Part 1
Over the course of the more than five years that I've blogged here, I've largely avoided discussing myself. In light of the upcoming tenth anniversary of 9/11, I've decided to break that pattern and share with you my experiences connected to that pivotal event.
That cliche, "pivotal event", takes on real meaning for me as I consider the effect that 9/11 had on me. It really turned me around, as I know it did for much of the country. I should say at this point that I was there, at the World Trade Center, when the planes hit. To be more accurate, as the first plane struck, I was on a subway train entering the Park Place station. I was on my way from my home in the Park Slope neighborhood of Brooklyn to my office at 100 Church Street, one block north of the World Trade Center. The furthest thing from my mind at the moment the first plane was crashing into the World Trade Center was whether I would survive the day. I was thinking about whether I would have time to buy a cup of coffee and a bagel before clocking into work by the 9:06 deadline.
After walking up the stairs from the subway platform to the arcade level halfway between the street and the platform. That level provided access to a number of other train lines and to the World Trade Center Arcade, which featured a number of shops and restaurants. I turned right to walk to the stairs up to the street. To my shock, this put me face to face with a mass of people with terrified faces moving quickly in my direction through the passageway from the World Trade Center arcade. I will confess that my immediate reaction was one that hope other jaded inhabitants of cities will understand. I had been travelling to that office via subway for more than 12 years. Over that time, there had been track fires, train derailments, and various other emergencies. My initial reaction was "What is wrong with these people? Why are they over-reacting like this?" A closer look at their faces told me something more significant was happening. Although I had no idea the dimensions of what was unfolding almost directly above me at that moment, the sight of one woman's terrified facial expression brought home to me that something very, very bad was happening and that she had seen it. I will never forget that woman's face.
I walked upstairs to Church Street moments before the throng reached the staircase, considering myself lucky to be able to get up the stairs unimpeded. As soon as I got to the street level, I saw that some more signs that something was really wrong. A firetruck and another emergency vehicle were parked in the middle of the street at odd angles, in a manner I had never seen before. There was virtually no traffic, in contrast to the usual rush hour crush. This morning, only a few cars were weaving between the emergency vehicles and the many pedestrians milling around in the street. One or two cops were directing traffic by waving cars through the red lights, out of the area. They looked like they were doing it on their own initiative. Pedestrians were wandering in the street, some seemingly in a daze.
Walking in the middle of Church Street, I made my way down from Park Place to Barclay Street, parked myself on the corner opposite the Church Street Station Post Office, and looked up to see the sight that is now one of the most recognizable images on earth: the North Tower of the World Trade Center with smoke billowing from it's side. I stood watching that smoke pouring out, trying to absorb what I was seeing. I don't know what to say about the feeling of looking at what should have been the most boring, familiar sight in the world -- one I had seen every morning for more than a decade -- and seeing something so shockingly unfamiliar and unexpected. There are no words to describe it.
It felt a little bit like years had transpired in an instant. My wife and I had just returned from our honeymoon a week earlier. We had seen the World Trade Center from the plane as it approached JFK airport on a virtually identical clear summer morning. In an instant, that image and countless others of my many years with the towers, was replaced forever.
After a very brief period in that weird state of mind, an odd thought came into my head. I thought: if my late father were still alive and here with me now, he would ask me why I was standing there watching. He would ask "is it really worth risking your life to stand there looking at this?" I literally felt as if my father were there talking to me. At that moment, with my father's voice in my mind, I started to walk quickly to the front door of 100 Church Street.
As I walked toward the building, it seemed to me that all the oxygen was leaving the place. There was a strange feeling of lightness and ominous silence and rush of wind that lasted for the 15 seconds it took me to get to the entrance to the building. Approaching the front door, I encountered my first instance of completely irrational behavior. A smoker standing in the entranceway to the building, in the area where smokers congregate every morning to grab a quick cigarette before work. He was smoking, looking calmly in the direction of the street where chaos was unfolding, but not actually seeing what was taking place. His face was expressionless, relaxed. He exhaled a long puff of smoke toward a street filling with horrified people and emergency vehicles. His face said that it could have been any morning of any day. He appeared to be in a state of shock -- a fugue state.
I entered the building's lobby and met a small group of secretaries, one of whom worked for my boss. She was panicking. Hers was the first voice to say to me "we're gonna die". She said that to me within a few seconds of my entering the lobby, at precisely 9:03. I know that for sure because that was the moment that the second plane struck and the boom sent a shock through the building and into our bones. My boss's secretary let out a strange little sound and said "we're gonna die". I tried to comfort her by saying a bit too dismissively "No, no. We're gonna be okay". She looked at me with an expression that said "how the hell do you know, idiot". She was right. I didn't have a clue. I advised her and the other secretaries to keep calm and to watch for a moment when it seemed safe outside, then to get the hell out the neighborhood by whatever means possible. In retrospect, that was pretty good advice, although they didn't seem in the mood to take it.
