Around 8:25 or so I locked my apartment door behind me, briefcase in hand, and started my 8 minute walk to the Grove Street PATH station. As usual, the World Trade Center (WTC) train, originating in Newark, was packed with morning commuters on their way to the city. I squeezed into one of the cars and we sped off, stopping first at the Exchange Place station near the Jersey City waterfront, and then continuing under the Hudson River into the WTC.
The train pulled into the WTC around 8:42 or so. To get to street level, I had to ride 3 escalators - one from the train platform to the PATH entranceways, then two more. I didn't like this part of the commute. There were so many people getting off trains and making their way up the escalators, it was like a giant herd of cattle. It was frustrating trying to negotiate the crowd, dodging people, stepping on heels, moving around the slow pokes.
Disaster Strikes
At the very top, I stepped off the escalator, turned right, and started walking in a southeastern direction. Normally, I would walk down two corridors, past the shops and restaurants, to get to the exit. This morning, I didn't have a chance to walk that far. It was around 8:46 now. Suddenly, there was an explosion. It sounded like a small bomb, or perhaps even a shotgun. From where I was standing, it sounded like it was down the hall and around the corner. Women screamed, and then everybody just started running. It sounded like a stampede. The sound of people's footsteps was so loud, it almost hid the sound of the screams that continued. I had never heard the sound of people running like that.
I was terrified. The first thing that went through my head was that the WTC was bombed again like it was in 1993. But then I thought that perhaps someone had a gun and was "going postal," shooting people in some psychotic fit. My heart raced, my adrenaline started to flow, as I ran toward the nearest exit. I feared that the panicked crowd would trample me. I feared that another bomb would go off over my head or underneath me and kill me in a blast. I spoke aloud to myself as I ran, "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God." A man tripped and fell in front of me. I jumped over him to avoid tripping on him. Not wanting to be trampled, I jumped into the doorway of the Sbarro Pizza restaurant to assess the situation. People continued to scream and run, even though we didn't know what we were running from. Then it occurred to me: "why the hell am I standing here? Get out before you're killed!"
The next few moments are a blur. I jumped back into the stampede and made my way out of a northeastern door. I don't remember going through the door. I don't remember running across the plaza. I don't remember seeing the crowds of people running out of the building. The next thing I do remember is seeing crowds starting to gather, and everybody staring up at the sky and pointing, with looks of horror on their faces. I looked up and saw the North tower, A.K.A. Tower 1, ablaze, giant billows of black smoke shooting out of it. "They DID bomb it," I said aloud. "No," a stranger said, "a plane hit it." I didn't believe him until another stranger told me he had heard the low-flying plane and looked up to see it crash into the tower. Hearing that, I assumed it was an accident… a mechanical or computer malfunction on the plane, so I disregarded the thought of a terrorist attack.
By this time, emergency vehicles were starting to arrive. Police started telling people to back away. Everyone was pouring into the streets, staring at the burning tower, making frantic calls on their cell phones. I remember being in the street when a fire engine arrived… I had to step back to make room for it to pass by. I looked up at the truck…I can still picture the face of the firefighter in the passenger seat… his arm dangling out the window as he leaned out, shouting to people to clear the way. I realize now that he's probably dead… most of the firefighters who were first on the scene were killed when the tower collapsed some 30 minutes later.
I stood there in awe for a few minutes, watching the scene unfold. Office papers from the tower were flying through the air like a tickertape parade. I knew there must have been people killed by the blast, but I assumed, naively perhaps, that the building's sprinkler system would eventually extinguish the fire. The hook and ladder trucks certainly couldn't help; the fire was too high. People were confused… not knowing what was happening or why. Time stood still. I looked around and noticed some people taking pictures with disposable cameras, and thought I should quickly run to a drug store and buy one. As horrible as the event was, it was history unfolding, and I wanted to document it for myself. I turned to walk a block away to a drug store. I stepped in the store, withdrew some cash out of the ATM (my ATM slip says "9:02 a.m."), and stood in a short line for the register. It was while I was in line that we all heard a second explosion. It was 9:03 a.m. I turned to look toward the storefront window, and noticed people running away from the direction of the WTC. I quickly paid for the camera and headed back to the street where I was standing before.
