I Remember 9/11

My (now) wife, Jennifer, had just returned the prior night from California. She was tired and missed me so she decided to call in sick that day, her first sick day in years. Jennifer worked for a small insurance agency on Vesey St., across the street from the World Trade Center. She usually walked to work from her apartment on South Street, near the Fulton Fish Market, and would arrive about 8:30 AM. Instead, I arrived from Brooklyn to spend the day with her.

That morning, her mom called to say a plane had just crashed into one of the towers. We assumed it was some tourist plane, a tragic but not cataclysmic event. At first, we didn’t even bother to turn on the TV. Then we got another call. There was a second plane.

On TV, we could see the fires, the constant replays of the second plane crashing headlong into the towers. Men and women holding hands as they leapt from a hundred floors high into the abyss.

But it was Manhattan and I had to move my car before I got ticketed. As I got to my vehicle, South Street was being shut down by a stream of police cars and emergency vehicles. A cop yelled at me to move my car and then drove toward what later became known as Ground Zero.

I found a spot in front of Jennifer’s building. As I got out, I witnessed the beginning of an endless stream of people just walking away from Ground Zero. I have no idea if they had any idea where they were going. Not the Brooklyn Bridge, which they just passed under. Maybe the Williamsburg Bridge? Or maybe they were just following the East River to nowhere in particular.

I asked a young lady if she was coming from the Twin Towers. She responded they’re no longer the twin towers. There’s only one tower. I didn’t understand what she was talking about so she pointed over her shoulder to the skyline. Sure enough, in the smoke and haze, there was only one tower standing. It looked awkward, unbalanced, like it didn’t belong and couldn’t last.

I returned to the apartment, told Jennifer, who was trying to contact her sister on Greenwich St., about the wandering masses, and that I was going to try to help.

In my car, I had a bunch of recently purchased office supplies, including a case of Poland Spring bottled water. At this point, most of the people on the street were covered in white cake, debris from Tower Two. I offered them whatever I had. Other residents from the apartments did the same, as did the local grocery store owner.

After I emptied my car, I rejoined Jennifer and watched Tower One collapse on TV. Our apartment had RCN so we still had television and telephone service, though our cell phones went dead.

We gathered with friends and neighbors on South Street, offering our help to anybody willing to accept. Most did not.

We later heard about the other planes, the one that hit the Pentagon, and Flight 93 where the passengers fought back.

That night and the next day there was back to back coverage in every news media imaginable. The carnage, the heroism, and the sacrifice. My wife’s cousin is married to a firefighter. Her roommate was a police officer. We heard the stories. We saw the pictures. And we were there.

The firefighters, police officers, and emergency personnel who lost their lives trying to save others. The workers who could have been saved but were instructed to stay at their desks. The hospitals that were ready for the flood of people who never arrived because few survived. The extraordinary devastation. And the TV images of Palestinians dancing in the streets and handing candy to children.

The day after 9/11, President Bush fingered a terrorist group I had never known but will never forget – Al Qaeda. Our country was a nation at war with militant Islamic Fundamentalists.

Every time I drive along the Brooklyn Queens Expressway in Brooklyn Heights, I look at the Manhattan Skyline and try to remember exactly where the towers once stood. I cannot.

But I will always remember 9/11 and I will tell the story to my children. >>> Read more!