Finding the Moments In Between
That September day started like a normal Tuesday. The morning was sunny, clear, and crisp with a slight breeze. When I awoke, I threw open every window, letting in the cool, fresh air that hinted at fall. I was excited to get moving and begin our day. In an hour, we would head out to the farmers’ market that surrounded the Twin Towers. This had become a sort of ritual. After getting dressed, Carl, Julian, and I would leave our apartment and take the elevator down to the lobby. We would join our neighbors on sidewalks that were quickly filling with businesspeople rushing to Wall Street. Mothers like me, pushing strollers and holding toddlers’ hands, headed to the playground, store, or nursery school. Teenagers on skateboards wandered back to classes after a lazy summer. Bodega owners opened up shop. We watched the ferry shuttle workers from Jersey, and we said “Good Morning” to the cheerful man running the fruit cart as we passed.
I lived for Tuesdays and Fridays. Farmers’ market days. My favorite time of the week.
Halfway across the West Side highway pedestrian bridge, we would spot rows of white tents protecting tables overflowing with brightly colored fruits and vegetables and be greeted with the sweet smells of freshly baked bread, muffins, strong coffee, flowers, and seafood. People hustled around, quickly grabbing something to eat on their way to the subway and work. It was all very efficient. Standing in line for a steaming hot cup of tea and a croissant took all of forty seconds. We would get our breakfast, push Julian’s stroller to a corner, and eat and chat for a few minutes before Carl headed into the towers to catch his train to Times Square.
After Carl ducked into the revolving doors of Tower One, I would search for my girlfriends, always finding them nearby, because the Tuesday morning routine included all of us meeting up, our kids in tow. Quickly—everything in NYC moves quickly—we would shop, loading up our bags and hanging them off the handlebars of the strollers. A freshly baked muffin, a sippy cup, and his buddy in the stroller next to him occupied Julian, as well as the promise of a trip to the playground afterward. The farmers’ market was a delight for the senses. The hustle and bustle. Colors, textures, aromas, and promises of fresh, wholesome ingredients to feed our families and our souls.
The previous night, September 10th, had been magical. The weather encouraged throwing caution to the wind and abandoning the routines that kept the wheels of our households moving forward. In a city built of steel and concrete, nature’s perfection of a crisp, clean late summer night was intoxicating. Carl left his midtown office early, and the three of us headed to the esplanade to stroll along the Hudson River. After grabbing a quick bite and dining on a park bench, we meandered around our neighborhood. Sailboats, filled with tourists for the sunset tours, glistened in the distance. Joggers listening to their Walkmans ran past us. People spilled outside, drinks in hand from happy hours at the local haunts. We people-watched, marveling at the rollerbladers, bikers, skateboarders, and stroller-pushers maneuvering around the pedestrians. Grabbing the warmth of the sun, the three of us soaked it in as a reserve against the winter ahead.
The light began to fade as we walked. Reluctant to end the evening, we turned down Albany Street and found Rector Park bustling with families. We spotted numerous friends also converging on the park unexpectedly. We greeted each other with hugs and smiles. What a PERFECT night! So unexpected. What are the chances? On a Monday evening at the end of summer, serendipity hit, gifting us time to catch up and let the kids play. As the streetlights turned on, we gathered. We chatted about work, family, summer vacations, and upcoming projects as we watched the toddlers run around, happy to see each other. Each was elated to be up past their bedtime, as if they were getting away with something, like stealing cookies off the counter. The sounds of giggles and belly laughs were in the air.
Looking back, twenty years later, I see this night as nothing short of a gift. A present, neatly wrapped and sent directly from the universe to each of us. A gift I did not appreciate at the time. As I reflect, my curiosity grows. I’m sinking in and trying to pull every shard of lingering memory. It was the last night in our neighborhood, and we were magically drawn toward each other by some unseen force greater than ourselves. I’m questioning myself.
Was it really magical?
Yes, looking back on it.
But at the time, what was I thinking? Did I think any of it was magical? Or even special?
Most likely, if I try to tap into that version of myself, I imagine I was impatient and slightly annoyed.
Why couldn’t Carl get home any sooner? Doesn’t he know I have a cranky toddler on my hands who is HANGRY! Why is the line at the deli so freaking long? They totally need more help! Why are all the park benches taken? That dude is taking up a WHOLE bench by himself. These damn skateboarders are going to send someone to the hospital! They should never be allowed on the esplanade.
Greeting our friends, was I thrilled, or did mommy brain kick in? That part of the brain that is only concerned with bedtimes and the nightly routine not getting messed up. Was I judging Mary’s ugly green dress? Where do you even get such a dress? Was I feeling fat? Or just uncomfortable? Was I bored by the drabness of everyday conversation? Did I even care about the fabulous trip taken by a friend over the summer? Did I tune out and half-listen while making a to-do list in my head?
If I had a crystal ball and had known, or even suspected, that this would be the last time any of us would enjoy our neighborhood as neighbors, maybe I would have viewed the night differently. Not feeling stressed about getting Julian into bed. Lingering slightly longer. Giving genuine hugs to my friends, as it was the last time I would see many of them. Soaking in the sounds and smells of our little piece of NYC. The scents of the river, baking pizza, fresh-cut grass, sweaty toddler bodies, and trash. Yes, even the trash. Maybe then I would have relished standing in the deli line and watching the skateboarders do incredible tricks. I would have lived in the moments, noticing the details and appreciating them as I sent gratitude out into the world.
I took my life, my spectacular life, for granted.
The first waking moments on the morning of September 11, 2001, were those of a normal Tuesday. After that, it was historically not normal.
I am awakened by Julian’s voice. “Daddy, are you awake?” I peer over and see Julian peeling Carl’s eyelids open with his fingers. This was a normal occurrence. No matter how many times we explained to Julian that he needed to let people wake up on their own, he would not stop. It was his mission to alert everyone that the day had begun.
Carl responds, “Yes, Julian, I am up now.” He then rolls back over for a few more minutes of sleep, and I scoop Julian up to take care of him. We head out to the kitchen to get something to drink. I throw open every single window in our corner two-bedroom apartment. Every room except the bathrooms had large wall-to-wall windows.