Day of Terror: My Personal Account of the World Trade Center Terrorist Attack
Tuesday, September 11, 2001
My Day Begins
I woke up on the morning of Tuesday, September 11th, 2001 around 7:15 a.m. I showered and dressed in my shirt and tie for work. It was only my third week working at a health insurance company in the financial district in lower Manhattan. One of the benefits of working in lower Manhattan was the relatively short commute from my apartment in Jersey City. Taking the PATH train from Grove Street Station across the Hudson River into the World Trade Center, I could walk a few blocks to the office and be there in about 25 minutes, door-to-door. I didn't really mind the packed trains going into the city each day at rush hour; I enjoyed being part of the energy, somehow feeling that here, in the financial capital of the world, I was in some small way part of a larger effort to keep our country strong. I liked walking down Broadway or Trinity Place from the World Trade Center, seeing the stock brokers, clad in their brightly colored jackets and member ID tags, sucking down their coffee and dragging on their cigarettes before plunging into the madness of the stock exchanges. "This is it," I'd think to myself everyday, "This is where capitalism begins and ends. The almighty dollar at work. The free market. This is prosperity. This is freedom."
More smoke. More flames. More debris. More paper. The South tower was now on fire too. I overheard someone say that a second plane had flown into the tower. Someone else confirmed that. I knew then that this was no accident. These were terrorist attacks. By now, the police were pushing people farther away from the vicinity. Now people were really starting to panic. Running, dropping their bags, shoes, keys, and hats. Women crying. Friends gripping each other in tears. Everybody was staring at the burning towers and uttering words of disbelief and amazement. I felt like I had been sucked into a Steven Spielberg film. Or was it a nightmare? Was I going to wake up soon?
As I stood staring up at the towers and snapping pictures, I noticed people jumping or falling from the burning buildings. It was clear the jumpers were still alive - their feet and arms flailing as they plummeted 80 or more stories to their death. They must have been faced with the unthinkable choice of either burning to death, or jumping in resignation to their death. Whenever a victim would jump, all of us onlookers would gasp in horror. That's when it really hit me: this was no nightmare. This was no movie. I knew these people were dying right before my eyes. I started to cry, and closed my eyes to pray for them. My stomach ached. Damn those terrorist bastards.
First Tower Collapses
I watched for a few more minutes in disbelief, the police pushing us farther away as the minutes passed. I thought the best thing to do at this point was to go to the office and call my roommate and my family to let them know I was ok (I didn't have a cell phone then). It was around 9:30 now. Would anyone be at the office? I was so dazed at this point, I couldn't even remember how the heck to find my office from where I was standing. I asked a passerby how to find Broadway and, after reorienting myself, started the short walk to my building. On the way, I picked up some things on the street, including an office document burned on its edges, someone's keys, a book, and a receipt for an airline ticket.
When I got to my office building, it was clear most people had left. I took the elevator to the 9th floor and found my boss, Ray, and a coworker, Carolyn, among others, still there. They were relieved to see me, as I was unaccounted for, and they knew I traveled through the WTC each day to get to work. I quickly booted up my computer while I dialed the phone to reach my roommate. The circuits were busy, no doubt because of all the people making calls in the area. I found a few e-mails, from my family and friends, all of them wondering if I was ok. I fired off quick replies, saying I was ok but shaken. Meanwhile, on the 5th or 6th attempt, I got through to my roommate. As I was telling him I was ok, I heard another explosion, the building shook, and the lights flickered. I told him there was another explosion and that I had to go immediately. I hung up and ran to Ray's office to look up Trinity Street toward the WTC. The first tower was collapsing, and all I saw was an enormous thick black cloud of smoke and debris heading right for our building. I was afraid that when the cloud hit our windows that it would break them, so Ray and I moved to the interior of the floor. It didn't break the windows, but it did shoot dust and particles through the seams and into our building.
