I can’t pinpoint why I think it’s important that everyone’s 9/11 story be documented.  Is my story interesting? Not really.  Is it tragic? No. Maybe it’s my own arrogance that someone, somewhere, long after I’m in the next world, would read it.  Maybe my little godson Oliver can use it for a history paper or something, if kids are still doing that in the future. 

My mother used to tell me that she remembered exactly where she was when JFK was assassinated, even though she was miles away in New Jersey.  She was in a car, I believe, and the driver had to pull over out of shock.  Everyone from her generation has a memory like that.  

Everyone in my generation has a 9/11 story.  This is mine.  I can’t promise that it’s interesting, or poignant or that it even has a point.  It certainly isn’t the hilarious, light-hearted fare that my tens of subscribers have come to expect.  But as any writer will tell you, a story is like bad Mexican food – once it’s in you, it’s coming out one way or the other. It probably also will not be pretty. 

A lot of people helped me that day, whether it was calling to find out where I was, offering me a place to stay, or welcoming me into their home and feeding me, a perfect stranger, a home- cooked meal after a long day. But the people I think most about on this day every year are Jessica, Dennis, Margaret, Cherryl Lynne, Cecilia, Maura, Jen, and the rest of the crew at 605 Third Avenue, 9^th floor, New York.  

9/11/21

The sky is as blue and cloudless today as it was twenty years ago. That is one common theme in every 9/11 account you will read.  The sky wasn’t just blue – it was BLUE.  There were no clouds.  It was a morning that so gorgeous people actually stopped for a second to notice it.  I was living in my very first apartment where I had a 3-minute walk down the block to catch the 167 bus into New York.   No one had a smartphone yet, so my morning commute wasn’t yet tainted by furiously reading emails from another time zone, scanning the headlines, or playing Brickbreaker. No, my commute was mostly spent staring out the window in a 40-minute moment of Zen (or 3 hours if it was raining.)  It would be my last. 

The entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel from 495 is called the Helix. I’ve traveled it a million times. For a few seconds, it provides a tremendous view of the NYC skyline, and it was here again that I remarked to myself about the blue sky.  On our final curve around, I noticed a large white cloud, my view somewhat obscured, and thought how odd it was that the entire morning I was going on about this blue sky and here was this one puffy cloud over lower Manhattan.  

We did have cell phones then, albeit gigantic and I think mine even had some sort of antenna, and a lot of them started ringing.  Mine didn’t, but the general consensus on the bus was that a plane had flown into the World Trade Center.  The story was that it was a Cessna, and that the pilot had suffered a heart attack.  My fellow commuters and I all muttered about how this was horrible but in a second we were in the tunnel and had moved on.  I never made the connection with the cloud I had just seen. 

The 90s are long past, but I am still wearing sneakers like Working Girl and have a selection of dress shoes under my desk, and I don’t care. By the time I walk across town, get a coffee at Au Bon Pain, and head into the office, the second tower had been hit.  I am still blissfully unaware, as are most people who aren’t in front a television or computer.  In the elevator, the only person I run into is the kid who delivers our mail.  He’s excited to see me – I apparently have won the office football pool for that week.  I get off on my floor, a cool $75 in my pocket and plan to drop my bag off in my office and go get bagels.  I wonder why I’m the only one there.  I walk around, muttering to myself that it’s after 9am – everyone should be here by now.  I panic that I’m missing a meeting when one of the assistants appears and I berate him about how no one is in the office.  

“Don’t you know what’s happening, Karen?” he asks me in disbelief. 

“No.  But I do know that I just won the football pool!” I say to his wide-eyed expression. He must think I am heartless, or just insane.

“A plane hit the World Trade Center.”

“Yes, I heard that.  That is terrible – the pilot had a heart attack or something?”

“It was a jet. And there are other jets that are missing.”