In 2001, most NYC windows did not have screens in them. When I first arrived in the city, I was EXTREMELY freaked out by the no-screen norm. I come from the DC area, where there are only hobbit buildings, because no building in DC is taller than the Washington Monument. I imagine screens are banned because they could be used as a weapon. Some sinister evil villain gets pissed off and throws a window screen from forty-two stories high on someone standing on the street below. Or something less sinister. A howling wind rips the screen off the window, and it flies down and takes some unsuspecting bystander’s eye out. It turns out screens are not banned, just difficult and expensive for landlords to clean in high-rise buildings.
Not only was I afraid of someone or something falling out the window, I was also afraid of our apartment filling up with flying bugs. Again, being from DC, a city that was literally built on a swamp, bugs are a huge issue in the summer. But it turns out that bugs don’t like to fly very high. So we were safe from bugs in our 25th floor apartment, and we were safe on the street below from flying window screens.
The morning routine was moving forward. Carl was getting dressed for the day. I was trying to get myself and Julian together, so the three of us could head to the farmers’ market. Julian and I walked into his room to get him dressed for this amazingly beautiful day. I took out an outfit, socks, and shoes.
“Julian, time to get dressed,” a gentle reminder before I moved toward him to help facilitate the process. I took off his pajamas and encouraged him to put a shirt on. “NOOOOOOOOOOOO,” he screamed as he wiggled away from me, running down the hall on the wood floor, naked.
UGGGH. Seriously? I think, as I glance at the clock. Only fifteen minutes until we have to leave, so Carl isn’t late to the trading floor. I chased him down the hall, trying desperately to catch him. In the living room, which also served as our dining room, he ducked behind a brand-new couch that had been delivered the previous week. To him, the couches were exciting new toys meant just for him to jump on. Or apparently, as a fort to protect him from monsters making him get dressed. He was crying, screaming, and carrying on. He did not want to get dressed. He was using every tool he had to communicate his unwillingness to me.
I peered around the couch and cleverly grabbed at him. Fruitlessly, I tried to pick him up as he squirmed and slipped like a pickle getting taken out of a barrel. He was having none of it. This monumental meltdown is permanently etched in my mind, more so than even his birth or our wedding day. Julian—naked, screaming, and carrying on. Simply refusing to get dressed, like his life depended on it.
As it turns out, his life just may have depended on not getting dressed that morning.
Wrestling with Julian, I lose the match and tell Carl to go ahead without us. We kiss goodbye, and I wish him a nice day as he’s walking out the door. Bummed at not being able to meet my friends at the farmers’ market, I reach for the phone to call my closest friend. I wonder if we can meet up later in the morning. She answers. I alert her that we aren’t coming and tell her the story of the Emmy award-worthy meltdown. She laughs understandingly. She is halfway there already. She notes, “It’s a beautiful day! See you guys at the playground.”
Slowly, I convince Julian to put on clothes. The wrestling match is forgotten. I attempt to pick Julian up, he allows me, and I place him in his highchair to eat breakfast. After a few short moments, Julian decides he’s done. I let him down, and he runs to his room to find his ABC Elmo and the rest of his toys. I pad down the hall after him towards my bedroom.
Julian’s room was painted lime green. It was often filled with natural light from the wall of south-facing windows overlooking the city toward the Battery. The master bedroom was on the corner of the building, located on the southeast side of Gateway Plaza. Our windows rewarded us with views of both the Battery and the Twin Towers. This rectangular room consisted of two walls of windows and a solid wall that housed our queen-size bed. The fourth wall contained our closet and the bathroom doors. With this configuration, there was only one place to fit a dresser: the east side window wall. My dresser sat under the bank of windows facing the towers.
With Julian playing in his room, I finally had a moment to get myself ready for the day. The allure of getting to the market somehow still had a hold on me. Moving further into our room, I opened the bathroom door, brushed my teeth, and placed contacts in my eyes. I undressed and threw my pajamas into the hamper. I turned around and inched closer to my dresser, placing my glasses on the windowsill. (I would never again wear those glasses. By the end of the day, they had melted into the windowsill.) I opened the top drawer. The sweet smell of lavender floated up from the Crabtree & Evelyn liners blanketing the bottom of each drawer. I peered down, trying to decide what to pull out.
I looked up to glance out the window. Is that a plane? Then I felt the ground move beneath me.
In the early ‘90s, when I was in my 20s and single, I had the honor of working for the American Red Cross. To this day, I get emotional whenever I see the Red Cross flag. The goose bumps remind me of what an amazing (though imperfect) organization it is. In my role as Assistant Director of Community Relations, I helped manage an extensive volunteer organization, trained new volunteers, and ran a youth group. I also had the opportunity to work on two natural disasters, each for six weeks. Hurricane Andrew in Florida (‘93) and the Northridge Earthquakes in California (‘94). This experience had uniquely prepared me for what I was about to experience.
In my disaster role, I interviewed earthquake victims looking for loved ones or in need of other assistance. Many gave such precise details that if I closed my eyes and listened, I was transported to the moments they experienced. So at first, I believed a large earthquake had hit downtown Manhattan. Intense vibrations rose up through the floorboards, rocking and shaking the walls surrounding me. The noise was louder than thunder. I was still looking out the window as the ground continued shaking, and the top of the North Tower caught fire. Huge plumes of smoke were pouring out of the top ten floors.
The shaking stopped.
Thoughts fired rapidly through my head. “WTF! The plane shouldn’t have been there,” “The first responders need to hurry,” “OMG, those poor people.”
Moving at warp speed, I threw on some clothes. I floated toward the bedroom doors, peeked in at Julian playing, and moved into the living room to get a better view. My heart was racing. When I picked up the phone to call my husband, a girlfriend from downstairs was already on the line. She experienced the earthquake sensations, but with an apartment facing the Hudson River, she didn’t have the view that I did. In 1993, when a truck bomb was detonated in the parking garage below the tower, she had been living in the area. She suspected something similar had happened.
“What happened?”
I try to explain, but finding the words is a challenge. “The whole top of the North Tower is on fire. Black smoke and flames are pouring out. I’m not sure what happened.”
I start counting the floors. “At least ten floors! There must be hundreds of people in there!”
She tells me she’s coming upstairs to take a look. I lean toward the window, practically pressing my face against the glass. The whirl of the emergency vehicles racing down the east–west highway and beyond fills the air.
