I was on the No. 15 bus,
heading to work. Crisp sunny day and
blue cloudless sky. I had a job working
three-days a week as a consultant in KPMG’s Entertainment Group for a high-maintenance
brilliant woman. She once kept an out-of-town associate waiting over an hour
while she got a pedicure, shamelessly arriving to the meeting with toes
splayed, separated by cotton. Another
time she sent a town car to pick up muffins for her upcoming weekend at the beach. I was being paid a lot of money to do very
little.
Someone on the bus said
aloud to no one in particular, “A plane has hit one of the World Trade Center
towers.” The immediate response, like
many that day, was one of disbelief.
“What kind of idiot didn’t see the World Trade Center?” people
asked. It seemed almost comical. There was some chatter and then everyone went
back to their papers, conversations, or whatever else they were doing before
our world changed.
Several stops later, someone
else shouted out, “I just heard that another plane hit the WTC.” No one went back to their papers this
time. When I got off the bus at
Lexington and 51st, I could see the billowing smoke rising from over fifty
blocks away.
I got to my office and
called a friend. She knew nothing; her
TV wasn’t on yet. People were starting
to exit their offices and make their way to the one floor that had a TV. We sat around and watched the drama unfold,
as if we were watching a made-for-TV movie and just waiting for someone to make
popcorn. Nothing about it felt real.
I left work around 11,
barely able to tear myself away from the evolving news. I thought I’d take the subway uptown to
Alexander’s elementary school. It hadn’t
occurred to me that we were under attack and that of course all subways would
be closed. I started to walk, but then
was lucky and got one of the few available cabs.
I later felt guilty that
going to Alexander’s school was not my first thought. In fact, another mom from the school had
called and suggested we go. I asked if
she thought we were being overly cautious and she replied, “Maybe, but at least
if we both go, we won’t be alone.”
By the time I got to the
school, many other parents had already arrived. The basement was flooded with
anxious adults. Parents were not allowed
to enter the classrooms, as the school wisely did not want to alarm the
kids. One by one, teachers would go to
the classrooms and bring the kids down to their parents. Many of us were crying. No one knew if any of the children had
parents who worked at the WTC.
Fortunately, no one did.
Alexander was in third
grade. He and his friends did not
understand the gravity of the day, and were just grateful to be released from
school early. Like other mothers, I
didn’t want my young son watching the ghastly images on TV. A group of us took our then 8-year-olds to
John Jay, a local park. Were it not for
the clouds of smoke filling our blue sky from 80 plus blocks away, it would
have been a perfect fall day.
In the days following 9-11,
Manhattan was a ghost town. No one felt
like being in restaurants. Flyers were
posted all over trees throughout the city.
Pictures of everyday people, and so many of them young, with bold titles
of MISSING above their heads. Local
firehouses listed the firemen they had lost.
Bouquets of flowers piled up outside.
All activity stopped. Streets
were empty. Bridges and tunnels were
closed. No one could get in or out of
Manhattan. And the sound of fighter jets
pierced our sad and broken city. They
continually reminded us of our need to be protected.
A friend of mine who lives
outside Boston was upset that no one had called her after the Boston Marathon
bombing. She lives thirty miles away
from the Marathon site; it never occurred to me to call. When we talked later she said, “You have no
idea,” in reference to how the city of Boston felt. I had no polite response.
I foolishly imagined
truckloads of Islamic militants driving down my street, late at night, and
randomly throwing bombs in our windows.
I worried how Alexander and I could escape Manhattan. I packed an emergency bag to grab in case we
had to flee. Every time the alert code
went up a notch, my fears did too.
Unlike Boston, the attackers
were not caught. Over the years, they
have spread and multiplied.
When the anthrax scares
began, I bought rubber gloves to open my mail, and purchased Cipro. I escaped the city whenever I could. I spend days in Connecticut and New Jersey
with my friends who lived there. I even
looked at townhouses in New Canaan and Westport. I seriously considered moving. But no home I saw felt right.
On the weekend of September
21, Alexander and I were invited up to Woodstock NY to stay at a friend’s
house. I felt safe in this small bucolic
town, far from the reaches of Al-Qaeda.
I remember saying to my friend that I doubted I would ever get over my
fear of being attacked again. I didn’t
think I’d be able to raise Alexander in the city I loved.
But I am lucky. We all know someone who knows someone. We all have stories of where we were and what
we saw and felt. I am grateful that no
one I loved was lost that day.
It is now twelve years
later. The city is back to being the
great city that it is, and has always been.
The nation and New Yorkers pulled together. Grief and resilience united the city for the
days and weeks and months after.
I am glad I didn’t
leave. I am grateful that I raised
Alexander here. I am proud to call this
amazing city home. It is where I belong.
Last night I heard one of
the mayoral candidates say, “This is the greatest city in the greatest country
in the world.” I believe he is right.
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