If That Ain't Country: 2007

Tales from the Archives: September 11th

September 11, 2001

Today I was blessed. I stood close to the heart of chaos, and by the grace of God, managed to get out before chaos erupted and the world, my life, my belief system were forever changed.

Either the Daily News is short, as it frequently is early in the week, or traffic is bad. That is how I calibrate my morning commute. It runs like clockwork. I get on the 8:20 ferry from Hoboken. It docks at 8:30 at West 38th Street. I race off the boat, getting on the downtown express. Many of the faces on the bus are familiar to me. We all do this every day. Traffic is usually light and by 8:45 a.m. the bus has made a u-turn and we are deposited in front of World Trade Center 1. If the weather is nice, I walk outside. If I need to go to the bank, I cut through WTC 1, stopping at Chase to withdraw cash or make a deposit. Once, I even went to the Gap and loaded up on summer clothes. If it is raining or I am late, I walk into WTC and hop on the N or R for 2 quick stops.

Today, traffic was heavy. Our bus was across from WTC 1, waiting in a line of traffic to make the U-turn. I had finished the Daily News a few blocks ago, and was eager to get off the bus and get into the office. I wanted to hug my boss, who had courageously decided the day before to accept a voluntary separation package after close to 15 years at Goldman Sachs. I was looking forward to catching up with my friend Livi over breakfast, sharing with her the joys of my weekend. And then boom. Like a truck backfiring. A car hitting a pothole. In fact, I looked across the street and saw a truck bounce. Life in NY. Nothing new. Then a woman on the bus screams. Oh my god. It’s a bomb.

Panic. Chaos. The driver gets up and we look out the window. Flaming debris. People running for cover. Let us off we scream. He opens the door—scared and confused as all of us. Start running, get away. Faster. I run, my feet hitting the pavement hard in my flimsy summer sandals. Run, run. I stop on a corner, where a crowd of people has gathered. I look up in disbelief at the big gaping hole in the WTC. I am shocked. I have frequently gone up in WTC 1, enjoying drinks at the Greatest Bar on Earth, or dinner at Wild Blue and Windows on the World.

It filters through the crowd: a plane has flown through. How strange. Frantic as I try to call home. The sheer number of people on cells jams the system. I get through. Turn on the TV, a plane has flown into the WTC. I call work: I think I might be late. I stand with the onlookers for a few moments, pushing hard on my cell phone buttons, as if I will get through by physical force. Oh my god—someone just jumped out the window. Thank God I didn’t see it. I couldn’t stand it. I start walking north—away from the destruction. I call home and am told it was a small plane with engine trouble. You could hear the engine making noise. Not a terrorist attack. It’s safe. I feel relief.

Falsely as it turns out. I cross the street, dodging the steady stream of emergency vehicles that are racing down the road. I am heading east, going to walk over to Broadway and then turn South and head to the office. When I hear it. The roar of a jet engine. And I know, this is intentional. I hear the explosion and look up to see a fireball erupting out of the second tower. Then I see a man jump.

I call home, half-hysterical. It’s intentional I scream. I saw a man jump. I start walking north, looking over my shoulder in shock and disbelief. I am sacred because I don’t know what’s going to happen next. People are rubbernecking all along the West Side Highway. I frantically try to call my mom and dad but can’t get through. I need to get to the ferry terminal. Ferries stop running to Hoboken at 10:00 a.m. and I want to catch one. I come upon a parked cab, the driver watching the horror unfold. Please, I beg him. I need to get to the West 38th street ferry terminal. He shakes his head no, as if a fare is not going to tear him away from the spectacle. Please. I was at the WTC when this happened. I need to get home. He reluctantly agrees, and we start heading uptown.

