9/11 STORIES THAT LEAD TO STORIES
This is way off topic, but today is such a solemn day that I feel compelled to write my story. My story is so insignificant compared to so many of my neighbors, but I want people to know the view on the street of NYC, from my perspective of course, and not just what they always talk about in the media.
The morning of September 11th was my two daughters' third day at a new school, over the bridge, in Brooklyn. My husband had driven them that day, and it was on his way home that he heard the news on his car radio. He called me immediately, and as most people I just countered his statements with, "what? when? a plane? terrorism? no! probably a small plane that lost it's way..." He kept insisting as I walked with my cell phone and pushed my son in a stroller. A battery operated radio rested on the stroller's sun visor, as I marched alongside other neighbors with the same idea of watching from the bay, where I could see the Manhattan skyline since my youth. I never went into Manhattan much anymore, but I loved knowing it was there. On my walk a few blocks north, the second plane hit the other tower. "I told you" my husband screamed, "those bastards!!!" There it was, the ominous black smoke, blowing south towards Brooklyn and my girls. My husband had already decided to pick them up and return home, which would later prove impossible until much later in the day, due to the fact that every bridge in New York city was closed indefinitely. Navigating the Brooklyn streets, a neighbor crossed in front of his car, walking home as so many did with unusually beautiful weather - he had been at the scene and wanted to stay and watch, but an Israeli friend of his warned him to get as far away as possible, as terrorists were known to strike in twos, increasing the terror as the "rescuers" became victims. Needless to say he was glad he listened. He showed my husband a piece of the plane he had found, and together they waited in Brooklyn. I watched as you all did on television for the next few days incessantly. So what's so special about my story? Not much compared to other New Yorkers, as we all new someone who perished there that day. But that's exactly it. WE ALL KNEW SOMEONE WHO PERISHED THERE THAT DAY. Suddenly, New York city was a small town. Crime was non-existent for weeks. We all went to our houses of worship and prayed. But we had something the rest of the world didn't - we were praying for someone we knew. In my case it was Stephen. Stephen was a sweet and gentle man, yet opinionated and hard working. He met his wife, Sara, several years ago after she had adopted a baby from Azerbaijan. Sara's first husband passed away from illness when she was very young. Without any prospects for marriage, Sara decided in her forties she didn't want to leave this world without being a parent, and adopted Daniel. Soon after, Stephen fell in love with both Sara and Daniel, and they married. Daniel was 6 years old on 9/11/01. Stephen was the only father he ever knew. Nightly Sara's home became a waiting room, and every time the phone rang someone ran to answer it, in case it was Stephen, or someone who found his belongings, or perhaps him. As the nights dragged on, our hopes turned from bad to worse. We listened to her patiently as she told us the "process" that too many had to go through. We tried, as we still do, to focus on Daniel.
I've heard miracle stories which help you keep the faith, and still others that are very personal and equally horrific. The following one is quite bizarre and puzzles me to this day. Mary, my neighbor just two doors down, has a husband , Bernie, who worked in the second tower to get hit (I believe that was tower 1?). He worked on the 87th floor. When the first tower was hit, he said the heat generated from it was scorching, and the fire so intense and surreal. He didn't hesitate to head for, of all things, the elevator, which was full. Bernie squeezed into it despite announcements that tower 2 was secure. When he got downstairs, he exited and headed for, of all things, his car (most people take mass transit which he usually did). He didn't stop to look, had no desire to remain, and Bernie made it almost all the way home - through multiple tunnels and bridges, until the final bridge which was closed so he walked it. Mary "knew he couldn't walk outta that," but he did. Now for the bizarre part, the thing that irks me to this day - Stephen, Sara's husband, worked on the same floor of the same building. That in and of itself is a strange coincidence as these towers are just, er, WERE just, huge. One lives, one dies.
