My 9/11

On the morning of September 11, around 8:40, I was exiting a PATH train from Hoboken, N.J. at the subterranean level of the World Trade Center. Minutes later while I was walking up the steps of the commuters’ “mole hill” — a host of escalators and stairs ferrying New Jerseyites to the main concourse — police came running, yelling to get out of the way. I didn’t raise an eye brow – such is life in NYC. But it was no ordinary day. Soon EVERYONE started running to reach the ground level. Never one to follow the crowd, I made an exception.

At the ground level people were scurrying around. I exited on Vesey Street – not my regular route.  Outside a crowd gathered, mesmerized by the fiery hole and debris. The air had a terrible industrial smell. Instinctively I tried to call home but without success. Word on the street was that a chartered plane had accidentally crashed into the North Tower. I found that kind of strange, but had no better explanation. As debris continued to fall and air quality worsened, I decided it would be better to exit this “war zone” and get to my building. Instead of walking I jogged.

At One Chase Manhattan people were attempting to go about their normal routines but there was a heavy uneasiness in the air. As I stepped onto the 59th floor I met one of our firm’s partners who normally had a ready joke but Andy was less than chipper. He looked at me with a distraught expression and said, “There are people jumping.” My heart sunk as I entered our lobby. Turning the corner I was making my way to my cubicle when a plane came into view through our conference room windows looking out upon the Towers. As the second plane exploded, everyone came running out and so began our descent down 59 flights of stairs. That was it. It was no accident. We were under attack.

I miss New York every September. My heart aches as I think of friends. I remember the look on their faces, how we tried to encourage and support each other every step of the way. I remember the surreal feeling of downtown Manhattan. I remember reconnecting (after 8 years) with an old classmate from high school who called out my name amidst the crowds. I remember taking a ferry with my roommate later that day, and being hosed down by NJ firemen and EMTs in Hoboken upon our arrival. I remember hug upon hug after we finally returned to work. I remember the warm embrace of the El Salvadoran man who picked up our office’s recycling every day. I remember meeting a young woman from Cantor Fitzgerald who called in sick to work (her offices were on the top floors); she was one of maybe two team members alive and she was searching for answers, struggling to make sense of life. I remember and I hope.

I did not know anyone personally who died that tragic day, but, I was there. I saw the destruction and shook with fear and anger. But I also experienced a real and amazing sense of community in the weeks that followed. For me September 11 is a stark reminder of the very real presence of evil in this world, the fragility of life, and that we should take no day for granted. And, it is an enduring lesson of sustaining faith and hope in the midst of tragedy, disaster, and injustice.