Second Tower Collapses
We knew then we shouldn't linger any longer in the building. We headed to the stairwell, where we mixed into the crowd and headed downstairs to the lobby. I lost Ray somewhere along the way and never saw him again that day. As we stepped out into the lobby, a maintenance worker handed us all dust masks to wear. Someone told us to stay in the lobby because it was too dangerous outside the building. Some of the women were panicking. One was having an asthma attack, and had lost her breathing apparatus. She eventually calmed down without losing consciousness. A group of women crowded in the corner and read passages from the Bible aloud. Others formed a line to take turns using a payphone. I tried calling my roommate again from the payphone, but I couldn't get through. By now it was around 10:30. We then heard another explosion and a long, drawn out rumble. I looked toward the revolving doors in the front of the lobby and a new cloud of ash, smoke, and debris shot its way down the street past the doorway of our building. Moments later, someone confirmed that the remaining tower had collapsed.
We all lingered for a while in the lobby. Some strangers came in from the street, covered in ash, and washed themselves off in the janitor's sink in the hallway. Ash was collecting on the street like a dark gray winter blizzard. Soon we were all instructed to go next door to the large post office because supposedly the quality of the air was better there. Most people chose not to leave, but I was happy to get out of there. I felt like sitting there in the lobby was a waste of my time. I walked over to the revolving doors and looked outside. What had started out as a gorgeous, sunny, September day was now dark and dismal. Everything was covered in an inch or more of ash. Everything was gray. The sunshine was completely eclipsed. I secured my mask over my mouth and nose, and headed outside. I couldn't believe it. It looked like nuclear winter. I couldn't see more than half a block in front of me. I looked North up Broadway (toward the WTC), and it was a wall of black smoke and ash. The ash burned my eyes. The smell was sickening - like the sharp odor of burning wires or plastic. The few people who were on the streets walked around with masks, shirts, or towels over their mouths and noses. I noticed a bank of two payphones half a block up. No one was using them, so I went up to them to try again to reach my roommate. I couldn't get through to him, so I thought if I tried calling one of my brothers or sisters in upstate New York, I might have better luck reaching someone. The only person's work number I could remember was my brother Gary's. I called and he answered.
I barely remember what I said at that point. But I told him where I was standing and what I was doing, and asked him to phone my roommate and tell him I was ok, that I wasn't sure how or when I would get home to Jersey City. I also asked him to share the information with my other siblings. I remember that it seemed he didn't know what to say, but that he was happy I was ok. I turned to walk back to the building, when a passerby stopped me and offered me the use of his cell phone. He was concerned that I couldn't get through to my loved ones. I took him up on his offer and tried one more time to reach my roommate, to no avail. I thanked him, and we went our separate ways.
I walked into the post office, where there were dozens of people waiting, most of them sitting on the floor along the perimeter of the walls. There were two pay phones inside, and of course, long lines of people at each of them. I saw a co-worker standing alone crying. I put my arm around her to ask if she was ok, then left her alone to make her phone calls on her cell. I sat for a few minutes before I decided I wasn't going to sit around any more. I was worried about how I'd get home. I wondered what would have happened to me if I had left the apartment 5 or 10 or 15 minutes later and been on a later train.
I was thirsty. With mask over my face, I again ventured outside and up the street to see what I could find. To my amazement, a large deli/café was open a few doors up Broadway (only in New York!). I walked in to find a dozen or so people, most of them sitting at the tables and chairs, waiting to find out what to do next. The staff was still selling food and drink to people. I was appalled that they weren't giving away water. I bought some fruit and a water and settled down at one of the small tables.