I interviewed there for a job once, at a Big 8 accounting firm, but didn't like the stuffy atmosphere at all. It was beautiful, though, and the 360 views of NYC were and still are unparalleled. I miss those towers so much. I can't explain it to you, but it's pretty universal here. My mother says she thought they were an eyesore when they were built, but she misses them too. The anger in all New Yorkers was intense. In the days that followed, we sometimes were extra nice to each other, other times we snapped at strangers and looked for things to fight about. It wasn't that we never fight over a parking spot, it was HOW we fought about it now. We were, and still are, in great pain. The smoke over Manhattan billowed for months. The towers are still gone. The people we knew we still miss.
Like most Americans, I dutifully wrote a letter to the President. He had to get the bastards who castrated my city. Yes, I said it like that. Yes, it's simplistic. Unrealistic, some of you might think. I have yet to meet a New Yorker who feels differently. Regardless of one's political affiliation, New Yorkers are pro- War on Terror. Frankly, I can't fathom how anyone can speak of how America made people angry enough to do this because they were so threatened by our imperialistic desire to spread democracy. Or even better, how we continue to bring this hatred on ourselves, or how we can improve our image by cowtowing to terrorists or terrorist sympathizers. When does the blame for something so horrific and universally condemned lie squarely on the terrorists, sympathizers, or lousy mothers who hand their children candy to celebrate it? Those mothers are raising the next generation of haters. I think my point is, albeit not so well worded, that New Yorkers know what it's like to be a victim of a major terrorist attack. The rest of the world struggles with their handfuls of victims while we lost thousands in one morning. The rest of the world closes a few square blocks for several days but roads to Manhattan were strictly controlled for months. Every single victim of any attack is one too many, and any amount of damage a crime, no matter where in the world, but unless the pain is felt en masse too many forget. We can't. We all still miss someone.
The morning of September 11th was my two daughters' third day at a new school, over the bridge, in Brooklyn. My husband had driven them that day, and it was on his way home that he heard the news on his car radio. He called me immediately, and as most people I just countered his statements with, "what? when? a plane? terrorism? no! probably a small plane that lost it's way..." He kept insisting as I walked with my cell phone and pushed my son in a stroller. A battery operated radio rested on the stroller's sun visor, as I marched alongside other neighbors with the same idea of watching from the bay, where I could see the Manhattan skyline since my youth. I never went into Manhattan much anymore, but I loved knowing it was there. On my walk a few blocks north, the second plane hit the other tower. "I told you" my husband screamed, "those bastards!!!" There it was, the ominous black smoke, blowing south towards Brooklyn and my girls. My husband had already decided to pick them up and return home, which would later prove impossible until much later in the day, due to the fact that every bridge in New York city was closed indefinitely. Navigating the Brooklyn streets, a neighbor crossed in front of his car, walking home as so many did with unusually beautiful weather - he had been at the scene and wanted to stay and watch, but an Israeli friend of his warned him to get as far away as possible, as terrorists were known to strike in twos, increasing the terror as the "rescuers" became victims. Needless to say he was glad he listened. He showed my husband a piece of the plane he had found, and together they waited in Brooklyn. I watched as you all did on television for the next few days incessantly. So what's so special about my story? Not much compared to other New Yorkers, as we all new someone who perished there that day. But that's exactly it. WE ALL KNEW SOMEONE WHO PERISHED THERE THAT DAY. Suddenly, New York city was a small town. Crime was non-existent for weeks. We all went to our houses of worship and prayed. But we had something the rest of the world didn't - we were praying for someone we knew. In my case it was Stephen. Stephen was a sweet and gentle man, yet opinionated and hard working. He met his wife, Sara, several years ago after she had adopted a baby from Azerbaijan. Sara's first husband passed away from illness when she was very young. Without any prospects for marriage, Sara decided in her forties she didn't want to leave this world without being a parent, and adopted Daniel. Soon after, Stephen fell in love with both Sara and Daniel, and they married. Daniel was 6 years old on 9/11/01. Stephen was the only father he ever knew. Nightly Sara's home became a waiting room, and every time the phone rang someone ran to answer it, in case it was Stephen, or someone who found his belongings, or perhaps him. As the nights dragged on, our hopes turned from bad to worse. We listened to her patiently as she told us the "process" that too many had to go through. We tried, as we still do, to focus on Daniel.
