Warren St., October 25

Well, this is my version of the events of September 11. My family lives just four blocks away from Ground Zero, and I work for a newspaper that deals with the financial world. Here’s my tale end of the spectrum.

The Night Before—September 10, 2001 Hoboken, N.J.

My roommates had gone out that night and left their two big dogs (I don’t know what kind). They barked all night, keeping me and another girl staying at the place, not to mention neighbors, up until about three a.m. I screamed that night—something I’m not particularly proud of—but it was all I could think to do. Another woman screamed too. No, I don’t do this every night. But this was one of those nights when the accumulation of frustration was wearing me out.

September 11, 2001

Around 6 a.m., my radio alarm went off—I think it was either KTU or an R&B station. I lay there wondering if I should skip my exercises this time and sleep in—but I told myself that I would stick to this routine no matter what. I live in Jersey City Heights, so I was doing my usual commuting route, first the Hoboken bus, then the PATH to 33^rd St. There is another train that goes to the World Trade Center—a different route. Since my job had been moved uptown to Penn Station, I took the one to 33^rd.

Fortunately, the gym is across the street from my job—so I did my usual exercises around 7:30 that morning, enduring as usual the requisite irritating music, showered, got breakfast and went into work. I was rushing into the elevator and a woman stood there, mouth gaping open. It was about 9:10 a.m. “Did you hear what happened? A plane just crashed into the WTC.” It was one of those “I knew something was going to happen” kind of moments. I think I laughed nervously and said something like, “I knew it’d be one of those days.”

On the news monitor in the elevator, a picture of the WTC showed up with smoke billowing out. I was more fascinated than anything. I got upstairs ready to eat my breakfast, and the other editor, a guy in his thirties who’s always there by 8 a.m., was the only other one in the room. I don’t exactly remember what happened then—I think I went into Yahoo! News and saw “Plane crashes into WTC.” Then my father called from Indianapolis. We talked about what was going on, and at the time I figured this was a terrorist attack--but I assumed everyone in the building would get out safely. Someone else came into our news room and said, Can we see it from here? We couldn’t, but someone else said we could see from the art department. So a bunch of us went there.

I saw the Twin Towers with smoke billowing out the top, and just gaped at them. The radio was on. A woman had planned a conference on Windows on the World, and I heard her saying, There goes our conference. Then, the smoke increased until it was the equivalent of a volcanic eruption, and finally, within a second, that building spritzed out smoke and collapsed, with no resistance at all. It looked like a sandcastle collapsing.

There is no doubt that is the worst thing I’ve ever seen, along with a dog getting hit by a car, death in my family from cancer, and my dead cat. But this was all these deaths times a thousand. I felt both relieved and guilty that I wasn’t down there. My mom lives near the World Trade Center, and so much of my early teenage years were spent in that part of town. “Oh my God!” was all I remember hearing. The woman I work for was grabbing my shoulders behind me and crying. Another woman started crying and collapsed in a chair. A guy from England knew some of the people who had been on the top floor at the Risk Waters conference. I just thought of my mother, her husband, and my sister who all live down at a loft on Warren St., just four blocks away from this mayhem. It isn’t possible, I thought—Mother or Sonny—I imagined the worst—covered in debris or worse…not possible, people I’ve known all these years…

Other people talked about people they knew in the World Trade Center and began crying. One girl’s mother was there. The woman I work for—her son was there. I prayed they were OK. In a daze, I went downstairs to the gym again. I felt like throwing up and was dizzy--I think I was just numb. I went back upstairs—and people were leaving. My instinct was to go to Sam’s school, which was uptown. I talked to my father again who told me to stay composed, get out of midtown. I figured if they were going to hit again, they’ll come either here or 42^nd St.

I just started walking—I decided to go to Hunter College. Penn Station or the Empire State Building would be next. Life was abnormal—would never again be normal. I saw people talking on cell phones, and one girl said you can get through if you keep trying. I tried some more to call my sister. Finally, I heard her voice, and there followed the “thank Gods” and so on. Turned out Mother and Sonny were safe and unharmed--my mother had gotten evacuated to New Jersey. Mother had apparently gone jogging early that morning, and she had seen everything. So I just kept walking uptown—and people were billowing out into the street. Some of them—it was shocking--looked like this was a holiday or something. I went into St. Patrick’s Cathedral and lit a candle—dumbly. It was all I could think to do. I was wearing an awkward outfit and sneakers—my hair was clumped and frizzed everywhere—and I was sweating. Amazingly vanity was still with me—I felt draggy and embarrassed at my appearance.