I half-trotted -- in that way you do when you're pretending not to run even though you know you should be -- to the bank of elevators at the rear of the lobby and went upstairs. Instead of going to my floor, I went to the floor where the division managers' offices were. They following the textbook at that time, or at least following
a textbook. A manager was telling the workers in the division that they were to conduct themselves as if nothing was wrong. They were not permitted to call home to tell family that they were okay. They were not permitted to try to determine if their families and friends were okay. I would learn within the next half hour that one of the workers he had given that instruction had a 2-year-old daughter in day care in the World Trade Center. She was forbidden by him to call to see if her daughter was okay. She was told to answer the phones as per usual, to be calm and courteous. No special treatment.
As news of the second plane crash made its way into the office, a buzz of rebellion started through the floor, with people saying that wanted to get the hell out of the building and run for their lives. The area was very clearly under terrorist attack. No one knew if another crash was coming next. One manager had given strict instructions. No one was to leave their seats until further notice. Continue to do your jobs. Continue to smile!
I found the person who had given this order and told him that the situation had already progressed beyond the point where the instructions he was giving would be considered sound. The best thing to do would be to evacuate the building in an orderly manner before chaos broke out. I was trying to couch what I was saying in language that he would understand: what his superiors would think of his delaying action, what would make him look good to them. He dismissed me with a smirk and a wave of his hand. He was right of course. After all was said and done, he was praised for keeping his cool and keeping those around him cool as they waited for further instructions. I still hear that same opinion expressed by some people I tell this story to, while others are as outraged by his behavior as I am. That reaction says something important, and sometimes unexpected, about the personality of the listener.
The problem with the seemingly reasonable idea of waiting for instructions to evacuate was that the instructions for which we were waiting were to come from a source that knew less about what was happening outside the building than we did. The building's managers were calling 911 to find out what to do, and the 911 operators were saying, based on a lack of information, that people were safer staying in their offices than going out into the street. In spite of the fact that we knew that we were under attack and in grave danger, we were following instructions from people with no idea how grave that danger was, and they were telling us to stay in harms way.
I ran up the stairs and, after having a quick conversation with one of the building managers about whether it was better to leave office doors open or closed (he decided that they should stay open so the firefighters could see if anyone needed assistance), I went to my office. Only one of my four staff members was there. It was Susana, my best friend of the group. Susana was in an understandably scared state of mind and seemed glad to see a friend there. I was doing my usual shtick in an emergency: pretending that everything was under control while I silently assessed the risks and kept my fears to myself. That seemed to work better with Susana than it had with the secretaries. I told her that we were leaving the building regardless of what management was saying. Susana has a disabled hip and walks at an extremely slow pace. I wasn't going to have her wait for further instructions only to be trapped in whatever hell was coming next.
Susana and I walked, half-step by half-step, toward the elevators. As we did, the announcement came. A frightened Russian-accented voice came over the loudspeakers in the hallway. It was saying "Everyone to leave building now", over and over. Susana and I were told by the crowd that suddenly materialized in the hallway that the elevators were not working. We started down a narrow staircase. Step by step, we went slowly down the staircase, standing side by side with Susana leaning against me to stay upright. Behind us, hundreds of scared people who were also fleeing the building were walking downstairs at our slow pace, some complaining, others saying "Quiet. They're going as fast as they can". We only had four flights to go down, but that seemed a very long way to go knowing that all those people were behind us.
We got down to the chaos of the lobby and made our way out a side emergency door into the street. The first firefighter who saw us leaving the building was yelling "What the hell are you people still doing here? You were ordered to evacuate a long time ago".
As I think back on the firefighters we saw in the next few moments, I wonder how many of them died. I can picture them now running toward the World Trade Center, some a bit out of breath, some of them yelling to each other, waving each other on. I have a feeling that most them, including the one with the brocaded cap indicating that he was top brass, died that morning. I don't know for sure, but I get a chill thinking it about it now, having seen them running without any hesitation to what we all now know would happen soon after.
Susana and I made our way up Park Place to Church Street. It was slow going. Half step. Pause. Half step. Pause. We heard that the subways weren't running and I could see that running for our lives in slow motion in that way would present problems. There was a green pickup truck with New York City Housing Department markings parked on Church just north of Park Place, facing the wrong way -- south, toward the towers. Amazingly, a young guy was in the passenger seat, feet sticking out the window, eyes closed and listening to earphones. I reached over and shook his arm to get his attention. He looked irritated. I said "Look. My friend here is disabled and we've got to get her out of here before something else happens. Can you give us a ride?" He closed his eyes again and said "That's not my job". I said "What do you mean? Don't you understand?" No response.
That was the second instance of completely irrational behavior that I observed that day. This guy didn't seem to be in a fugue state or having a shock reaction like the smoker who I had seen earlier. This guy had the look of a pathological lack of empathy. The kid in the truck didn't care that he was facing the smoking ruins of the twin towers, or that a crippled woman was standing before him in need of assistance. He couldn't even be bothered to witness perhaps the greatest historical event of his lifetime. He just wanted to relax and listen to his music.