Traffic is stop and go, but we finally pull into the terminal, 15 minutes before the last ferry is supposed to depart for Hoboken. I thrust $9 in his hand. This is all the money I have. Take it. He hadn’t even turned on the meter. I punch in numbers on my cell phone again, frantic to get in touch with anyone. A voice over the loudspeaker—ferry service is cancelled except into Weehawken. I wait in line to buy a ticket. With no cash left, I have to put the $5 ticket on my credit card. Finally, I get through to my mom. Stay where you are. I can come and get you. No I say. There is a ferry and I am getting on it. I want to get out of NYC, afraid of more attacks.

I keep staring at the Empire State Building, waiting for it to crumble or explode. I feel guilty, because I know that if I am escaping across the river to NJ to feel safe, what about all of the loved ones who live in NYC? My mom and dad? My brother? Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, friends? I want to tell them all to come to Hoboken and stay with us, as if they will be that much safer. More pieces come out. Mom tells me one of the planes was a hijacked American Airlines jet. She also tells me the Pentagon was bombed. Rumors are rampant. As the ferry sails across the water, I think of the irony of the morning. Sitting atop my inbound ferry, enjoying the sheer gloriousness of the day. Now, I am running away from the place I call home. Feeling unsafe and frightened and vulnerable.

We dock at Weehawken, and as I step off, grateful to be simply in another state, crowds rush the boat, anxious to get in to Manhattan. Why? I race to the ATM, desperate for cash. Out of service. I start walking, hoping that I will find a generous cabby to make the 2-mile drive to my home. Hoboken, I ask the bus driver? No, Fort Lee. A woman overhears. Hoboken? Yes. Me too-- can I stick with you? Sure. We wander around the parking lot, looking for cabs or buses. Is this the cab line, I ask a man in a station wagon, idling in front of a sign that says taxi stand? Yeah, I guess, but I am not a cab. Do I look like a cab? I don’t know I think to myself. I just want to go home.

The woman and I start to walk. We agree it is the fastest way we will get home. Up those stairs, I point. It is a major staircase, hundreds of steps leading up from the ferry station to the road ahead. I know where we are because I have driven that road to Edgewater. We start walking, she in a black suit and heels. Me in black pants and my flimsy sandals. It is now hot. The coolness of the morning has been blanketed by a blazing autumn sun. What’s your name? Sarah. And you? Megan. We start climbing the steps, one at a time, flight after a flight. A man is behind us. We talk about where we were. Where we work. What we do. I comment that the stairs are killing me. The man says don’t say that. I realize the phrase I just used, have used thousands of time before, now has new meaning. He tells us there is a Gatorade stand at the top normally and he’ll treat us. Do you take these stairs every day? No. Normally I take the shuttle. We get to the top and no stand. Just crowds of people, looking over at the scene.

Megan and I start walking. The sound of sirens fills the air. Every noise makes me jump. Every rumble shakes me to the core. Megan and I alternate between rounds of silence where we each frantically try to get through on our cell phones to loved ones, and small talk. What we do. Where we work. Where we are from. It turns out, she lives just three floors below me. I have to pee and my stomach hurts. I feel like at any minute I might throw up. The walk feels long and hot. A car passes by and a man sticks his head out the window: the towers are gone. Why does he smile when he says it? We pass by people waiting for buses. I see two girls with suitcases. Obviously going to Newark. Don’t they know what’s happened? As Megan and I walk past the Lincoln Tunnel Administration building, our pace quickens, afraid that it might be a target. We see a woman in an SUV trying to enter the tunnel, arguing with the cops. Doesn’t she know what’s happened?

Finally, we reach Hoboken. As we turn onto 14th Street, I look around me, as life seems to be moving forward. A woman comes out of the deli with her morning bagel and coffee. Two men walk by, both on cell phones. Why can’t we get service? I feel like life should stop I say. I feel like it already has Megan says. You live alone I question, as we enter the parking lot? No one should have to be alone today I think. No she reassures me. She has a roommate. But she is getting in her car and heading to South Jersey to her boyfriend. I don’t blame her. I am just grateful that my boyfriend, Marty, is home and not traveling as he frequently does.