In between the sirens I hear knocking, bringing me to awareness that Natasha is at the door. I move backward, not wanting to take my eyes off the scene. Upon opening the door, I see my friend, with her eight-week-old daughter and toddler son, in the hallway. Surprisingly, her husband is trailing behind them. They quickly move past me to the window. Julian senses his friend is near and comes padding out of his room.
Stunned, we stand in silence, watching the scene.
Curious, I ask, “Sal, it’s almost 9:00. Why aren’t you at work?” As it turns out, Sal wasn’t sitting at his desk in the North Tower because his infant daughter had thrown up her breakfast on his suit. The milky, staining type that festers and is impossible to remove with just a paper towel and water. His wardrobe change, blessedly, made him late for work. This is just one of countless stories of our friends and loved ones not being where they were supposed to be on this fateful morning. Us included. I am reminded that Julian’s volcanic meltdown also changed the path of our morning.
“Do you have a video camera?” Sal asks.
“Yes, I do!” I reply, reaching into the hall closet to retrieve it. Luckily, I knew exactly where it was. We had spent the past weekend on Long Island celebrating my niece’s first birthday and had brought the camera with us to capture her milestone. After checking that there was a cartridge loaded, I hand the video camera over to Sal.
Natasha and I were standing close to the window and discussing strategies for evacuating the building. All three of us had numerous jobs in the towers, which were the hub of our neighborhood and a huge part of the fabric of our lives. The shopping mall on the concourse was the largest mall in NYC at that time. Duane & Reade, Borders, The Gap, and the Warner Brothers store were just a few of the many shops we frequented. Julian could be occupied by just looking at the life-size cartoon characters in the Warner Brothers windows. We dined at the restaurants and brought visiting friends to the Bar at the Top of the World for drinks.
My first job after getting married had been at the Crabtree & Evelyn store in the towers. I was new to the city, a country girl at heart and out of my element. The sheer volume of people, moving like carpenter ants through the concourse, terrified me. I would get to the store, and streams of people coming from the subways would be walking toward me. On my side of the corridor, I was shoulder to shoulder with a stream of commuters beelining toward the trains in the opposite direction. I tried to gauge when I could cross through the scores of people without getting trampled. The perfect timing was difficult to achieve. Stressful! So I came up with an elaborate scheme to walk through the palm trees at the World Financial Center and across the bridge into the towers. I would hug the walls, going against the traffic, so I could end up at the storefront without having to cross the concourse. I had come a long way since those days. My skill set now included reading a newspaper (remember those?) as I maneuvered through without bumping into anyone and causing them to spill their coffee. (Yes, that happened.)
The secret? No eye contact.
As we watched the beloved building burn and listened to the sounds of the sirens, our nostrils were filled with the harsh smoke smell. We calculated the square feet of damage from the accident with the help of Sal, an architect. (Surely, it was a horrific accident, I thought.)
My nervous system was beginning to calm down after such a huge adrenaline hit. I started to relax my shoulders, and my body softened as some of the tension dissipated. At least the plane didn’t hit the building any lower, I thought. Maybe everyone got out somehow.
Standing slightly behind Sal, who was still filming and closest to the open windows, we continued to watch the North Tower burn. Natasha was next to me, holding the baby. The now-familiar rumbling of the floor began once again as a deafening sound pierced our eardrums for the second time in less than thirty minutes. Black smoke and debris raced toward the windows, flying at full speed toward us and our kids. The South Tower was much closer to us. A huge swell of emotion—it was happening again.
OHHHHHH SHIT!!!!!
Instinctively, in a split second, we all moved backward, grabbing up the kids in our arms and racing for the door. Honestly, not a second was spared for a pause or a breath or any thoughts about what to do. We just got the hell out of there. I didn’t grab my purse or even my shoes—just my kid, nothing else. Julian and I were both barefoot.
We spilled into the hallway and again, instinctively, headed for the stairs, avoiding the elevator. Bounding down each flight to the eighth floor, where Natasha and Sal lived, we hit the landing and swung open the stairwell door. On the other side stood Natasha and Sal’s nanny, pale and shaken. This was her second day of work.
Natasha is a bright, intellectual NY lawyer (as well as a caring mother). They decided with kid number two that help was needed, so a nanny was carefully vetted and hired. Her first day had been September 10, 2001. So needless to say, we didn’t know her very well.
When I tell this story, which is rare, I describe this part as the most unreal out of all the surreal events of that day. In all my life, even now, twenty years later, I have never witnessed someone in so much distress. Victims of natural disasters, patients in nursing homes, or staffers on congressional campaigns do not compare. Distressed parents at Children’s National Hospital, where my kid has spent an average of twenty-four days a year, due to an auioimmune issue, don’t compare. She was shocked and shaken, times one hundred.
The nanny, frightened to her core, was hyperventilating and talking nonsense. I actually never learned her name. I was meeting her now, and after this day I never saw her again. Let’s call her Peace. That’s what I wish for her. Peace rode the subway downtown to her new job on the morning of 9/11. Like me and everyone else, she was expecting a normal day. She arrived at her subway stop at the WTC and took the escalator to the concourse. Walking out, she was met with chaos. Unaware of the unfolding events, she pushed through into the daylight of the street above. She encountered thick smoke and people running away from the building.
This part of the story is difficult to write, because of the unimaginable horror of it all. Of the choices some of our brothers and sisters, neighbors, and loved ones had to make. The desperation of facing a violent, fiery death, or taking control of their fate, choosing to jump from the skyscraper as a last resort. Or possibly, confused and disoriented from the smoke, walking off the edge and plummeting to their death at 125 mph.
There were many bystanders on the street below. Others, in stunned disbelief, watched people fall from blocks away, seemingly so small against the backdrop of the towers. This part of the story is not often talked about. It was, however, real. I recently watched a documentary on 9/11 about the experience of six teenagers who attended Stuyvesant High School, six blocks away from the towers. They originally thought they were chairs, not people, falling.
The nanny unexpectedly ended up on the street where victims were falling. One brushed by her and was obliterated on impact. My sister’s boyfriend had a similar experience, and he was unable to see for six months afterward. To protect him from further trauma, his brain literally rendered him blind rather than risk witnessing such a horrific scene again.
