I wasn't sure if I should write this post or not and I struggled with that decision for days. Finally, I decided that it just didn't feel right to not write about that fateful day 10 years ago. It seemed disrespectful to me to not acknowledge the day and, as the 10th anniversary drew nearer and virtually every television station out there decided to air specials reliving the day's events, I found that I not only felt it the respectful thing to do, but I also felt it was absolutely necessary. Necessary in that, with each program that came on t.v., I found myself reliving the days surrounding 9/11 along with all of my memories and emotions of that time. With that being said, I consider myself very lucky as I did not, personally, lose any family or friends on that day.
Before September 11, 2001 New York City was one of my favorite places to be. As kids, my parents would take my brother and myself into the City as often as possible to catch a Broadway show, watch the Yankees, have a dirty water dog, and sight see. In high school, we would take field trips in to go to museums or see a show. In college and beyond, my friends and I explored, and thoroughly enjoyed, the night life. I've done the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade (that's a story for another time...what a story). I've done Times Square on New Year's Eve (both pre and post 9/11 and the experiences were markedly different...again, stories for another time). I've gone to the City to watch baseball, basketball, hockey, marathons, attend weddings, go Christmas shopping, and just walk around. Let me say it again, I love NYC and, despite the events of that day, it is still one of my favorite places to be. And, while RM is still too young to appreciate it, I hope to be able to share that beautiful city with her one day soon. Some of my happiest memories are based in that City and now, sadly, some of my most painful memories are also linked to NYC.
I didn't plan on this becoming a "Where were you when..." post, but that seems to be where it's going. So, here goes my story. On that morning, that started off as one of the most beautiful September mornings I had ever seen, I was sitting in a room undergoing my second day of orientation with 3 of my fellow interns at our psychology internship at an agency in Hartford. We were meeting with our staff psychiatrist, Dr. Mangini, when her pager went off and she briefly excused herself from the meeting. When she returned, she seemed distracted and began talking without looking at any of us, "There's been a terrible accident in Manhattan. If any of you know people there, you should make sure they are alright." And, with that, she left the meeting. Myself and the other interns sat there for a brief moment as I tried to understand what she had just said. "A terrible accident in Manhattan? What kind of accident? What part of Manhattan?" I sat there making a list in my head of the friends that worked in Manhattan: my college roommate, her husband (who also went to college with us), two friends from home, a friend from my doctoral program, a friend from church and her husband,...my head started to spin. I needed more information. I got up and ran down to my office hoping to get in touch with someone. I called all the numbers I had, but either no one was picking up or the phone calls would not go through. I ran back to the meeting room where my fellow interns had found a t.v. We watched the news as flames billowed from the first tower and everyone tried to figure out what happened. Was it a commuter plane? Was there an air traffic controller error? How many were hurt? Then, we watched the second plane hit the second tower and immediately an overwhelming feeling of dread overcame the room. I have never felt so helpless, lost, horrified, and numb. Rumors were quickly spreading throughout the agency, "The Sears Tower was hit. The White House has been attacked. They are targeting nuclear plants". On and on and on. As we tried to wrap our heads around the confused and disjointed information we were getting, I sat there in horrified silence watching...watching the towers burn...watching the debris fly through the air...watching the poor, desperate souls trapped in the upper levels of the Towers decide to take matters in to their own hands and jump from 100 stories up...watching as the Towers crumbled...watching a new reality unfold. I don't remember many more details from that day or the days that followed. I think things became so overwhelming that my brain turned itself off in order to protect me. I don't really know. I do know that, one by one, I was able to either get in touch with my friends or speak with someone who knew they were safe. I had spoken with some of my friends in Manhattan. Anna worked at a hotel in Times Square as the head of hospitality. She was supposed to have taken a group to the observation deck at the top of the Towers that day, but a couple members of the group were late, so they didn't make it down there before the attacks began. She said one of the most unsettling things about that day, in addition to the obvious, was that Times Square was quiet. I believe her quote was, "You could hear a pin drop". There were no cars. There were no tourists. No one was on the street...at first. Slowly, people did show up in Times Square. People covered in debris. People who were trying to get as far away from the World Trade Center as possible. People who wanted to go home, but couldn't get out of the City because all of the bridges, tunnels, and mass transit systems were shut down. People who now had no where to go and took refuge in her hotel. I spoke with Alexis who was doing her internship at a hospital in the City. She spoke of how they were put on alert and prepared for mass casualties, only to have no one arrive. I spoke with Hildy, who was safe, but couldn't get home and was able to stay with our other friend, Pat, who lived in Manhattan and was also safe. But with each confirmation of someone being safe, I would also hear stories of others who were not so lucky. People who had lost siblings, spouses, cousins, friends. The sense of overwhelming sadness was paralyzing and suffocating. The world, it seemed, had stopped. New York, my happy place, my playground, was now a war zone. I cried. I screamed. I wanted someone to say everything would be ok. I wanted to do something. But I didn't. I couldn't. I found I couldn't stop watching the news. I couldn't stop replaying the images in my head. I couldn't do much of anything.
