|
September
11, 2001 Tonight I put pencil to paper because I like to think of myself as a writer. Through history, it has been the duty of writers to record and register both our important and insignificant events that define us as people, a society and a world. Tonight I offer my story, my insignificant part of our country's most heinous, most horrific hour. This tragedy, begun like any other, with a whimper, with the ease of any other day. My alarm beeped, I fumbled for the clock, and silenced it. Unhappily and groggily I wiped sleep from my eyes, took a shower and left the house. As I stood on the Long Island Railroad platform, I read my Stephen King, lost among horrors that would exist only on the page and in my mind, terrors that could not match those of the coming hours. I got off my train at Penn Station and found myself in the office sitting in front of my computer. My office sits 20 blocks from the World Trade Center, from the Twin Towers. At about 9:20 am, I heard the sounds of sirens whining in the morning air, echoing off the buildings and finding my ears on the 15th floor of my building. "They're
loud this morning", I thought to myself. Moments
later, I overheard the director of marketing say something about how one
of the Twin Towers was struck by an airplane. I immediately thought that
an airplane had lost control and struck the building purely by accident.
I had once seen pictures of a small plane that had once collided
with the Empire State Building, and that is how I now pictured the WTC.
It was a relatively innocuous crash, not one of severe impact. 10
minutes after the surprising initial report, I heard yelps from that same
corner office. I moved to the
room and saw on their TV that another explosion had rocked the second,
previously untouched tower. Someone
in the now full corner office had theorized that fire had jumped from one
tower to the other causing the second explosion. Upon second look, the
absolute worst-case scenario became reality.
A second airplane had slammed into and exploded inside the
second, north tower. My mind shifted immediately from accident to terrorism. Next to me a co-worker had matched that explosion of smoke and fire with one of tears. Her body heaved and, in retrospect, I am amazed that she wasn't too shocked to cry. The TV reporter announced that they did indeed have video of the second plane impacting with the still mighty, but damaged tower. As
the video played, slow motion, as we have seen a thousand times since, I
saw the blast, and whipped my head around, away from the TV. I saw two of
my co-workers, friends standing in the doorway. One
was my friend Ari, a Manhattanite, who stood stone cold, completely
frozen. The other was
Christine, a fellow Long Islander, who looked as though she was sick and
her eyes as moist as a flower after the early morning rain. As
the word terrorism whipped from one hemisphere of my brain to the other, I
stood up and walked out of the room.
I imagined a plane slammed into that very office we were in. Another friend, Monique stood by her desk, sending an email to a friend, certainly to ensure their safety. She said that her boss had heard that it wasn't entirely safe to be in the city. An
obvious thought to those thinking clearly but few of us were I
said, "well that's why I'm getting out of here". She said she was coming with me and we grabbed Ari, Christine, and my boss and friend Anthony and walked to the elevators. As we were on our way out, a co-worker and friend, Chris walked down the hall, we explained the situation and waited for him a minute. We decided to leave without him as he said he had something he had to get out of his computer. I told him to 'be safe'. Little did I know that would end up becoming my goodbye to people in the next week, easily taking the place of 'take it easy', or 'see you later'. As we neared the elevator, another co-worker appeared on her way in. Stephanie had come from Jersey and we immediately told her to come with us. When in the elevator, someone asked, "How could the planes fly right into the buildings? I replied, "because that's where the men with the guns wanted them to go". It would turn out later that they had knives but the difference is unimportant. The elevator dinged our arrival on the ground floor. We left our ride, which arrived simultaneously with the elevator across from it. Several people spilled out, including Anthony. Knowing
the subways weren't running down by Houston street where we were, we
decided on making the 40 block (or so) walk to Penn Station. Let me stop
here and say that the people of New York are the kindest, friendliest and
most level headed people I have ever seen. The people, and there were
streams of us, acted with no more panic than that of an elementary school
fire drill. Everyone
was orderly, helping others out and giving each other directions.
As we were walking, a stranger (although none of us felt like
strangers to each other that day) heard on his headphones that Penn
Station was closed. I ran to catch up with Monique, Christine and
Stephanie who had distanced themselves from the pack. I told them that
Penn Station was closed. Monique
and Stephanie immediately decided to seek out their relatives who worked
and lived in the wounded city. I decided that Christine, Anthony and I would move onto the subway, the E train that would take us to Jamaica in Queens where we could take the Long Island Railroad and find refuge, not from what we had seen, for that will follow me in locked rooms, and houses for as long as I live, but from the immediate danger of a city under attack. As
I made the decision, my boss told me to look at the two mighty behemoths
aflame on the horizon. I felt
like Lot's wife fleeing from Sodom. I
didn't want to look back. I
did of course, and I saw two old friends, hurt, wounded, billowing black
smoke from the whole in their hearts.
From our hearts. The
only thing I could do was mutter the words, "Bloody Hell".
I muttered those words because that's what I was looking at. "Bloody Hell". Tonight, as I sit and write this I have
wax on my leg from the candle I held in honor of the dead and missing. Of course I made it home that day. Anthony, Christine and I took the E train to Queens.
The train was stalled at 23rd Street in Queens when
Anthony suggested that we walk to Hunter’s Point Station and take the
Long Island Railroad from there. After
asking several very friendly New Yorkers, we found our way to the station. We were refugees of terror, refugees of
the horror that enveloped the city that when it sleeps, will now have
nightmares of airplanes, explosions and terrorists dance inside our
collective conscience. I will
never forget sitting on the Long Island Railroad platform, when Christine
announced that she just wanted to look at the Twin Towers before the train
came. She walked to the end
of the train platform and couldn’t see the buildings.
She plunked her tired body down and remarked that you can’t see
the WTC from the platform. There was so much confusion in our
minds, we were completely aware that this would change the world and our
lives forever, but we were unaware how.
That is still unknown. As
the truth becomes more apparent, like a picture in a tub of developer, I
can remember how confused we were as we sat on that platform.
Who? Why?
Those were the questions that bounced inside our heads. Minutes later a man was reporting
various rumors and truths. One
of the truths he passed on was that the Twin Towers had fallen to the
ground. I said, “You mean the tops fell to the ground?.”
I was totally innocent, absolutely naïve. Christine couldn’t see those once,
seemingly impenetrable brothers because they had crumbled to the earth
below. They just didn’t
exist anymore. The thought is
still inconceivable. Still so
unreal, as if it happened in a movie soundstage somewhere. To the families and victims of the
horror, the tragedy is too real, too believable.
Now we collectively turn our hearts, and minds to the government of
the United States. We wait
and see what we will do. Whereas those decisions will be made without our input, we will win the war against our enemies. We will overcome our pain, by loving, helping, holding and hugging. I feel angry, violated, fearful, empowered and proud. We have been left behind to wave flags, light candles, and comfort those who have lost far more than we have. I am a storyteller and I give you my story, because the most important thing we can do; never forget. Never forget. |