I've heard miracle stories which help you keep the faith, and still others that are very personal and equally horrific. The following one is quite bizarre and puzzles me to this day. Mary, my neighbor just two doors down, has a husband , Bernie, who worked in the second tower to get hit (I believe that was tower 1?). He worked on the 87th floor. When the first tower was hit, he said the heat generated from it was scorching, and the fire so intense and surreal. He didn't hesitate to head for, of all things, the elevator, which was full. Bernie squeezed into it despite announcements that tower 2 was secure. When he got downstairs, he exited and headed for, of all things, his car (most people take mass transit which he usually did). He didn't stop to look, had no desire to remain, and Bernie made it almost all the way home - through multiple tunnels and bridges, until the final bridge which was closed so he walked it. Mary "knew he couldn't walk outta that," but he did. Now for the bizarre part, the thing that irks me to this day - Stephen, Sara's husband, worked on the same floor of the same building. That in and of itself is a strange coincidence as these towers are just, er, WERE just, huge. One lives, one dies.
I interviewed there for a job once, at a Big 8 accounting firm, but didn't like the stuffy atmosphere at all. It was beautiful, though, and the 360 views of NYC were and still are unparalleled. I miss those towers so much. I can't explain it to you, but it's pretty universal here. My mother says she thought they were an eyesore when they were built, but she misses them too. The anger in all New Yorkers was intense. In the days that followed, we sometimes were extra nice to each other, other times we snapped at strangers and looked for things to fight about. It wasn't that we never fight over a parking spot, it was HOW we fought about it now. We were, and still are, in great pain. The smoke over Manhattan billowed for months. The towers are still gone. The people we knew we still miss.
Like most Americans, I dutifully wrote a letter to the President. He had to get the bastards who castrated my city. Yes, I said it like that. Yes, it's simplistic. Unrealistic, some of you might think. I have yet to meet a New Yorker who feels differently. Regardless of one's political affiliation, New Yorkers are pro- War on Terror. Frankly, I can't fathom how anyone can speak of how America made people angry enough to do this because they were so threatened by our imperialistic desire to spread democracy. Or even better, how we continue to bring this hatred on ourselves, or how we can improve our image by cowtowing to terrorists or terrorist sympathizers. When does the blame for something so horrific and universally condemned lie squarely on the terrorists, sympathizers, or lousy mothers who hand their children candy to celebrate it? Those mothers are raising the next generation of haters. I think my point is, albeit not so well worded, that New Yorkers know what it's like to be a victim of a major terrorist attack. The rest of the world struggles with their handfuls of victims while we lost thousands in one morning. The rest of the world closes a few square blocks for several days but roads to Manhattan were strictly controlled for months. Every single victim of any attack is one too many, and any amount of damage a crime, no matter where in the world, but unless the pain is felt en masse too many forget. We can't. We all still miss someone.
posted by Miriam at 6:52 PM
2 Comments:
I don't think anyone can forget those who lost their lives in this horrific act of terrisom. I know I won't. I live so very far away but that terrible day touched me very deep. All those poor people.
I have only met someone who was living and working in Manhattan. He left after this occurred.
To actually know someone who lost their life is even more devastating. I really don't have the words to express how I really feel about this.
Every year I will look at the memorial site and will scroll through the victims bios.
I will never forget what happened.
I was watching TV when the second plane flew over Katie Couric's shoulder and crashed into the tower.
A lifelong NYer, I always watch the Today show to stay connected here in GA. That day I couldn't tear myself away as much as I wanted to.
I grew up in Goldens Bridge, a bedroom community of Manhattan. We had so many people who worked on Wall St. that they split a limo several days a week. Two who died were the only sons of a neighbor. I used to babysit for them and they grew up to work at their dad's insurance business. The parents were so devasted by this loss that both of them just died of plain old heartbreak - he within the month of the attack and the mother just before Christmas.
I spent the day remembering this family in happier times. It was all I could manage.
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