It seemed like it took weeks for people to catch their breath. It seemed no one really knew what to do...there was no more sense of normalcy. But, slowly, things started to come to life again. People started to laugh again. Perhaps not as loudly or as vibrantly as before, but at least it was something. And it kept getting better, slowly. In November of that year, I went into Manhattan to cheer Cristina on as she ran the NYC Marathon. Part of me wanted to go to Ground Zero and another part couldn't bear it, so I didn't. Then, on New Year's Eve of 2001, Sara and I headed to NYC to "celebrate" the New Year in Times Square. While many of my family and friends were concerned about this plan and didn't want us to go, I assured them it would be ok. We headed into the City early because we wanted to finally make the trek to Ground Zero. The City had built a viewing platform to allow people to come and pay their respects without disturbing the people who were working there to help move the City forward. We arrived downtown and waited in line for 3 hours to get our chance to see where the Towers once stood. As we stood in line, we saw buildings covered in soot, layers of ash in the sewers, and a parking meter that had not only been bent in half from the force, but had also partially melted. As we got closer, the crowd grew quieter and we reached a memorial area that had been set up outside a church where relief workers would rest. The wall was laden with missing posters, flowers, articles of clothing left by people, teddy bears, and other personal items representing lost loved ones. When we finally entered the ramp for the platform, there was an eerie silence. The ramp ran parallel to a cemetery, ironically enough, and this cemetery was again covered in soot and littered with huge pieces of metal from the blast. In the trees, there were giant balls of what looked like paper and, as the wind blew, we realized they were not paper at all; they were the blinds from the buildings that had been caught in the branches. As I continued to look in the trees, I noticed a pair of torn slacks hanging on one of the branches. As the crowd on the platform thinned out and I got my first look at what had become known by rescue workers as "The Pile", I saw a wasteland. Where the Towers once stood, was now a crater which would be the final resting place for 40% of the victims from that site whose bodies would never be recovered. As I stood there paralyzed, I was grateful for the police who were there to quietly usher people along. I slowly walked down the platform exit and I realized we were the last ones from our group to leave and we were both sobbing. Then, I heard someone say, "It's Giuliani!" and I froze. I felt I needed to see him or say something to him for the strength and courage he gave the City, and those who love it, in those dark days. He was there to pay his final respects as Mayor of New York and I found myself drawn to him. I fumbled in my pocket for a camera and I ran back up the exit ramp to get his picture. As I did this, I noticed police and Giuliani's security detail running toward me and I realized I still had my hand in my jacket pocket as I was running. I quickly stopped and threw my hands straight up in the air to show I had nothing and I explained, as I was still sobbing, that I just wanted a picture of the Mayor. The guard who got to me first, saw the camera, saw I was sobbing, and simply gave me a small smile, wished me a Happy New Year, and asked us to step aside and allow the Mayor to pass. As he came closer, I managed to snap a picture of him and, when he passed, he caught my eye and began walking toward me. I stuck my hand out and he took it. As we shook hands, all I could manage to say was, "Thank you for everything, Mr. Mayor. Happy New Year" and he wished me the same before walking again. He then spotted Sara, who was now uncontrollably sobbing, and she said, "I'm so sorry". Then, he froze, looked at his companion, paused a moment longer, and finally turned back to wish Sara a Happy New Year before moving on again. And with that, he was gone. We made our way down the ramp and another officer came up to us to ask if we were alright. I couldn't speak, but managed to nod my head and, finally, I was able to get out "Happy New Year". He wished us the same and we left. That whole experience afforded me some peace that day and I knew NYC was the right place to be on that New Year's Eve. I haven't been able to return to Ground Zero since that day.
As the tenth anniversary of that tragic day is here, I find all those feelings and memories flooding back. I'd like to be able to say that I feel better equipped to handle things at this time, but with each t.v. special replaying videos of the attacks, with each show focusing on the widows, parents, children of the victims, with each article recounting the events of that day, I feel a renewed sense of pain, sadness, and paralyzing despair. I'd like to be able to say that the events of that day helped make this country stronger, but I can't say that. While there was a strong sense of unity and support permeating this country immediately following the attacks, those feelings gave way to anger, resentment, hatred and ignorance. Unfortunately, 10 years later, those feelings linger and this country feels more disjointed and divided than it has ever felt before. I'd like to say that America has healed from that day but, while the wounds may not be as fresh as they were a decade ago, we have been scarred and those scars are a constant reminder of what was lost that day.
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