Rembering 9/11/2001: The Horror

It’s been six years. My next few blogs will be sharing my memories, thoughts and poems of that day that changed our lives forever.

On September 11, 2001, I was working in midtown Manhattan. As usual, I walked through Central Park early that morning, noticing how exceptionally blue and gorgeous and peaceful the sky looked. When I exited the elevator for my office shortly before 9 a.m., I met Annie from the mail room. Annie always had news first and she told me that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center tower. Soon everyone on our floor was gathered around the TV. Given that many of us were around on the day of the first World Trade Center attack some years before, I can’t believe we thought it was an accident at first, a small plane horribly off course. Then we witnessed the second plane flying straight into the other tower – and we knew. This was no accident.

People were frantically trying to call their loved ones who worked in the WTC. When the unthinkable happened – the collapse of each tower – a woman, the sister of a man whose remains were never found, began crying and screaming. Surrounded by social workers in shock, trying to comfort her. In my suite of offices alone, there were three people whose relatives died that day.

And the rumors began. No one knew how many planes were out there, how many cities had been attacked, whether we were still in danger. But we all had the same goal: to get home, to reach our loved ones. In the weeks and months to come, as I worked with victims of the attack, this theme came up again and again – the desire to get home. And it was difficult getting calls through, reaching anyone by phone or cell. Were the roads open? Were the subways running? I guess they weren’t because it seemed like everyone was walking, walking home.

At that time, my niece from Puerto Rico was living with us and teaching at a school downtown. We could not reach her but my daughter Lisa, who lives in California, was able to contact her from there and relay messages to me in midtown Manhattan. Lisa’s birthday, by the way, is September 11th. Mine is September 12th and Lisa was my very best birthday present. September has always been my favorite month. For a long time, I resented the infamy attached to 9/11 and refused to refer to the attack by that date: I called it the WTC attack.

Back at my office, everyone was leaving, going home whatever way they could. We were scared and confused but as often happens, the worst times bring out the best in people. My friend and co-worker, Dottie M. had her car and waited with me until my niece walked uptown to our office from her school, some 60 blocks – in heels. Then Dottie drove us and others home and by that time there was no traffic on the eerily empty roads. As we crossed the bridge into the Bronx, we saw the smoke billowing where the World Trade Center used to stand, proud and shiny in the skyline. We were in shock. But we were going home.

There was a foul stench in the air that day and the next all the way up in the Bronx, miles away. I remember thinking that I was breathing in what was left of victims. It was so horrific that I felt numb. And then a crazy thought began to invade my brain. I was determined to go down to Manhattan. I guess I just wanted some kind of “return to normal”, to go back to work, to help in whatever way I could.