It was impossible to understand Peace’s muttering. Shocked and inconsolable, she was shaking violently and staring into space. Her brain could not process the unimaginable horror she had witnessed. Sal opened the door to the apartment, and we all piled in. Escorting Peace to the couch, we realized the grave nature of the situation.
After unsuccessfully trying to reach my husband on my cell phone, I pick up the corded kitchen phone, Julian on my hip, and dial his office number, waiting impatiently for him to pick up. Sal flips on the TV, and I hear Bryant Gumbel announce that smoke is pouring out of the Pentagon. He says, “We don’t know if this is a result of a bomb.” I panic—my family is located in the DC area. I am finding it hard to breathe.
It dawns on me. We are under attack.
Carl picks up the phone. Talking 100 miles an hour, I blurt out, “YOU HAVE TO COME HOME, NOW!
He tries to reassure me. “It’s OK, it’s just a prop plane. I am watching it right now from the trading floor. Trust me, it’s a prop plane. I can see it on the replay on TV.”
“OMG, I’m telling you, IT WAS A JUMBO JET, not a prop plane,” I plead. “Please, please, come home?” He assures me that he will pack up his desk and head home.
I hang up, comforted by the prospect of Carl being there soon. I am looking forward to the evening, when everything is cleaned up and over. A nice dinner and a glass of wine to soothe our nerves. With the worst behind us, we’ll just wait for the firefighters to do what they do and put the fire out. Natasha is lucky that Sal was thrown up on, I think.
And so were we.
Sal begins to move around the apartment. Starting in the bathrooms, he fills both tubs with fresh water. Then, duct tape in hand, he moves from vent to vent, starting in the living room and moving toward the back of their corner apartment. Quickly ripping strips of tape and placing them over each vent to block any outside air from moving into the apartment. He shuts and locks every window. He had the foresight to realize that this was just the opening act, a teaser for what was to come.
Although we didn’t realize it at the time, we were in survival mode, with Sal as our leader.
He nudges us into reality as we began to prepare—just in case. CBS is still on in the background. Dan Rather’s steady voice attempts to calm a nation in fear as we stuff peanut butter and nuts into backpacks. Fill water bottles. Gather diapers and flashlights, extra clothes and blankets. Peace and the kids are observers, just watching us as we move about, gathering supplies. All three kids are remarkably calm.
Even with the heat, we decide the kids need more protection than the shorts and shirts they were wearing for the crisp, sunny day. Pulling long-sleeve shirts, jeans, socks, and sneakers out of the closets, we change each kid into clothes that would protect their young skin, in case we need to leave.
The debate begins. Should we leave? Natasha, worried for her daughter, doesn’t think the baby would be able to tolerate the smoke outside. We’re in agreement. She’s too little. The risk too big.
The lights flicker and then extinguish. We’ve lost power.
Our planning for an apocalypse suddenly doesn’t feel so foolish. I notice that every twenty minutes we catch our breath, just to be knocked off guard again. No power and no TV equals no information from the outside world. Literally and figuratively, we are in the dark. Our decisions are being made blindly.
My sense of time warps from this point forward. Time becomes meaningless without a frame of reference. Of course, there are countless reports of the timeline of events that day. I could, very easily, superimpose my experience onto world events to reconstruct the actual timing, but that would just mask the uncertainty, fear, and helplessness we felt. There was no illusion of control. Surrendering to the events was the only option.
With circumstances that include loss of power, dangerous smoke levels, no view of the towers through the thick smoke, plus an infant in our presence—we decide to wait it out.
Julian was almost twenty-two-months old. He was still nursing at bedtime and first thing in the morning. Sensing the energetic stress of the morning, he wanted to nurse. I sat down on the couch and lifted my shirt. As Julian latched on, I could feel my body relax as he relaxed into mine. We were one. Mother and son in the midst of chaos. The sheer act of carrying out a simple daily routine was amplified in this intense experience. Time slowed down and my breathing calmed as I connected with my child and comforted him. I could breathe.
Soon Carl will be here, and we’ll all be together, I think, as I watch Sal and Natasha tend to their kids’ needs.
Suddenly, there is shaking once again. The floor rattles in a similar fashion to earlier in the morning. Yet it’s slightly different, subtle at first. Earlier, the shaking occurred simultaneously with thunderous noise. This time, an eerie creaking, cracking sound can be heard. The floor is vibrating, like the start of an earthquake, but this is no earthquake.
I jump to my feet and pull Julian away, placing him on my hip. The THUNDEROUS noise arrives. Julian covers his ears and buries his head into the crook of my arm. The piercing noise is accompanied by the light dimming in the apartment. The bathroom! We need to get into the bathroom, I direct everyone.
My Red Cross disaster training comes in handy. Bathrooms are one of the safest places to go in high-rise buildings. First, there are no windows to break or have debris fly through. Also, the pipes in high-rise buildings connect each apartment through the floors and ceilings, making it less likely to collapse. It’s the safest place to go in a disaster (unless you have a basement).
We hurl ourselves down the hall. With each step, the apartment is getting darker and darker. Inside the bathroom, it is so dark that we literally cannot see our hands in front of our faces. I have never experienced such darkness before. Over the years, I have tried to put words to this darkness as I recount the day’s events. It is difficult for me to convey. An accurate description could be blindness or absence of light. But even this doesn’t convey the blackness, because the lack of light was accompanied by the darkness of destruction.
There was NO LIGHT.
We piled into the tiny bathroom. Me, with Julian on my hip, an Episcopalian. Sal and Natasha, each with a child in their arms, Orthodox Jews. The nanny, still in shock, is from the islands of Jamaica and most likely Rastafarian.
In the pitch black, the pungent smoke from the blazing fires circles us, a reminder of the unimaginable scene just outside. The four of us, with the children in our arms, sink to the cold, hard tile floor. Huddled together, shoulder to shoulder, I can feel the heat radiating off the others’ bodies. We begin to speculate about what is happening.
This felt monumentally different than the two planes hitting the towers earlier. The reality that we are under attack sinks in slowly. We speculate . . . maybe there were numerous planes this time? Loaded with bombs? Dropping bombs? Is this just the beginning? Are there more bombs? Didn’t the Pentagon get hit by a bomb? Is this an assault on the whole East Coast? OK, we are at war—we are being bombed. It seemed the only logical conclusion.
