could.
The posters are probably what I remember most. There was no way to even absorb the heartbreak contained in those pictures and the words printed below them: MISSING or HAVE YOU SEEN...? Detailed physical descriptions, notes about where they worked, what they had been wearing. Messages scrawled in a child's handwriting asking a daddy to please come home. They were absolutely everywhere, layer upon layer. And you knew that someone, some family, had all his hopes pinned on that poster, desperately willing this person to come back. So you'd take a good look, just in case, but you knew they weren't coming home. And weeks and months later, there they still were. Faded by sun, wrinkled by the rain. But the hope was gone.
Enough cannot be said, ever, about the first responders. Some of the most wrenching images are of firefighters and the NYPD. Courageous beyond the limits of courage. And to see even these men, so steady, overcome every now and then by a moment of sorrow, well, it was almost too much to bear. Yet they carried on somehow. There is no way to thank them properly, but we should all try.
Most of all, the day belongs to those who were lost, and the families that were left behind. Families that have begun to move on, found the inner strength to share their stories, and helped the rest of us remember what matters in this world. The city, too, is moving on. There are signs of optimism at long last, after years of hurt. Something I, for one, am proud to witness.
So there they are, my fragmented memories of that day. Inadequate, as I said, but the best I can manage at the moment. New York City, you have my heart.