There is still a part of me, twenty years later, that can’t fully comprehend this.  I’d like to think it says something about how I am a civilized person and can’t wrap my head around the level of depravity it must take to commit such an act of violence, especially in the name of God. It’s probably my naivete; I spent a lot of time in CCD in the 70s and there was a lot of peace and love and respecting your fellow humans. I’m glad I don’t understand. 

My office mates are crowded into the bank next door, whose tv usually broadcasts Bloomberg all day but everything has switched over to news.  I sit in my office, overlooking the Queens-Midtown Tunnel and a sky filled with smoke and debris.  For some reason, I have one of those cheapo cameras in my giant work bag, and I take a picture.  I still haven’t shown it to anyone. 

By this time, cell/landline and internet service is sketchy.  The only person I have heard from is my friend Windsor – and he lives in England. He tells me there is horrific news on the tv and is checking in on me.  I tell him I don’t really know what is going on but will let him know when I can.  I can’t get in touch with my parents. 

I have a tiny clock radio in my office, which is the only thing giving any information.  My office crew filters in, trying to hear 1010 WINS, perhaps taking comfort in the fact that they are amongst friends. I’m one of the managers here; I don’t know what I should be doing at this point.  Did anyone? We’re in a tall building in the middle of Manhattan.  When is the other shoe going to drop? The bridges and tunnels are beginning to close. Am I trapped here? I still can’t get in touch with my parents.  My dad knew his way around the city, so I am hoping that he knows, and will tell my mom, that I’m in midtown.  Not that it matters at this point, but I really wish I could let them know that I was OK. 

I still can’t get emotional at this point, which is strange for me.  I cry at Geico commercials, Christmas carols, when I hear someone’s insane conspiracy theories, or when I listen to a certain series of songs.  Today the world is ending and I simply don’t know what to do.  I don’t feel anything yet. 

When the North tower collapses, I can hear and feel it.  I still can.  There is a frantic attempt in the office to establish where everyone’s loved ones are.  I finally get a call through to my parents. My dad doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to fix it, like he always does.   He immediately hands me off to my mother. She is nervous.  She has already spoken to her friend Jeanne.  Jeanne’s daughter Valerie and I have been friends since the second grade. Val is in a hotel at LaGuardia airport and tells me through the moms to come there if I can’t get home. It’s at this point that I think I become aware of what is really happening.  I tell my mom that I just heard the North tower come down and how I don’t know what to do. Maura closes my office door so I can have a moment. I’m 31 years old and all I want is to be home with my mommy and daddy.  My mom tells me to stay calm and to stay close to God and He’ll get me through this.  At this point I’m not so sure. I promise to call them regularly. 

Margaret and I decide that we are going to have to stay in the building.  We rush across the street to Au Bon Pain to get food.  I’m on line waiting for sandwiches when I get my first cell phone call of the day.  It’s my friend Jacki, calling from California.  

“Where are you?” she asks. 

“Uh, I’m in Au Bon Pain on 3^rd Ave.”

“Ok, the world is ending and you’re getting food?? What is wrong with you? Why are you still in the city?”

Leave it to Jacki to lecture me on the day the world changed.  She’d be glad that I’m documenting this, and that I mentioned her. 

When we cross 3^rd Avenue, I see a woman with her face covered in dust.  I have second thoughts about spending the night in the city.   Margaret hears that some of the LIRR trains are still running and she decides to chance it.  I sit in my office, trying not to look out the window. 

Jen comes to say goodbye, that the Queensboro bridge is open to pedestrians and she and Ben are going to walk home.  She is the first one to notice that it’s 9/11, as in 911.  

As a group I don’t think anyone has decided what their plan is yet. Hattie is 80 years old and informs me she is going to sleep under her desk.  At the time she lives in the next town over from me and I tell her I can’t allow her to do that and I will somehow get her home.  She can’t walk all that fast but there is no way my conscience will allow me to leave her here when we all leave. 

There is a little bit of calm as we pack up our belongings.  Or maybe it was simply concentrating on getting home.  I had no plan, but at least I wasn’t alone.  