A bomb was dropped from a plane.
We are not going to make it out of here.
We are going to die.
In Hebrew, Sal begins reciting the Verdi Jewish prayer for the end of life. I close my eyes and clutch Julian closer, pulling him into my chest. If I could, I would pull him completely inside of me to protect him from the horror around us. I feel subtle, yet dense energy surrounding me. It feels heavy with fear.
I begin to recite the Lord’s Prayer, joining Sal in harmony. Our duet quickly becomes a trio as the nanny, in her native tongue, is now coherent enough to add her prayers for our perceived imminent deaths.
Our voices intertwine and rise up to the heavens, as time slows down and each breath I take is felt deeply.
Time stops. I am fully present in my life. The stillness that befalls me is like a lake as smooth as glass. My breath synchronizes with Julian’s. We are one as I pray. Staring into the face of death, my life begins to take shape in front of me. A deep calm washes over me. A oneness I have never experienced in this life. I witness my light. I KNOW with every cell of my being that I am going to be OK, regardless of the ultimate outcome.
If I die, I will be OK.
If I live, I will be OK.
It’s that simple. I am loved, and the light within me will live on. Either way.
So simple.
This otherworldly calm came from another realm. Was this really me, the calmest moment of my entire life at the moment of the greatest chaos? A gift was bestowed on me. A gift that would take years to unpack and embrace. A gift of KNOWING. A gift of seeing my light and the simplicity of it all. Stay present, and life is beautiful. Even in the face of hardship and death, life is beautiful. All we have is any given moment. That’s it. Nothing else matters except this exact moment at any point in time.
I was given the gift of facing death and no longer fearing it.
I often remember this moment, almost like a movie version of the events. The camera is hovering above us, witnessing the events as they unfold. Panning back and forth from outside our walls back to us inside, huddled together as our neighborhood is ripped apart by terrorists. From the movie view, the panic and fear we experienced is easily conveyed. Harder to convey are the internal dialogue and emotions of us, the actors, as well as the beauty of the seven of us bringing comfort to each other. Less obvious, also, is the life-changing calm, knowing, and faith that lit a spark in me and divided my life in two. My life prior to this moment, on the floor of my friends’ bathroom, and my life after 9/11. The spark ignited a fire within me and changed me forever.
As we continued to pray and wait, the blackness started to ease up. Our silhouettes became visible. The dark was turning gray.
We open the bathroom door and emerge from our cocoon into the hallway. The light continues to reappear in variations of gray. I try to take a deep breath as I kiss the top of Julian’s forehead. This breath feels difficult, but it is so needed to stay in this place of stillness I have just found. Trying to keep my nervous system calm, I inhale again, only to stop halfway. I feel like an elephant is sitting on my chest.
In 1993, working in Miami on Hurricane Andrew, I developed a breathing disorder from the mold spores in the air in the aftermath of that powerful storm. I have asthma, and the smoke, debris, and soot was aggravating it.
We are all dazed. What has happened? We inch closer to the living room, moving in unison. I quickly sit down on the couch. I can’t easily catch my breath.
Someone is banging on the front door. BANG, BANG, BANG! Sal moves quickly to open it.
A neighbor steps into the threshold, peeking inside to survey the scene. “Is everyone OK?” he asks.
“Yes, I think so,” Sal softly answers, glancing at his wife clutching their infant daughter. “What happened?”
The South Tower collapsed.
Our response is stunned silence. The possibility of the tower collapsing had not occurred to us for even a moment. It collapsed? For real? Impossible! How could the impossible happen?
The Twins, our majestic beacons, our lighthouse, and the castle of our neighborhood. How could she fall?
We quickly realize that if one twin could fall, so could the other.
The neighbor turns and leaves to check on other residents on the eighth floor.
We are stunned. Completely stunned. No one moves.
Reality starts to sink in. If the North Tower follows, it could crush our building like dominos falling, one after another. What do we do?
Sal goes to the window and looks down at the esplanade. The emergency workers are nowhere in sight. Flying papers from the sky land on an empty street. Where is everyone?
Do we risk leaving the apartment into the thick smoke and debris outside? Or do we stay put, with the possibility of being crushed by the North Tower? Before we had an answer, there was loud cracking and rumbling coming from outside.
Can we survive a second collapse?
Like a well-rehearsed play, we take our places back on the bathroom floor. This time without the prayers. Knowing we just have to endure the next few minutes, because we now believe there are no nuclear bombs being detonated. The soul of our beloved neighborhood is falling.
Hopefully not on us.
Time slows down, and we brace ourselves for the worst. The blackness descends on us once again. This time, knowing that the North Tower was most likely falling, our fears are slightly eased. We survived a tower falling. We can survive a second time. In silence, huddled together on the tiled floor, we wait.
Time, as I lived it on 9/11, is warped for me. Time stretched like a rubber band to its max, then every twenty minutes, the rubber band would snap, only to slowly stretch again as we caught our breaths.
Julian melts down, then I calmly get dressed.
Plane hits the North Tower, then we calmly videotape.
Plane hits the South Tower, then we calmly comfort Peace.
The Pentagon is hit, and we calmly gather supplies.
Losing electricity, I calmly nurse my son.
The South Tower falls, we pray, and I am gifted with an overwhelming, life-altering peace.
After the second tower falls, time stands still, and my concept of it is nonexistent. When the events of the next few days happened, I couldn’t tell you. I have maybe two data points, beacons to go on. I know these times because other people have told me when they occurred.
After the second tower collapsed and the dust started to clear, bringing some light back, we pick ourselves off the tiled floor and move into the heat of the apartment.
The thick, heavy heat from the nearby fires is inescapable. With sweat dripping down my spine, I realize the kids must be incredibly hot in the jeans and sweaters we had put on them earlier. We gather their summer clothes and put the boys back into their shorts and t-shirts. With no electricity, nearby fires, and all the windows closed, it is stiflingly hot.
Once again there is a knock on the front door. A shaken neighbor confirms what we know. Indeed, the North Tower shared the fate of its twin. It, too, had fallen to dust.