Evacuation
It's amazing how tragedy and emergency can make instant acquaintances out of perfect strangers. The group of us sitting at the tables started talking as if we had known each other for a long time. We shared whatever news we had heard. Someone reported that the Pentagon was hit. Another said the White House was bombed. We all cursed whomever had planned and executed these attacks. We all agreed the United States would kick someone's ass over this. At that moment, a Coast Guard officer came in and asked if anyone was hurt. He then asked if anyone needed to get home to New Jersey. I raised my hand and told
him I lived in Jersey City. The military, he explained, was ferrying people from Battery Park across the Hudson River to Liberty State Park in Jersey City. There were two others in the group who needed to get to Jersey. The three of us immediately left the deli and turned southward toward Battery Park. When I reached Battery Park, only a couple blocks away, I could see people walking to the park from all directions. Halfway across the park I noticed a heavy-set elderly woman limping along and huffing and puffing, a rag held over her mouth and nose. I stopped and offered her my mask. She refused, saying "I'm an old woman - I'll be ok." I insisted, but she again refused. Unable to offer her my help, I continued walking to the docks. There were dozens of boats of every size and kind either docked, pulling away from the docks, or waiting to alight. Ferries, tugboats, fishing boats, military vessels all working together to evacuate people off Manhattan. I got in a line of people boarding an Army Corp of Engineer's boat. Some soldiers helped us aboard, and within minutes we were pulling away.
Some of the people on the boat were absolutely covered in soot and ash. Barely a word was spoken, except by a couple people sharing what little news they had heard about the catastrophe. As we pulled away from Battery Park, more and more of the cityscape came into view. It looked as if all of lower Manhattan was on fire. Billows and clouds of gray and black smoke hovered over the city, moving southward over New York Harbor. Again, it was like some kind of scene from a movie. I was exhausted. I was relieved to be alive. I was angry at the terrorists. Where were the towers? They should be there, and they weren't. What was going to happen? What else would be attacked?
I turned away from the view of the city and looked over the other side of the boat. There was the Statute of Liberty. What a glorious site to see at that moment. The sky over her head was still clear and blue. No smoke, no ash. She stood tall and sure. This was a message, I thought, that despite the evil and the destruction and the death, we, too, will stand tall. The WTC was a symbol of America's power and wealth and greatness. But what the terrorists don't realize is that destroying our symbols does not destroy our greatness. What they don't realize is that by attacking us, they only make us stronger. They only make democracy shine brighter. They only bring out the best in all of us.
The boat finally reached Liberty State Park. There were medical units set up under tents to treat the wounded. I felt lost. It was quite a hike to get home, but no way to get there except to walk. I was tired, and all I wanted was to see a familiar face and to be hugged. I asked some officials if there was any transportation available to get to downtown Jersey City from there, but they said no. I started my walk. Along the way, as I passed block after block of homes, I could see and hear people's radios and televisions tuned in to the reports of the attacks. Neighbors clumped on each other's porches and on street corners to talk about it. Some people stared at me because I was covered in dust with my mask down around my neck.
Home Safe
About 35 minutes later, I reached my apartment. My feet hurt. I had a headache. I was so tired. As I climbed the stairs and neared my apartment door, I could hear my neighbor inside my apartment, talking with my roommate. I stepped in, and we all hugged each other. We cried. The horror of everything that had transpired that morning came rushing at me all at once. I was so happy to be home. I was so happy to be alive.
The Days Afterward
A blur and a fog. That's what the first week was like after September 11th. After taking off my ash-covered clothes and taking a shower, I rested on the couch and watched the news unfold on television. Like the rest of America, I was in a state of disbelief for quite some time. My office was closed. We had no power, water, or phones. I didn't have my boss's home phone number with me, so I had to wait for him to contact me before I knew when we might expect the office to open again. I closely monitored the city government's website, where daily updates were posted on the conditions of the Financial District. For days, no traffic was allowed in and out of the city except for emergency vehicles. The city south of Canal Street was declared an emergency zone and closed. The National Guard was called in.
