Admittedly, it’s not easy to live a mere four blocks away
from ground zero on the anniversary of the attacks. The preparation for
remembrance starts many days before with a beefed up police presence, then come
road blocks and barricades, then the frighteningly loud convoy of motorcycle
riders circling the area at midnight on the eve of the attacks. Aside from
having commercial jets fly dangerously low, I don’t think there’s any more you
could do to shake one’s nerves to the core. So, I guess it’s not surprising
that when I had an opportunity to get out of Dodge, I took it.
But it was more than that. When I awoke this Wednesday
morning, my husband asked me if I was ready to turn on NY 1 and watch the
reading of the names. Before I could
even rub the sleep out of my eyes, I replied an unequivocal “no.” Steve nodded and I believe he was relieved as
well.
It’s not that I’m ready to forget, it’s just that I’m tired
of remembering in this very pomp-and-circumstance-public-political way.
Yes, 9/11 changed the world. The consequences of the attacks
have touched everyone who was alive that day and everyone born afterwards. But
it directly affected millions of New Yorkers, hundreds of passengers and their
families on the three flights that were hijacked and crashed, and the workers
in the pentagon. And I believe that we who were directly affected have the
right to remember the day in a very private and personal way.
That’s why I decided that in my post today, I would recount
my own experience that day. It is not
nearly as dramatic as many of my friends’ accounts or as grim and
upheaval-causing as what my husband lived through, but it is mine and no one
else’s. It doesn’t require a live telecast or elected officials to mark it;
Just me, here at my laptop.
I hit the snooze an extra time on September 11, 2001. It was
primary day and I had told my staff I would be in late after voting. I figured
the polls would not be so busy and I would catch a bit more sleep under the
auspices of fulfilling my civic duty. As usual, NY 1 was on my TV as I rushed
around my studio apartment in Gramercy Park getting ready to leave for the day.
I was in the bathroom putting on make-up when Pat Kiernan announced that there
various reports of a plane flying into the World Trade Center. I rushed into my
living/bedroom and sat down. I would not get up for some time. I called my
mother living in Westchester to share this odd story. We continued to speak as
I watched the story unfold. At first reporters assumed it was a private plane
gone awry, but soon we would all be disabused of those impressions as the
second plane crashed into the second tower.
Now, this is when my behavior doesn’t really make sense. I
hung up with my mom and was determined to get to work. Why? I just felt
compelled to be with my staff and perhaps be of service. But I believe now that
I just needed to be with fellow New Yorkers. If this was the end of the world I
didn’t want to be alone.
I grabbed a cab and when my eyes met with the cabbie’s I
immediately knew he knew what was happening. I told him I needed to go to
Houston and Sixth Avenue. He told me he’d try to get me as far south and west
as possible but that they were already blocking off streets. He dropped me at
West Broadway and I ran the rest of the way.
In those days as Director of Development at Gilda’s Club
NYC, I worked on the fourth floor of an historic brownstone. My office was more
like a parlor with a flowered couch, comfy chairs and a TV. There I found my
staff huddled around watching the coverage. Most days, they annoyed me with their petty disputes and their resistance to new work. Today, I was elated to find them all
alive.
When they announced that one of the planes was flight 11
from Logan Airport, a chill ran down my spine. My stepmother, Carol, had been
working that run for years as a flight attendant for American Airlines. I immediately
grabbed the phone and called her cell. In a huge moment of grace, she picked up
the line bleary and sleepy 3000 miles away in Los Angeles having landed from
flight 11 just several hours before. I was the one to let her know what was
happening and that her coworkers had perished.
When I hung up I thought about who else I should call to let
them know I was safe. I had the sudden thought that I should call my
grandparents. Of course, they all had been dead for years. But for some reason,
they kept popping in my head. Today, I believe they were with me the entire
day. And because this is my story and no one else’s this is my truth.
When the first tower fell, my coworkers and I rushed up to
the roof. We had to see with our own eyes, unfiltered by the television screen.
It couldn’t be real, could it? Shortly after we gathered on the roof and
watched the dust cloud settle, the second tower fell. We gasped. There was an eerie
silence -- as if the city had been muted by an alien remote control. I began to really think this was the end. This
was it. No more New York. No more life.
My boss made the decision to send us all home early. For
those of us in Manhattan it was clear we would be walking. For others it was
unclear how they would get home. As the door to the townhouse locked I wasn’t
sure I’d ever see any of them again. I started down Sixth Avenue alone and was
struck by the sight of people casually eating lunch at Bar Pitti and other outdoor
restaurants and cafes. It was like something from a Fellini film. A dark smoke cloud hovered ominously above,
ash-covered zombie-like workers from wall street were trudging their way uptown
having witnessed death and destruction first-hand while denizens of Soho sipped
on fruity cocktails and dipped their forks into crisp salads. Denial can be
very soothing.
I stopped by the old Cabrini Hospital to see if they needed
blood, but no bodies nor wounded had arrived. They didn’t know what they needed
and turned away me and many other well-meaning New Yorkers. I continued up
Third Avenue and passed my childhood idol, former New York Met Rusty Staub, on
the street. You can’t miss him. He’s tall and stout with flaming red hair. When
he played for the Montreal Expos they called him “Le Grande Orange.” We both
smiled at each other as if we were old friends. Things had become officially surreal.
I reluctantly entered my apartment desperately still needing
human contact but not knowing where I should or could go safely. Instead I
watched the news compulsively and manned the phones – checking the locations of
all my loved ones and recounting what I saw to family and transplanted New
Yorkers.
I called my closest friend at the time I learned her
brother-in-law – a mentally disabled adult working in the mail room at Cantor
Fitzgerald -- was gone. Her husband, a
trader for Goldman Sachs, said when he arrived home that he was covered in his
brother’s ashes. I will never forget that image or the sweet man who was part
of an extended family for me. I had worked with the staff at Windows on the
World for many events and mourn their loss. There are many more people who I had known in
one way or another, but I do feel blessed that I didn’t lose anyone close to me
that day.
In the days that followed, unable to get downtown to my
office, I spent quiet, comforting days in friends’ homes talking, playing music
(or, in my case, listening to others play music!) and eating whatever we had in
the fridge.
Slowly, life returned. Not to normal. No, there would never
be normal again. But there was life, work and even play after a while. Well, at
least for me.
It was surreal, frightening, strange, inconvenient but not
personally tragic for me. I lost some acquaintances. I lost the two iconic
structures that I watched being erected as a kid in Brooklyn and believed
belonged to me. I lost a sense of false security that I will never get back
along with the ability to travel through American airports with a Muslim
surname without being stopped. But I didn’t lose a member of my family, or my
job or my place to live.
My story is my story. It doesn’t fit into a patriotic
one-size-fits-all box. That is why I’m glad that I spent this Wednesday afternoon
having an enjoyable lunch in midtown followed by some productive shopping at
Marshalls.
And that is why I am glad to share my story with you – my friends
– today. The process of recalling that day – moment by moment – on paper has
been hugely powerful and I am grateful for the opportunity.
Now, I invite you to share your stories with me – whether you
think I know them or not.
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