Thanks to Sal having the foresight to close the apartment windows and vents, our air is cleaner than that of the other apartments and hallways, so many eighth floor neighbors pile into Natasha and Sal’s home.
Emergency personnel slowly returned to the promenade as we were contemplating our next move. Sal opened the windows, screaming to the firefighter below for advice. On their recommendation, he placed towels on the windowsills, draping them down like flags, alerting the authorities that people were on the eighth floor of Gateway Plaza. Seeing the firefighters in full gear, I couldn’t imagine how hot they were.
With all the thick particles floating around us, the air still somewhat gray in color, my asthma kicked in full force. I could not catch my breath. Only very rarely did I need an inhaler, but I needed one NOW. Unfortunately, I had left my purse upstairs. The room started to spin, and I became light-headed. My body was forcing me to lie down. I tumbled onto the couch as my neighbors tried to secure an inhaler for me.
There was tremendous activity around me as I rested. I can’t recall the exact number of adults in the apartment. Envisioning these moments now, I see about fifteen adults and our three kids. The number doesn’t matter. The point is that the air quality was terrible, even before adding eleven extra adults in a small closed space. I felt like I was suffocating. Closing my eyes, pulling Julian next to me, I breathed slow, shallow breaths, trying to conserve my energy. Who knew what still lay ahead of us?
Time plays tricks on me. How long were we waiting? Who handed me a small plastic inhaler, giving me my breath back? What time was it? How did I get these sandals that were three sizes too big? I do not remember.
I remember being calm in my surrender to each moment.
I remember the feeling of my son in my arms.
I remember the brilliance of my friend Sal, and his wisdom to keep the air as clean as possible.
I remember us grabbing the filled backpacks and handfuls of baby blankets.
Mostly, I remember the relief I felt when the rescue team came to the door to bring us to safety.
We heaved a collective sigh of relief at the sight of them. One firefighter instructed us to dampen towels to place over the kids to protect them. The baby was only eight weeks old, and we had to take her outside into a war zone, where the air was unsafe. Sal’s insight to fill the bathtubs earlier was potentially a life-saving act. These brave firefighters had strength and kindness in unprecedented and unimaginable commotion.
As we step out into the darkened hallway, the rescue team with flashlights light our way to the stairwell. They escort us down eight flights of stairs, one by one, step by careful step, slowly making our way down. At the bottom, the door opens to our lobby, and the diffused sunlight coming through the windows lights the way for us. I was surprised and overcome with emotion to see our doorman alive—disheveled, covered in soot, but alive. This beacon of my daily life, who always smiled and looked exactly like George Hamilton. I instinctively moved toward him and embraced him with a mixture of grief, relief, and appreciation at seeing a friendly, familiar face in the darkness. Not realizing the rescue team was with us, he said, “Go back to your apartment— it’s not safe.”
He did not abandon the door to get himself to safety.
We move like an amoeba toward the open glass doors. I step carefully, so as not to lose the huge sandals protecting my feet. As I approach the doors, I pull Julian into my chest and try covering him with the wet towel to protect him from inhaling the debris floating in the air, as well as shield him from the terrifying scene in front of me.
Julian, the curious, stubborn soul that he is, wanted nothing to do with the smothering wet towel. He just wanted to see. The two of us had a dance—I would cover him and he would throw it off, over and over again as we stepped further into the scene playing out before us. I did my best to pull him tighter to my chest to protect his innocence. It was not a scene any child should witness. I felt as if we had been dropped into an alt dimension. A dimension where King Kong existed and had just left the aftermath of his rage. It was still raining papers, even hours later. The blinding heat was disorientating. The thick smoke shrouding the spires of the towers resembled a comic book version of downtown New York, in which the Batman villains had won the fight.
It was a surreal dream. Wasn’t it?
Twenty years later, when I shut my eyes and envision the first moments outside, I can smell the putrid mixture of death, fear, concrete, pulverized technology, ash, paper, metal, gas, and chemical smoke. For almost ten years afterward, I could not sit near a campfire or burn a wood fire in my house. At my husband’s grandfather’s Catholic funeral, the incense smell sent me to the ladies’ room to cry. I was transported back to that moment of walking outside and witnessing the destruction. It’s indescribable.
The thick ash and paper fluttering down from the sky, blanketing the courtyard like winter snow. Stepping over piles of debris in my huge sandals, each step slow and deliberate as I try to comprehend the scene before me. The smoldering cars and summer gardens erased by thick gray ash and rubble.
Moving slowly, and bonded together from our shared experience of the day, we were being led like sheep by our hero, a firefighter. In a trance-like state, not thinking about anything except protecting my only son, I could not comprehend where we were heading. Blindly following, trusting, and surrendering—that’s all I could do. I wasn’t even slightly curious as to how we were to get off the island.
We lived in Battery Park City, a planned community, built on the excavated rock and soil during the construction of the World Trade Centers. Our apartment was in Gateway, the first apartment complex built in Battery Park City and the closest to the World Trade Center. Apple Maps shows a distance of 900 feet from Gateway to the South Memorial pool, where the South Tower stood. Gateway Plaza is a U-shaped property composed of three high-rise buildings. The only way to access the property is to cross under a large archway, which was blocked with debris.
Not until well after the event did I realize there was no way off the island of Manhattan for us.
The Hudson River was to the west/south of us.
The collapsed towers were to the east/north of us.
There was only one way out: to cross the Hudson River.
I pulled Julian into me, picking up the pace as I turned left towards the river. I spotted an iron gate that goes to Steamers Landing, a seafood restaurant with knockout views of the Hudson and the Statue of Liberty. Through the gate and down the stairs, we were led toward the rescue staging area. Just outside, I was overcome with emotion as I glimpsed a few of my girlfriends and their children inside. They were gathered in the blue and white decorated restaurant, which was covered in a layer of gray ash.
The makeshift shelter was bustling with activity. This is one of the areas that is blurry in my memory. I have no concept of time. We could have been in a holding pattern inside Steamers for five minutes or five hours—I truly have no idea!
People were divided into groups of approximately twelve. Each group was escorted outside by a rescue worker. I followed our pack and moved outside onto the esplanade.
For the first time, we came into contact with other people. It was shocking to see people looking like zombies, covered head to toe in gray ash. I remember feeling guilty about being clean. I also began to wonder if my sister, Kristin, who lived in the Village, was one the “zombies” walking around, lost.
