Remembering 911

I was in New York City on September 11, 2001. Once a week I commuted to Brooklyn via the Hoboken Ferry to the WTC subway, the other 4 days I went through Penn Station instead. On Sept. 11, I went through Penn Station. A colleague on the Staten Island ferry saw the second plane fly directly over his head and into the WTC. He reported the ferry stopped just short of Manhattan, put it in reverse, and retreated back to Staten Island at a fast clip.

For years afterward the anniversary was a time of reflection and of remembering the anger I felt that day. It was unlike anything I ever felt before, that someone had actually tried to kill me and destroy my way of life. I remember being shocked they came up with the name of Osama so quickly, that they would know who would do this. If they knew, why didn’t they do something to contain him? Now as the 5th anniversary is remembered, I feel anger again, but now it’s directed at more than just the terrorists. I feel anger that we were struck, but also that this country has diverted their resources into meaningless wars. We remember the victims of 9-11 more prominently than those killed by our own government in New Orleans on 8-29. We have given up many civil liberties and disregarded the rule of law in our country. We have a president that is no better than any third world dictator, and we can’t get rid of him. Our noble ideas of how great our democracy is are dead. Our country is crumbling and we are not OK.

The image of the WTC burning on that beautiful, crisp, clear fall day, as viewed from the Brooklyn waterfront, is etched into my mind. It is always a dramatic viewpoint but this day it was like watching a movie in real life. Glittery bits of paper, or something light, floated away from the building in the sky with the plumes of smoke as the flames flickered through the two buildings. From this distance, we saw no jumpers. After watching for a bit my colleague and I agreed to return to our office a short walk away to try to hear the news and find out what was going on. When the buildings came down we heard nothing.

We evacuated from our office with the rest of our team to the Brooklyn Marriott and proceeded to order appetizers and get drunk watching CNN in the lounge for the rest of the day. I hoped my husband in Times Square would stay away from the chaos, even as I wanted to do anything to help. At the Marriott we watched the migration of office workers, some covered in ash, as they walked down the road towards home, having just crossed over the Brooklyn bridge. Water stations were set up for them. We heard the downtown Marriott was no more. At the end of the day the reports were that the subway was reopened, and I dared a ride through the hazy, smoky underground tunnels since it was the only way home. On arriving at Penn Station there was only one train going to NJ and I took it. It was the wrong line but I knew if I could get across the river to Newark I could walk the rest of the way, it was only a few more miles to my house.

On this day I learned the meaning of shell-shocked, and of the thousand yard stare. What is the worse way to go, fire or water? I wasn’t in New Orleans on 8-29 but I have a glimmer of knowing how it felt. Five years later, the “hole in the ground” is coming along nicely.