We get in the elevator, I am so grateful to be home, in my building. She gets off on 4. I am scared to be alone for the next three floors. What if we get stuck? The elevator stops on five and I panic for just a moment. I need to be home. Please God. The door opens and a man steps on. He presses the button for twelve. The elevator stops on seven. I clutch my keys in my hand. It shakes as I try to insert the key into the lock.

I get the door open and step into my apartment, Home, Safety. I run into Marty’s arms, grateful that he is here to hold me. No time to stop though. I sit and watch TV and watch the full magnitude of what has happened unfold. I watch footage that shows the second crash. I watch footage that shows first one tower, then the second, crumble into a heap of rubble and debris. I try the phones, anxious to get through to my parents. Marty has been in contact with them, first by phone, then by email. I email them. I am home. Safe. Hit send. At my father’s suggestion, we go out to get cash and buy essentials. I put on sneakers, in case I have to run. I also take the necklace I was wearing, a gift from mom on Saturday night, and stick it in my pocket. It is the last thing she gave me and I want to hold it close. In case.

A frustrating 15 minutes at the ATM, as Marty fumbles with various cards before finding the right one. A trip to the grocery store where we stock up on non-perishables. What will last if we need to run? Home. A rumble overhead. Another plane? More footage on TV. Horror. Disbelief. An email from my parents. A dialogue is going. The phone rings. It’s a friend worried about me. She works at Fox News and her father had a major operation yesterday. I am torn. Flattered at her concern, trying to ask about her dad in between chokes.

Finally, my mom gets through, Hello? Mom? Marshall she screams to my dad. I have her. My dad picks up. Hello? Daddy? He doesn’t respond with words. Instead I hear him breakdown in sobs. He is relieved. Relieved to hear my voice. I feel the same way. We are on the phone for a long time, treasuring the connection. We swap information, who is safe and accounted for in our family. At my mom’s insistence, I download AOL Instant Messaging. It’s a good way to communicate. I finally hang up.

The day disappears in endless hours of TV footage. More horror as I watch WTC 7 crumble. I am sick when they show footage of Palestinians dancing joyously in the street. The sound of military jets flying overhead is not reassuring. The sound of the engines reminds me of the sound that the plane made just before crashing into WTC 2. The lack of communication is frustrating. A few friends get through. Our friends in Houston call and email, all worried about us. The show of love and concern is tremendous. Up until this point, I can’t fathom what this must be for people on the outside looking in. I am just so grateful that I am safe (for now) and that my family is safe, I haven’t even been able to think of other people.

We go out to pick up some things for dinner. We take a bus down Washington Street and get off when we hit a stream of traffic. Walking towards the PATH station I am horrified. Streams of people are walking, many of them wet. Is that sweat? Water that washed off the soot? Did they swim across? Many hold plastic cups filled with cool water. It’s hot. The sun is strong.

The bus station has been turned into a makeshift medical center. Body boards are lined up in neat rows. IVs hang from twine that has been strung across. Medical Staff instructs volunteers. It looks like a scene from WWII movie. All that’s missing are soldiers. Into the train station where there is more mayhem. People trying to get home. We pick up some groceries and head home. Buses are running, but they don’t stop on Washington because this is not their normal route. They are shuttling people to all over NJ. In the opposite direction, a line of buses clogs the street. Heading down to the station to be part of this effort. Ferry buses, double-decker tour buses, special buses. It’s unbelievable.

Home. More news. Something about the Verizon building. Oh my God, Victor. My dad’s best friend and a VP there. I hope that by this time he is out of the building and safe. Frantically trying to get through to my mom and dad.

Dinner. Practically the first food I have had all day. And then Bush comes on and speaks and I break down at his words. I don’t know why. I guess it starts to sink in the magnitude of what has happened. I find his words to be moving and comforting. Finally I get through to my mom and dad. Another long talk, filled with tears. This time, mine.