Susana and I made our way slowly past City Hall. I was thinking about whether we should head over the Brooklyn Bridge or go north. I foolishly decided against the bridge, thinking both that it might be a target for another plane and that Susana wouldn't be able to make it across the bridge. Big mistake. We ended up walking far more that day than we would have done crossing the bridge. As we made our way through Federal Plaza, I realized that I had led us to the cite of the FBI and NYPD offices and the Federal Courthouse where Sheikh Omar-Abdel Rahman (the Blind Sheikh) and the other 1993 World Trade Center bombers were tried. If there were a site in Manhattan that terrorists would want to bomb, here it was.
At this point, I should point out that rumors were flying. There were people on the street being helpful to strangers in that offhanded way that New Yorkers have and that visitors to the city sometimes have trouble understanding. People would overhear someone say something about the subway, or about getting a cab, and a stranger who overheard what they said would chime in with what they knew. Among those helpful strangers were two people who told me that suicide bombers were blowing themselves up in New York and Washington. One guy told me with great conviction and seeming sincerity that he had heard this reported on WCBS, the local all news radio station. I believed him and was terrified about being near the courthouses when the next bomber struck.
Susana and I walked up Centre St. into Chinatown. At this point, I made my first irrational decision. Maybe it was semi-rational. I got the idea that food might be difficult to come by so we should stop running for our lives and eat. My friends and family will not be at all surprised that my irrational 9/11 moment involved food.
In the moments just before the South Tower collapsed, we went into Excellent Dumplings and ordered some dumplings. I told you that this story has some weirdness. As we sat down at a table, a policewoman ran into the place, shouting to the person at the cash register that she needed bottles of water to bring to relief workers at the towers. The cashier said that she couldn't just give the water away, she'd get fired. The cop started to plead with her, yelling "What kind of person are you? Don't you know that people are dying? I need water for the rescue workers." The cashier just shrugged and clammed up, as did the other workers in the restaurant. The cop ran out with a disgusted shake of the head, yelling back into the restaurant "What kind of people are you?" We were only a half mile north, but the whole thing seemed very different from how it did up close and personal. We couldn't hear anything now but people arguing and worrying about keeping their jobs. We couldn't see the jumpers falling from the towers or hear the sirens wailing. And we wouldn't hear the towers collapsing.
As the South Tower was about to collapse a half mile away, we were eating an order of steamed vegetable dumplings. I walked out and stood on the sidewalk with a man I took to be the restaurant's owner. We watched the tower disappear and a plume of dust rise up. I went inside, got Susana, paid the check and left. On Canal Street, we ran into -- of all people -- the woman whose 2-year-old was in the daycare at the World Trade Center. She was a friend of Susana's. She told us that she had talked to a family member at home who had heard that all the children had been evacuated, but hadn't heard anything specifically about the woman's son. Although she was doing her best to hold it together, she had a look of stress and quiet desperation in her eyes that I fully understand only now that I am a parent.
For some reason I no longer recall, the three of us walked west on Canal Street to Broadway, and started to walk up through Soho. A man in a business suit carrying a brief case walked briskly past us. He was covered in what looked like several inches of ash and soot, looking almost like snow. Bits of it were falling off the shoulders and back of his jacket, breaking the smooth coating. He walked silently by focused on getting to his destination. We looked at him but didn't comment.
I need to tell you at this point that I didn't know for certain whether one or two of the towers had collapsed, although we had heard it was both. I didn't know if the buildings' occupants been completely evacuated or if tens of thousands had died. I remember that the figure of 30,000 dead was going through my head as a possibility. I had no idea how many of the firefighters we had seen had died. We were wondering about all this, of course, but we were more focused at that point on whether our lives were in still danger and how on earth we were going to get back to Brooklyn. It would be two very strange hours more before we would figure that out.
COMING IN PART 2
Irrationally exuberant street partiers in the 9/11 mayhem who saw the chaos as a chance to cut loose, Howard Stern fans in Soho, more 9/11 dining experiences, trying to rent a car, the brutal mugging of a college girl near NYU, and teenage thugs threatening violence on a subway car filled with refugees from the disaster.
You'll also read the backstory of my small connection to Sheikh Rahman and the originators of the 1993 WTC bombing plot. Jersey City is my hometown. I lived there for 20 years, 13 of them two blocks away from Rahman's Jersey City mosque, Masjid al-Salaam. I was acquainted with his followers through the shops which they ran on Sip Ave. and JFK Boulevard, just a few steps from my home. Imagine my surprise when I saw a photo of the guy from the Port Said grocery -- with whom I had discussed the difference between regular feta cheese and triple cream -- alongside the blind sheikh during a TV news report about the sheikh's arrest for the 1993 bombing.
You'll also hear about how, because when the towers went down and took out New York's broadcast TV, I didn't have cable TV at the time, so I actually saw less of the images of 9/11 for several weeks after it happened than did people on the other side of the world, in spite of the fact that I was there when it happened.
That and more in Part 2.