Hunter College was virtually empty but for a few lingering people. I saw an ad that the local hospital was looking for donors. So I went over there and stood on line—then a guy came by saying they weren’t taking any more blood. Once again I tried to meet my sister—we planned to meet on 86^th Street, but we couldn’t get hold of one another because the phone lines weren’t working. I desperately needed to be with someone—not alone.

When I finally got back to Jersey City, I looked at the NYC skyline and saw that gigantic cloud of smoke. I was exhausted from walking around, from the stress of the day, three hours’ sleep, and—I live on a cliff and the buses weren’t running. The Hoboken station, where the buses usually go, was turned into an emergency hospital. So I had to walk up the cliff home. I can tell you I was glad I wore sneakers and not my delicate little flip-flops. I was never so grateful, though, just to get home.

First Day Back at Warren St. October 25, 2001

I was bone tired after work—from three or four hours’ sleep the night before—once again my roommates woke me up in the middle of the night. Anyway, I got a call on my cell phone from my sister who wanted me to come to the Warren St. apartment, as they had now moved back in. I agreed, as I was nearby in the West Village, and I really hadn’t been back in almost two months now, not since a week or so before the Incident. So I got on at Christopher St. and the train was functioning no differently—just commuters coming home to Brooklyn, mostly, from work. I got off at Chambers St. like I had done a thousand times before—but this scene was to be a whole new one.

First of all—in the stations was the smell. It wasn’t so bad at first. Then I saw the gap between buildings on West Broadway, my street of over a decade now, and of course the Trade Center wasn’t there. I saw the black little building for the first time—it was of course just a charred mess. I was amazed that thing stood at all. I looked around at all the people walking around, and all of them had a gloomy, blank look on their faces. This was the same crowd I had witnessed constantly for years—a rich, chi-chi crowd who really didn’t seem affected by much anyway —but now their faces were, when you looked closer, changed somewhat. There was this look of shock, really.

The Raccoon Lodge, a bar underneath my apartment for the past fourteen years or so, was amazingly still there—then again the Raccoon Lodge is indestructible, probably. People were sitting having a beer, which I found preposterous. How can you sit in this area casually like you’re at a baseball game?

I rang my mother’s buzzer again and again and got no response. I called my sister’s cell (the main phone, I was told, was out) and she couldn’t even buzz me in. She had to come down and open the door. The apartment was clean, and the only thing different were clothes wrapped in plastic. Apparently, Mother had left, the morning of Sept. 11, the window facing the Trade Center open. When it blew up, dust flew into the apartment. Amazingly, mail from the 100^th or so floor of the WTC had flown four blocks into Mother's apartment. Mother showed me letters addressed to people on that floor. A crew of some sort had cleaned the whole apartment out.

My mom and I went to walk the dog. We walked around West Tribeca, four blocks away from Ground Zero, and for the first time I actually saw the area. The view was mostly of construction equipment, and cops, and police barricades blocked off most of it. My mom had offered me a mask which I had laughed at before, but I understood now why. It was windy and this constant dust was flying around, and burning smell was everywhere. Dust went into my mouth, and I had a constant urge to spit. I bought a disposable camera later, and took some pictures--and endured people's dirty looks. One guy got mad at me for taking a picture he would be in--but this was too important not to record. I saw a young, attractive couple in front of me, and the woman was covering her face. Another attractive European woman walked by talking on a cell phone. Everything could somehow “pass” for normal—until you looked closer. People passed the area and looked over at the scene—all with the same face.

So this is terrorism--and I have lived a sheltered life. The wrong people were attacked here—they were innocent civilians. And when I think of the Afghanistan bombings and one horror story after another I can see this retaliation is a mixed blessing. I see pictures of those horrifying smoke clouds and everything is shrouded in secrecy and mystery--vague, speculative, contradictory. I want facts—but they are few and far between. And I desperately need to just get on with life and not let depressing news stories keep me from smelling all the lovely flowers before they’re all dead.

Pictures ... Emergency & Relief Efforts

What We Can Do by Garrett Mok

Where I Was When... by Carol Mangis

A Child of Allah by Mark Mordue