On Thursday, September 13, my roommate and I decided we needed to go into the city - not only because we needed to relieve our cabin fever and get out of the apartment - but also because we felt a need to be in Manhattan and see what was happening. We took the PATH train into the West Village on Thursday night. There weren't many people on the train, and those that were onboard remained completely and unusually quiet. The streets in Manhattan were deserted, except for local residents. Everyone seemed to be walking around in a daze with their heads down. No one smiled. No one laughed. We walked in the streets because there was so little traffic. Restaurants - usually buzzing on a Thursday evening -- were closed or nearly empty. Juke boxes and stereos were off, and TVs were on instead. The whole city appeared depressed. I'd never experienced anything like it before.
While we walked down the street, a fire truck happened to go by with an ambulance behind it. The few of us on the street stopped and waved and clapped. The drivers waved back in appreciation. We also passed by the firehouse on West 10th Street off of 6th Avenue. A make-shift memorial was growing there. People left signs, cards, and candles. Pictures of the firefighters from that unit who had perished were posted on the walls. Lots of flowers. As the days unfolded, we realized that make-shift memorials like this one popped up all over town. The largest was in Union Square.
There was no escaping the aftermath of the disaster. Pictures of missing loved ones were posted everywhere - walls, subways, bus stops -- especially in the Financial District on northward up to the Village. The signs were hard to look at. Seeing pictures of these smiling people, I knew the loved ones who posted the picture would only end up having their hopes dashed. One poster I saw quite frequently looked a lot like one of my nephews. I imagined how I would feel if it had been one of my nephews. The pictures remained up all over town for weeks.
A week after the disaster, I got a phone call from my boss saying that power had been restored to our office building and that I had to return work on Tuesday the 18th. We could wear casual clothes, because the place was so filthy inside, and there were a lot of barricades, cables, and other obstacles to walk around. I dreaded having to go back to that neighborhood, but at the same time I was curious to see what was happening there. I knew the subways were going to be jammed, since the PATH train line to the WTC was destroyed. Instead, I took the ferry, the dock for which is only a short 15 minute walk from my apartment. On the ferry, a gorgeous young woman in her early 30s sat next to me, and I noticed a button she was wearing on her purse. It was the face of a young man, his name printed above his face, and "9-11-01" printed below. I wondered if he was her boyfriend. She wore an engagement ring on her hand.
As we crossed the Hudson River on the boat, Ground Zero smoked and smoldered. In fact, it smoked and smoldered for weeks afterward. Every day for weeks, people stared out the windows at Ground Zero as we ferried across the river. I don't think any of us really believed that those magnificent towers were gone. We needed to stare at the smoking hole to remind ourselves that this horrible thing really did happen. The window that provided the view of the disaster site was also the same window that, on the return trip at day's end, offered a fantastic view of the Statue of Liberty. I can't express more sincerely how much this comforted me each day. Out one side of the boat was a smoking, smoldering symbol of hatred, cowardice, and death. On the other side of the boat was a majestic symbol of freedom, strength, and comfort.
When I stepped off the ferry, it was like a war zone. National Guard and police everywhere. Barricades, cones, ropes. I had to show my I.D. five times before reaching my office. This continued for a couple weeks, and gradually the security lessened. After a while, the National Guard, who made Battery Park their headquarters, left the area. The air reeked. It smelled like something I've never smelled before. It made me ill just to think that much of the smell was probably due to incinerated bodies. The smell was especially strong when the wind blew southward toward my building, and it lingered for weeks. Lots of people continued to wear masks. Dust everywhere.
I remained frightened for weeks and didn't sleep well at all. Anxieties were high all around. Would there be another attack? When? Where? How? Wherever I went, I couldn't help but think how that location might be a target. I avoided the subways. I was even afraid that the ferry was a target - after all, the boat was merely a tin can full of people and fuel. I wasn't alone though. Lots of people were jumpy. The slightest loud noise would startle crowds. When planes flew overhead (only military jets were flying overhead for quite a while afterward), people looked nervously toward the sky. But somehow this situation made people more sensitive to each other. New Yorkers, known for their brashness, were polite and patient now, courteous and friendly.
Singer & Piano Entertainer