We leave in a large group and walk across town.  The streets are weirdly calm for New York, but how could you tell? I’m just glad I’ve got my Reeboks on. We make it to the ferry terminal, hoping to get a boat across the Hudson.   Again, I’m not sure what I will do once I get there, but I’ve got enough friends on the other side of the river who will take me in.  There is an 8 hour wait.  Jessica would end up getting on a Circle Line boat, part of the maritime community’s rescue efforts to get people out of Manhattan.  One of us is carrying a portable radio, which tells us the A train is still running uptown.  So we head for that.   Andrea decides she is headed for Grand Central in the hopes of getting a train to Connecticut to try and meet up with her sister.  Our group is getting smaller. 

It’s now late in the afternoon.  I call my parents every time I change locations. We end up at the bus terminal at the George Washington Bridge, where the line for a bus snakes out of the building and wraps around it three-fold.  I sit down on the ground next to a woman who worked in the north tower.  When the first plane hit, she simply picked up her bag and left, started walking and didn’t stop until she reached the bus terminal.  Which took hours.  I immediately feel guilty for the fear I have when I think about what this woman has been through.  

The bridge opens for a while and then closes again.  Those in cars are picking up people and taking them across.  Some for free, some want $50 for a ride.  Every time some clown calls in a bomb threat every way out of New York closes.  And I’m again filled with sickening fear.  It is the first time in my life that I am not sure that everything will be ok.  I am afraid. Will a plane hit the bus terminal? Will the bridge be blown up? Is it today?

At around 5:30, 7 World Trade collapses.  We don’t know if it’s collateral damage from the morning or another attack.  I’m aware of the fact that I haven’t gone to the bathroom in about 8 hours. 

The group I’m with is finally crammed on to a bus that dumps us in Fort Lee.  That’s all the buses were allowed to do – empty out in Fort Lee and turn around.  All roads in New Jersey leading to New York were closed or required police checkpoints. Cecilia informed us that her sister-in-law lived nearby and we should all go there.  

The one detail I don’t remember is Cecilia’s sister-in-law’s name.  Probably because at this point I am the only Caucasian in the overcrowded house.  Everyone there is Filipino, and they’re more comfortable speaking Tagalog amongst themselves.  She is a godsend; she sits me down at the table and starts bringing out trays of food that she’s been cooking.  I feel like a refugee.  There are people streaming in from the bus.  None of us know how long we will be there. 

The news keeps showing the same images over and over.  I can’t look at it.   

Cecilia gets word from her husband, Richard, that he is on his way to pick her up and will drop me off on their way home.  I am forever grateful to her.  What should normally take about 15 minutes takes hours, but I am finally at my apartment and it is the last place I want to be. I stuff a few things in a bag and head to my parents’.   Throughout the day, I hear the song “Superman” by Five for Fighting.  The DJ on whatever station I had on dedicates it to the first responders.  It will forever be my 9/11 song.  Listen to it sometime. Or don’t. 

My mom opens the door at 10pm and I can see the relief in her face. “Boy, am I glad to see you,” she says.  They have the news on.  My dad is abnormally silent.  There is pain in his eyes.  I can’t tell what he’s thinking and I don’t want to ask.  I wonder if he is reliving his own experience heading to Africa during World War II, or if he is simply ready to suit up and take care of business.  I tell him I don’t know how to understand this and he tells me that I will someday. He prophetically comments that we are going to be entangled in a war we can’t win.  He doesn’t say much else.   Later, he will have some colorful, Francis-like comments about those responsible for the attacks, but today there is a noticeable silence. 

I don’t say much for the next two days.  My cousin Sonny calls to see if I am ok.  I answer in a couple of words, but I don’t feel like talking. My mom and I go over to Peggy’s across the street and sit in her backyard for a while.  They chitchat.  I can’t help but be overwhelmed by the noticeable lack of planes in the sky.  There are always planes flying.  You notice the low-flying ones, the newscopters, the private jets on their way to Teterboro, sometimes even a blimp flies overhead.  When they are not there it’s deafening.  I feel like I don’t even recognize the world I’m in.  Christine and Tony come to visit.  I stay with my parents for over a month.   