We were heading north to catch a boat at the World Financial Center marina, located to the left of Gateway. The loud sounds of fighter jets could be heard as they flew down the river. This sound would wake me in a sweat for months after this day.
As we rounded the corner of the outside of Steamers, ground zero in front of us, Julian, his face free from the towel, began to scream “FIRE! FIRE!” The intense heat hit us like a brick oven. I worried our faces could get sunburned from the blaze. The reality of the towers not standing struck me. What everyone said was true. The towers had collapsed into themselves. I literally thought that this must be what it feels like to be on a Marvel action movie set. Nothing seemed real. The Twins were gone. The sky seemed bare without the majestic buildings that had acted as a beacon, always showing us where we were in Lower Manhattan. The noise from the blaze was deafening and the smell unbearable.
We were standing next to the platform with the marina on our left, a view of the towers in front of us, and the chapel at Gateway on our right. A rescue worker matter-of-factly declared that we needed to move back quickly toward the Hudson River because the gas lines were not stable and could explode at any moment. Oh shit. We were still not safe.
We made haste back toward Steamers Landing. How were we going to catch a boat without a marina?
The most harrowing part of my day was before me.
The loss of the marina required the rescue teams to improvise. The esplanade runs the entire length of Battery Park City, from Stuyvesant High School to Battery Park along the Hudson River. The section of esplanade behind Gateway Plaza has an extremely thick, approximately two-foot-high concrete retaining wall. On top of the wall is a decorative metal railing, with street lights equally spaced from one another.
In a time of destruction came shining examples of compassion and self-sacrifice. Instead of fleeing, maritime workers of all stripes risked their lives by heading straight toward Ground Zero. A hodgepodge of watercraft came toward the choking clouds of dust and toxins to evacuate those of us stuck in Lower Manhattan. The Staten Island Ferry, the Governor’s Ferry, NY police and fire boats, and the tugs and yachts of private citizens heeded the Coast Guard’s cry for help. Over 500,000 people were evacuated from Lower Manhattan in the span of nine hours that day.
Our vessel to safety was a Nassau County police boat. The improvised plan involved pulling boats parallel to the sea wall along the esplanade.
Without life jackets.
I am not afraid of boats myself. My father had grown up on the Eastern Shore. Water was in his blood. We always joked that he knew the Chesapeake Bay and its tributaries better than he knew the roads. Our family vacations were planned around the type of fishing we could do. These included trips to catch thousand-pound tuna, tarpon, sharks, salmon, etc. We had always owned boats. My father received the largest, ugliest trophy once when he was named Angler of the Year for the state of Maryland. So, being the daughter of a waterman, boats and salt water felt like home to me and were why I LOVED living in Battery Park City, surrounded by the Hudson River.
We were led to the water’s edge, near the retaining wall. A small, approximately twenty-foot police boat was pulled alongside, bumping from the wakes created by the rescue efforts. As I peered over the edge, the floor seemed so far away. I couldn’t imagine how we were going to get onto the bouncing boat. As a mother, the idea of holding my toddler over a railing with no life jacket and dropping him down to a stranger seemed crazy—but only for a second. The drop down to the boat seemed inconsequential compared to the devastation behind us.
Julian sensed the gravity of the situation, because there was no protest as I handed him to the police officer. He took Julian into his arms and carefully thrust him over the railing from under his arms, leaning forward as far as he could. Then he released Julian, who fell a few more feet to the man standing on the boat ready to catch him. It worked. Julian was safely on board.
My turn. It was a very similar process. I stood on the retaining wall, then sat on the very edge as a rescue worker grabbed me under my arms and lowered me closer to the boat. I was able to jump down with someone helping to catch me. As each person in our group was loaded onto the boat, I could see our destination in the distance. Jersey City, with the iconic clock on its shores.
Everyone was safely loaded. Little did I know that this was the last day I would wake up in Battery Park City. We were homeless. The familiar smell of the motor, the salt air, and the gentle rocking of the boat brought me extreme comfort in such a difficult situation.
I was facing the stern as we pulled away from the retaining wall. My beloved neighborhood, now in full view, was burning ferociously. Countless boats could be seen lined up and down the west side, collecting people to bring to safety. Many boats also dotted the mile stretch of river between NJ and NY, shuttling back and forth to rescue as many people as possible. As we moved into the middle of the river, it was hard to take in the scene from a distance. The dust was still inescapable, like mooring a boat through the fog. Away from the nauseating smells, ear-piercing noises, and countless shocked victims covered in blood and ash, I could breathe a bit. There was this sickening feeling, mixed with guilt that we were moving to safety when so many were not as lucky.
As we neared the NJ shore, it was clear the Red Cross had already been called to action. I sighed in relief, while also knowing why they were there in NJ, instead of where the action was on the opposite side of the river. A triage unit had been set up to receive the walking wounded, and most likely, the bodies of those who didn’t make it. The unstable situation in lower Manhattan is why it was set up across the river.
When we arrived at the dock, I handed Julian to a Red Cross volunteer as they passed me a satellite phone. This is the first beacon of time in my memory. It was about 3:15 p.m. I quickly dialed my husband’s cell phone number. I hadn’t spoken to him since our call on the corded phone before the towers came down. My call didn’t go through. The cell towers located on top of the World Trade Center were now gone, so receiving phone calls was next to impossible. The next number I tried was my in-laws’ home phone. My father-in-law answered.
“Julian and I are alive!”
I immediately felt foolish.
The enormity of the day, and the fact that the entire world was watching, was lost on me. I didn’t realize the magnitude of the history I was witnessing. The little media footage I have seen since is vastly different from my experience. I was not outside of Ground Zero, I was right in the middle of it. I did not have the shared experience with hundreds of other New Yorkers standing on the streets watching the event unfold or walking together toward the bridges or boats to evacuate the island. Neither was I safe at home or work, glued to the television with a cup of tea in hand. Our view was from the inside of Ground Zero. I couldn’t see it from a distance, so I had no concept of the massiveness of it all. It was a much more internal experience. I thought this was just affecting my neighborhood. I didn’t have a clue.
We were alive, and I felt like I was being dramatic.