A night of sleep I don’t remember. It is a sleep of exhaustion.

September 12, 2001

I wake at 6:30. Still tired. My eyes burning from last night’s tears. The muscles in my legs sore, a reminder of all those steps I climbed yesterday morning with Megan. I look out my window at NY. From my apartment, the view is practically the same. The Empire State Building dominates a lush and lively skyline. The sun is rising and it looks to be another beautiful day. I look to the right, and see a big gaping hole where the spire from the WTC would normally peek out above the building that blocks my view of Southern Manhattan. I turn on the news, waiting to find out just what has happened and who is to blame.

Blame. I haven’t thought much about it. Marty spent the better part of the evening talking about wiping out the entire Middle East. I couldn’t think of who to blame and how to make them pay. Now I am beginning to wonder. As my fear starts to subside, the anger is beginning to set in. Whereas yesterday I felt vulnerable and afraid, today, I feel determined that this will not cripple me. I will become stronger. We as a city, mobilized and united, will be stronger. We as a nation, will be stronger.

Somehow nothing can get done. For Marty, it’s important to proceed with life as usual, getting things done because we have responsibilities. I don’t care about responsibilities. I just want to see my family. I spend the morning on the phone, tracking down friends and loved ones, letting them know we are all right, and making sure they are as well. Marty and I fight. Move on he says to me. It’s over. Life goes on. Do you think life goes on for the people who died yesterday I scream? You are Ok he replies. Physically, yes. Emotionally, I don’t think so. We argue about meaningless things. I storm out three times, only to return. I break down in a heap of sobs. I am so overwhelmed. I don’t want to be fighting with the man I love. I want him to hold me. Exhausted, I pass out.

Marty wakes me 45 minutes later. It’s as if everything that happened was a dream. We leave to head into the city to see my parents and go to a hope & prayer service at our synagogue. On the ferry across, I look at where the WTC would be, and see nothing but a big cloud of white smoke. When we step off in Manhattan, a shuttle whisks up the Westside Highway, traffic extremely light. When we step off, I can smell it. I smell the singed smell of an electrical fire. Death. Terror. It hangs over me. Cops are everywhere, on every corner. It feels like the early stages of a war zone.

When I see my mother, she starts to cry as she hugs me. The love is palpable. We walk through Central Park, enjoying the beautiful day. People are out—some relaxing, some laughing and playing. I don’t understand how people can be so jovial. If it weren’t for yesterday’s tragedy, the day would be perfect.

I am haunted by the smell that hangs over us. No one else can smell it. As we walk across 57th Street, a truck comes rumbling down, hitting a pothole that resounds with a big bang. The same noise I though heard just 36 hours before. My life will never be the same. Then sirens, and a car racing Eastward. A van filled with soldiers and guardsmen. There is no other traffic, and cops are stationed on every corner. It’s like living in a police state my mom says. I think of the Leon Uris novel Mila 18, about the Polish Ghetto during WWII. I remember how in the beginning of the book, when the ghetto was first formed, people had no idea what was going to happen. They kept thinking: It can’t get worse than this. By then end of the book, they know it can. I fear for what is going to unfold for us as a nation, for me as a Jew.

The reunion with my father is like nothing I have known. At the sight of me, he breaks down, and I hold him, comforting him. For a minute, it feels is if the roles have been reversed. I am the parent, and he is the child. He holds me, shaking, thanking God that I am alive. I have never felt such pure love.

Later that night, when Marty & I are waiting for the ferry to take us back to Hoboken, he can smell the putrid stench that has drifted northwards from Lower Manhattan. We look up at the Empire State Building, eerily black for the second night in a row. Tonight, the view of Manhattan is different. A Heavy cloud of white smoke hangs over the city. It reminds me of what I would draw as a child: a house, with a chimney, with a curly-q of smoke billowing out all the way across the page. Tonight, that’s what Manhattan looks like. A curly-q of smoke that billows over our once beautiful skyline. What’s also different, are all the flashing blue lights of harbor boats patrolling the shores, and flashing red and white lights of emergency vehicles and cop cars that line the West Side Highway. It’s as if all the lights are trying to make up for the big black hole where the Twin Towers used to stand.

