9/11
9/11 and I am torn. My feelings are divided along a spectrum of sadness and anger. But mostly I am overcome by a need to escape, to runaway. Virtually, the remembrances stream in by those personally affected as well those who remember in more abstract (and often patriotic) terms.
Stepping out of the apartment I am reminded of that day in more tangible forms: red, white and blue wreaths pinned to light posts, an outdoor memorial service at the Good Shepherd Church in front of the Cross-beams—steel relics of the World Trade Center wreckage.
The church flanks Inwood’s Heroes of 9/11 Way, a street sign commemoration I had not noticed until today as we walked up Isham —the name of the street as I know it— toward the Farmer’s Market. Walking amongst the vendor stands, we can hear the sounds of The Star Spangled Banner emanating from the Inwood Hill Park baseball stands.
Emotions in turmoil, I walk along in a surreal haze noting the irony of what a perfectly clear and pitch-perfect sunny day it is, as it was nine years ago.
My thoughts turn to Nancy, and the sick tragedy of her loss. She was in her early thirties, beautiful, single. She was a bike racer and a devout orthodox Jew whose sister, she informed us, was a settler in Gaza. She told us this as we were enjoying a picnic with friends in Central Park the fall before 9/11, and she expressed her views that the Palestinians weren’t human, but animals.
No one said anything in response, and a short, awkward silence followed her comments.
Later in the evening, after eating a meal at a sports bar on the West Side, we went to her apartment to watch an episode of Sex and the City, one of her favorite shows.
That November, she attended our wedding at Moran’s, a stone’s throw from the Towers that cast their shadow over the former St. George’s Chapel turned Irish Tavern. The eleventh was a Saturday, so Nancy arrived for the reception after the ceremony, once the Sabbath had ended and the sun had set.
We were particularly grateful to Nancy who had paid for Matthew’s coaching in the bartered form of our honeymoon, a lovingly arranged trip to St. Lucia. Nancy worked as a travel agent at the time, and did so until a month before September 11th when she changed jobs to start a position working for Cantor Fitzgerald, a financial services firm located in the North Tower.
We didn’t know until after the attacks that Nancy had switched jobs. We only found out through mutual friends that she was missing that night. Matthew had not been in touch with her for some time since their coaching relationship had ended.
One of his last memories of her is of a bike ride they took together in which she told him that she believed she would be killed by terrorists.
***
The day before the attacks, I went home early from work. I had broken my big left toe that Sunday, inadvertently hitting it against a cardboard box near the entranceway of the living room. I was in a foul mood because of the injury, and I had gone into work on Monday despite the fact that the sandals I was wearing were painful to walk in. As the day progressed, the swelling got the better of me, and I left the office at 3:30, hailing a car service Town Car on Park Avenue. The man driving the car was wearing a turban, something I didn’t really take note of until later. The drive home was a tense one, however, with heavy traffic and rain. I remember wondering if the driver was trying to get the better of me by taking routes I wasn’t familiar with, and at one point the thought did fleetingly cross my mind that I would not make it home. That instead I would be kidnapped by this man and never be seen or heard from again.
An hour and a half later I was finally at home and relieved to be inside the apartment and away from the craziness of the city for which my resentment had been mounting for some time. It was a low time for me, in general, where I felt that my existence was defined by the mantra work, eat, sleep, repeat. That night before going to bed I decided I wouldn’t go into the office the next day. Instead, I would work from home.
***
Matt had to get up early to coach in Central Park that morning, so he was up and out of the apartment by 4:30. I kept sleeping until he returned. He told me what a beautiful day it was outside as he got back into bed to get some more rest. I eventually roused myself up some time after eight, made myself coffee and turned on the computer. I was relieved that I wasn’t going into the office even if I did feel a little guilty about it.
I logged into my e-mail and wondered why I couldn’t work from home more often. What I did for a living didn’t really require me to be on site, necessarily. I checked some messages, and then I sent one to Julian. He responded back writing, “a plane just flew into the WTC”.
At first I didn’t react. I sat there for a few moments wondering, what does he mean by WTC?
And then it hit me.
I ran into the kitchen and turned on the radio already programmed to 1010 Wins. The announcer confirmed Julian’s e-mail. Panic hit, and I ran into the bedroom, screaming the news to Matthew.
The next hour was spent glued to the radio (we didn’t have television), and listening as the news worsened. First the second plane hitting the South Tower, and then the report of the Pentagon being hit.
The initial report regarding the Pentagon was vague, and at that moment I was sure that this was the end: that nuclear weapons were being detonated, and that I would die—as I was led to believe throughout my adolescence—because of nuclear war. This was the beginning of World War III.
This realization set in a form of physical paralysis as I my thoughts formed the conclusion that there was absolutely nothing I could do at this moment. New York, as clearly evidenced, was a prime target. There was nowhere we could run to now. We would be facing our deaths here imminently.
We continued listening to the radio for the next hour until the anchor turned over the reporting to a female broadcaster who had a clear line of vision of the burning towers. She reported what she was seeing, and then, mid-sentence, she just stopped talking.
The next sounds we heard coming out of the radio were howling screams, her screams.
She screamed for an interminable amount of time.
Matthew and I looked at each other. The chaos had begun, and for me, this was further confirmation that this was the beginning of the end.
Once the screaming stopped, she managed to speak what she had seen: that the North Tower had fallen.
Collapsed.
***
