12gauge.com 2002 - World Trade Center Tragedy

Where I Was When...

by Carol Mangis

Ms. Mangis is former managing editor of 12gauge.com, and is currently an editor at PC Magazine.

"Now I don't know if I can find the words. I've read a lot of wonderful pieces in newspapers and at Web sites, a couple of the best at 12Gauge. I don't know whether I have anything useful to add to the outpouring of expression. But I'm not a doctor, a firefighter, or a politician, so what I have to do, all I can do, is write." -- CM

UK's Guardian Unlimited picks this essay on 9.11.01 tragedy by Carol Mangis on 12gauge.com as "Our Pick of the Best Online Journalism." Look for "New York Story" on Guardian.

There are millions of versions of this story: At any rate, here's my version. I'll try to make it brief.

When the first plane hit, I was casting my vote in the NYC primary, at the Westbeth building on Washington and Bank Sts., in the far West Village. When I left the building at around 9 AM, I saw a small crowd on Washington St. staring up and south. "What happened?" I (inanely) asked a woman there, before I looked up myself to see the hole in the World Trade Center's north tower. "Oh, shit," I said.

Everyone who arrived said either "Oh my God" or "Oh, shit." I don't know what that indicates about any of us.

I was sure it was a bomb, but then the crowd started buzzing that a plane had hit.

I live with 2 guys, in a building on Washington and Charles that's even closer to where the World Trade Center was. One of my roommates is a paramedic, who was out on duty already. The other was home sleeping. I tried to call him on my cell phone, but there was no signal. And then I went to buy a disposable camera. I wanted pictures, my own pictures. I want to think I wasn't being some morbid tourist of disaster. That maybe I sensed that something was disappearing, and I wanted to preserve it somehow. When I returned to the street, the second plane had hit. So I missed that impact too, and I'm pretty sure I'm glad I didn't see it.

Someone had stopped his car in the street, and had the radio on loud. That's when I first heard the word terrorism. Why I turned and went to work then, I'm not sure. When I arrived, those others who had managed to get to our office were crowded around our lobby TV. CNN showed us the towers falling, and I cried when the second one came down; it hit me, finally, that many people were going to die.

The next few days

I will remember the blocks-long lines of people outside St. Vincent's Hospital waiting to donate blood. The woman outside the hospital, pale gray dust covering her shoes, who had inhaled smoke downtown and could only rasp out her words. A mother asking a policeman, "How can I find out about my son-in-law? My daughter is frantic," and then beginning to weep. The relief of finally getting a call from my paramedic roommate that he had barely escaped the collapse of the towers; he was shaken, but he was OK.

I'll remember riding my bike around the Village on Wednesday; the only ground traffic was ambulances, police cars, and other emergency vehicles, and in the air, only F-15 fighterjets, army helicopters, and seagulls. People were out, though walking slowly, not smiling much, quiet and polite and so careful with one another. We make eye contact with strangers, and it feels odd but right. The weather, perfectly serene: relentless sunshine, merciless blue sky. The smoke seeping uptown, driving us inside to escape it--the smell of burning rubber and machinery, pungent, acrid. People wearing masks. We watch TV obsessively, switching from news channel to news channel--and it seemed every channel was a news channel--to find the best information, to watch the images over and over, the second plane slicing through the south tower like a shark, like a butcher's cleaver.

The next day, Thursday, we were asked to come in to work if we could make it. I rode my bike in; I hate riding in traffic, but there was still no traffic below 14th St. except what was devoted to rescue. The first memorials were appearing--multicolored candles, flowers, poems, notes, flags. And the first "missing" posters too; they eventually cover walls, bus shelters, streetlight and lamp poles. The missing smile out at us, arm in arm with family or friends, holding glasses of wine, children, pets. We understand that won't see most of them again. After work, I brought towels and socks to a donation center at the hospital. On the way, I met 4 policemen from South Carolina, parked on Hudson Street, resting up. I thanked them and asked to take their picture: "This is the kind of thing I want to remember," I told them. They posed, graciously.

Friday, at lunch, I went to church for the first time in many years. The church is small and very old, with glorious stained glass windows and that odor I remember of wood, incense, and water. The calm and emotion I felt there were spiritual champagne. I wanted more. So in the evening, I took a candle to the river. There were hundreds of other people there. At 7, we lit the candles. We stayed there by the side of the highway cheering workers as they drove to and away from the devastation.

I went to another service Sunday, at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. This service was grand and powerful. I spent the rest of the day in the park, walking, sitting, feeling the light and air and breathing in the slightest scent of fall.

For Now

My family checks in with me often. They want me to move away from New York, but I love my city now more than I ever have. I love Rudi Guiliani, who is displaying an hitherto-unsuspected nobility of spirit--calm, compassionate, strong, gentle. I want him to be Mayor of Emergencies, for life. I love the police, the firefighters, the doctors, the Red Cross volunteers--all of them heroes, brave and caring beyond belief. But can I stay? I don't know the answer to that yet. I've seen so much of what I can only call goodness that I'm heartened and glad to be here; but I've also seen violence, bigotry, and hate that was just waiting for a reason to erupt. There's a fear inside me that won't go away. It rises up every time I hear a plane roaring overhead, or when a siren wakes me. Rationally, I know that safety is an illusion anywhere in this world, in this life, but damn it, I want that illusion.

What I know I will do is keep close to the things that feed my spirit. And I'll educate myself about the world, learn those many things I've successfully ignored for so long. I love my country, and I also need to be a citizen of the world. I'll listen, and be patient, and nurture the way I feel about people--family, friends, and strangers; I'll fight the cynicism and bitterness that miss their power over me and want to take over again. And even if I can never feel quite secure again, I'll get my fucking sense of humor back.

Where I Was When... (The Follow-up) by Carol Mangis

What We Can Do by Garrett Mok

A Child of Allah by Mark Mordue

God and Wall Street: Observations and reflections crossing America, late September, 2001 by Judd Kleinman