We go to a bar and grill across the street for a quick bite. Though all of the TVs in the bar, normally turned to sports, are on news coverage, you can’t hear what is being said because the level of bar chatter is deafening. I feel out of touch: I haven’t watched the news in hours. It’s like a drug: I need a steady stream of information in order to feel functional. I am not hungry, but I eat anyways. A live musician sets up, and then starts his set. Just so we can forget for a while, he says. Forget, I feel like screaming? I don’t want to forget. This is not over.

There is nothing to do but watch and see what unfolds.

September 17, 2001 – September 21, 2001

My return to work, in lower Manhattan, is a series of fragmented images and recognitions:

The Police officers who greet us when we step off the ferry at Pier 11. Good morning, they say with a smile.

The soldier who is directing what little traffic there is. Is this what he thought he’d be doing when he joined the Army?

I see from my window a solider who wearily seats himself on the steps and removes his helmet. He puts his face in his hands and I can see his body heave with exhaustion.

The frame of one of the towers, bent steel, still somehow standing. The view from the ferry.

Red, white and blue everywhere. Flags pinned on lapels with pride. Scraps of ribbon held together with safety pins. I make a tissue paper flower to pin on my bag.

There are so many police officers. On every corner, in every train station, on the ferries, in office buildings. I wonder about their families. How long do they stand and watch, separated from spouses and children and friends and parents?

Firefighters clustered outside their firehouses. Shrines of flowers and candles and notes. They still must work. When will they grieve?

Pictures of the missing everywhere. Even in Hoboken. Employees of Cantor Fitzgerald and Marsh McLellan. Aon and Port Authority. Why do they plaster them everywhere my boyfriend asks? So we can know who they were I say quietly. The nameless, faceless thousands who perished—we start to know them through this catharsis.

A friend in Houston. A friend of hers gone. An employee of Cantor Fitzgerald. On the Squawk Box screaming when the plane hit. My heart goes out to her, and I realize that we in NY are not the only ones grieving.

Images seared in my mind of planes crashing and screams as the buildings tumble.

The ever-present stench of burning hangs over downtown. Today, when the wind shifts, I can still smell it in Hoboken.

Roger Clemens goes 20-1 and makes history.

Rudy, our mayor, our leader who has shown such strength, tempered with such humanity. What will we do when he is gone? Who can take his place?

The Jewish New Year. Sha na t’va. Celebrating feels difficult in the face of so much tragedy.

Trying to cope with fitful sleeps and jagged imagery. A persistent anxiety that grabs at my stomach every time.

Terror and gossip mongers who turn every piece of information, every slight rumor, into total death, destruction and chaos.

Crashing Markets and a shaky economy.

A man stands in front of 2 Broadway getting a lesson on how to use a gas mask. He is smoking.

The workweek is slow and quiet. Although the Markets are open, worrying about my administrative responsibilities seems so insignificant. The Nimbda virus affects our server and we lose Internet access. A lifeline has been severed. Now as rumors start to circulate throughout the building, there is no way to confirm their validity. The terror mongers are sapping my strength.

One Month Later

It has been a month since our lives were forever changed. Life has returned to “normal.” I go out to eat dinner at restaurants. I shop. I come into the city every day and go to the office and do my job. Downtown is busy again, with people and traffic. There are no longer soldiers and cops on every corner. There is still a shrine at the fire station across from the ferry slip. Pictures and cards, flowers and candles, are piled high in homage to the brave men who lost their lives trying to save others.

And me? My fear has been replaced with determination, my apathy replaced with passion. When I look at how united we are, as a city and more importantly, as a nation, I am filled with a tremendous pride. I know I can continue onwards.

If That Ain't Country

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

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