Our stay at the Jersey ARC center didn’t last long. We were provided water and placed onto buses heading for a National Guard Armory. The ride was bumpy but short. We arrived and offloaded but then were instantly placed back on the bus. The situation was constantly evolving. Once we were at the base, it was deemed unsafe. This unprecedented and fluid situation fostered very little communication with us. Where were we headed?
The kids were exhausted. I was functioning on adrenaline.
We didn’t know where we were being taken until we arrived. Our destination was the Newark train station.
Now what? Where do we go?
Natasha was familiar with New Jersey. I was not. Heading south was the only option. So we headed to the Amtrak terminal to catch the next train going south. Amtrak waived all ticket requirements. If there was an empty seat, you could board any train. We would figure out the destination once we were safely seated on a train.
Cell phone in hand, Natasha reached out to one of her Jersey friends, who had a sorority sister who lived in southern NJ. None of us had ever met this woman. Yet she kindly offered to pick us up from the local train depot and take us into her home. I have no recollection of the name of the town. She graciously arrived to pick up me, Natasha, Sal, and the three kids. We piled into her car—exhausted and traumatized. We were just going through the motions, led by something greater than ourselves and depending on the kindness of the many people who had helped us on our journey thus far.
Until Carl was with us, I couldn’t feel comfortable. We needed him by our side. My father-in-law was able to tell his son that we were alive. Over the years, when Carl recounts his version of the day’s events, he always lowers his head as he describes running down the east–west highway, getting as far as Stuyvesant High School. Unable to see if our building was still standing, he gave it 50/50 odds that we were still alive.
Carl followed our path out of the city by listening to a series of voice messages left by me and our fathers. The cell phones were not working, but we were able to periodically leave voice messages with our whereabouts. He was a few hours behind us. When we arrived at our host’s home, we were in shock—heartbroken, dazed, and homeless. I don’t remember any of the hours in New Jersey waiting to reunite with my husband. Our lives had changed dramatically in the span of hours. I just wanted him with us.
Around 11:35 p.m., our host helped me load Julian into the car seat in her car. We were headed to the train station to pick up Carl, who was supposed to be on the 11:45 train. My heart was hoping he had made it as planned. After the terrifying events of the day, my anticipation was hard to contain. We arrived a few minutes early, and we waited.
This is the second beacon of time in my memory. Carl’s train pulled into the station at 11:45 p.m. on Tuesday, September 11, 2001. I anxiously waited for him to walk onto the platform and come down the stairs into view.
There he is, limping through the train gates toward our car, the only one waiting. I open the car door and run to him. Embracing him and hugging him. Crying. Shaking. Relieved. We hobble back toward the waiting car. Carl is eager to see Julian. Only a few hours ago, he thought he might have lost us both.
As we climb into the car, Julian is wide-eyed and awake, playing with a toy. Julian, seeing his father for the first time since he had left for work, happily greets him.
“Hi, Daddy!”
It was like nothing unusual had happened. So simple. Julian, a kid, had no way of knowing the huge impact of the day. He was living in the moment, as kids do, happy to see his Dad. His innocence reminded us that we would move forward together, no matter what. That we shouldn’t take ourselves and our situations too seriously. There are always moments, every day, even amid chaos and grief, that are precious.
But only if we pay attention to them. If we don’t fight against the current and are open, allowing the flow of our lives to unfold. We must resist the urge to control those moments. Taking all the challenges we are given, in any moment, and finding the humor, connections, and preciousness of it all. When we are frustrated our toddler won’t get dressed, instead of approaching with frustration and anger, maybe we embrace it, understanding that this is what toddlers do. Or maybe there is a greater reason, beyond comprehension, part of the fabric of life at work. Maybe, just maybe, that moment of frustration is the defining moment. All earthly experiences, those we deem horrific and those we deem nirvana, are equally worth living. Each has the capacity to stretch us into new, better versions of ourselves. We can allow ourselves to change course. To find and keep the people, jobs, and behaviors that serve us and the greater good.
Upon reflection, I can see that my life before 9/11 was smaller. I had the naivety of someone who was never stretched past her comfort zone, who had never experienced the depths of loss and grief. Someone who helped others in disasters and eagerly gave of her time and money, yet had never been on the receiving end of needing and asking for help. My life before didn’t have an appreciation for the little things so easily taken for granted. My neighborhood, my mom’s group, the public transportation across the street. My glorious handsome doorman. The simple smiles and conversations weaving in and out of my day. The smells and sounds surrounding me. I was always moving quickly to the next thing. The next activity. The next item on my to-do list. I was attached to the material things in my life. Losing most of our possessions freed me from that attachment. I enjoy beautiful things, but I am no longer attached to them. The experiences and people in front of me are what I try to embrace now.
After 9/11, in situations such as dinner out with girlfriends, I didn’t feel like I belonged. I craved deep conversations and connections. Superficial, vapid events and people were unbearable for a while. Now, my life is enriched, with our family at the helm. Carl’s family, all New Yorkers, had transplanted themselves to Maryland, where we also eventually relocated. It was unimaginable to me prior to 9/11 that our kids would be fortunate enough to grow up surrounded by both sets of grandparents and all nine of their cousins. Money also lost its allure. Having faced the reality of almost losing his wife and son, being a Wall Street lawyer and fighting to climb the ladder of success held no more appeal for Carl. Spending time with family was more important to us than working countless hours to make money we were too busy to enjoy. We made the difficult decision to take a risk, move back to Maryland, give up the huge corporate salary, and start a real estate management company, a field new to Carl, with my father. Twenty years later, it has been a success. Together, they created hundreds of jobs and a life that allows us to spend weekends as a family. Carl can even coach sports teams on weeknights. We are living more consciously. We woke up after 9/11 to the fact that our lives are meaningful. We don’t have to just respond to what’s in front of us. Instead, we can choose to create our lives with our thoughts and our actions. By finding gratitude in the easy and the difficult.
The spiritual experience I had on the bathroom floor opened me to myself. To the light that is in each of us. To the beauty of everything in front of us at any moment. I have slowed down quite a bit. I try to savor the moments and find beauty even in the hard things. This came over time, after processing the shock, grief, and trauma of 9/11 for me and my family. Out of ashes we cannot only endure but shine, if we choose to focus on the light amid the darkness.