I have to admit that I chuckle pessimistically when I see some of these “Never Forget” memes, because there are things that I don’t think I will ever forget – the posters of missing people, the cars at the train stations, the skyline of my favorite city with a hole in it.  The sounds and the lack of sounds.  The smell of the fires that burned for days.  I have no interest in watching documentaries about this day, hearing conspiracy theories, or even attending ceremonies. I fear that even if I’m lost in the throes of dementia one day I’ll still be able to remember the events of 9/11.

Speaking for all members of Gen X, we all have a 9/11 story, no matter where you lived. I would soon learn that I lost a classmate from high school.  A gentleman from River Vale lost his life.  The only member of the FBI to lose his life was from Ridgefield Park.  The entire town and most of the turnpike closed down for his funeral. A friend of my dad’s was late for work and missed the attack on the Pentagon by a half-hour.   We all have these stories.  

I heard a member of Gen Z say that the coronavirus was “their 9/11.”  It’s not.  Seemingly immediately after 9/11, we were awash with flags.  They flew from homes, cars, bikes, boats – whatever.  They were everywhere.  It didn’t affiliate you with anything.  We were also uncharacteristically nice to each other.  We in the NY/NJ area are not known for our courtesy to one another.  I don’t think that’s really true, but I’ve been to enough places in the US to understand why outsiders might think that. (Ever been to Salt Lake City? I got freaked out by all the people smiling at me.) But in the weeks following 9/11, we were letting people into traffic, saying “thank you” with a wave, holding back expletives.  We were also lining up to donate blood, supplies, money, whatever was needed.  Val, Daniela, and I went to Costco and bought huge bags of dog food for the doggies doing search and rescue.  It made you feel less helpless.  Alex drove to the office and helped us take hundreds of t-shirts to Ground Zero so that the first responders could have a clean shirt to wear.  Full of typos, of course, but better than sitting in Rebecca’s office.  I remember receiving messages of condolences and support from authors all over the world.  It was the first time in my life that I felt genuinely afraid, but somehow I kept telling myself that we were Americans, New Yorkers, New Jerseyans, and we’d get through it and would overcome.  And Rudy Giuliani was going to be the guy who took us there.  

To be honest, it felt weird with everyone telling that they loved each other, man, and it just didn’t seem normal.  About a month after, I was waiting at the same spot to cross 3^rd Ave as I always did, when a bike messenger cut in front a cab.  The cab driver let loose a string of expletives that made me blush but it almost as if he were exclaiming, “IT IS OK! WE ARE GOING TO BE OK!”.  I looked at the woman waiting next to me and she said, “I haven’t heard anyone curse in 3 weeks.  I think we’re getting back to normal.”  Normal is the operative word, of course.   Two months after 9/11 a plane tragically went down in Queens.  It was not terrorism-related, but as soon as word broke I calmly put my Reeboks on and said, “see ya!”, as if this was going to be a regular event from now on.  

So what have we learned since then? I don’t know.  I hope that no one has to experience this again.  Would we react the same? Would we receive the same kind of support from the world? Would we support each other?  I mentioned that 9/11 was the first time in my life that I remember being truly afraid, but I still had not lost my faith in humanity.  I felt that good would rise above evil.  I still had a shred of hope that we as a civilized nation could not fully comprehend actions like concealing explosives IN YOUR UNDERWEAR in order to take down a plane.  Lately I’m not so sure.  We all know who divided the country, and here’s not the place for that discussion, but we all know.  We are so horrible to one another and maybe that’s part of some master plan.  Who knows.  So, no, Gen Z.  The pandemic is not your 9/11.  We rose above 9/11.  I’m not sure how we’re getting out of this.  We had America’s Mayor.  Sadly, you have Nosferatu.