I was working at a company just north of the Bronx. The tech lead brought up a radio to share with us, and that’s how we found out that the first plane had hit the towers. One of my office co-workers immediately freaked out because her husband was flying that day. (He was fine – his plane came out of NYC.) I zipped down to the deli next door because they had a television and was just in time to see the second plane hit. And again, just in time to see each tower fall. My husband at the time was home because he was ill, and he got so mad at me for calling and waking him up. I just kept telling him to go turn on the tv. I ignored the yelling and bitching and just kept repeating that he needs to go turn on the tv.
Then the world shrank. Because there were telephone switches that were destroyed in the collapses, they had to route calls up through our county and back down. It was almost impossible for us to get a call out or in. Family and friends had a horrible time getting through to us, so they would know we were okay. We had trouble getting information on friends in the five boroughs. And we found out later that one friend had been two subway stops from the towers when the planes hit. She was able to get out and get home, but we didn’t know that for hours. Another friend used to be a fireman, and we knew he would head down there, not away. We didn’t hear from him for 36 hours. At least I knew my MIL at the time was nowhere near this, so contacting her wasn’t quite as urgent.
The pictures on and in the news. Lawd, the pictures. There is one that I remember vividly, and I’m still pissed they printed it. And it’s still around. It was one of the people who fell. Remembering it just kicks me. Perhaps they thought they were photographing something to remember through history as a record of that day. But a photograph of someone who fell, and you knew what would happen when they hit the ground. Much as it chokes me up, I went and found it again to show you.
It lasted for months. It felt like we were in a different world. And it was too quiet. No planes flying overhead. Trains didn’t start running again for a couple of days. Almost no movement, and it took over a week before everything really started coming back. The phone trouble was ongoing. Too quiet. So isolated. So frightening.
This was when Giuliani was one of the good guys. What he did that day, and moving on for weeks, was what NYC and America needed him to be. Then there was the outpouring of help from people in the city when everyone had to walk home. There are pictures of that, too. People were offering flat shoes to women in heels. The delis were handing out water. Everyone was helping everyone else.
My god, the entire United States pulled together to support NYC. People were making plans to get here as soon as they saw the towers come down. Fire crews, EMS, regular people coming to do whatever they could do. People were waiting alongside the travel routes just to cheer everyone who was here to help, because everyone wanted to do what they could. And flags everywhere, banners hung along overpasses, everyone working together.
Look at America now. What happened to us? What happened to the people who became one nation? Trump is wrecking the country, and no one remembers 9/11 very much anymore. Those of us who lived through it remember it. We used to be one nation. Now we aren’t. It’s painful. And he passed on the ceremony because he couldn’t make a speech. NYC doesn’t like him very much, anyhow, and for him to blather at the memorial would be insulting. All the other living former presidents were there, but Trump got mad and skipped it because he couldn’t talk.
I was writing for a biweekly blog then. It was nothing like Pz. It was purely whatever anyone wanted to write about. It took me three months, literally months, to write what you are about to read. I couldn’t find the right words. I’m still not happy with it, but I haven’t managed to update it, so I guess it’s good the way it is. Again, this has nothing to do with politics, and everything to do with trying to express what I lived through.
Dream Into My Waking Hours
The city is crying. It comes into my dreams, turns them into nightmares, and begs me to heal it. Overused similes pour through my mind, the wounded soul, one wing drooping, red tinted tears sliding down, a broken winged butterfly trying desperately to move, an injured animal dragging itself off to hide and the pain pours over me. The tide never ceases, as the constant motion pounds upon me. I try not to let myself be worn away. I don’t want to lose the sense of self every being has, but the pleading visions of a city in pain begin to overwhelm my inner vision until a protest breaks out.
I’m just one person! How much can I do??
The city is crying and it waits for me, precious life fluid slowly seeping but it remains ever so patient. The dreams creep into my waking hours, tendrils winding through my thoughts, images appearing in my head at unforeseen moments until I must somehow find something to do to quiet the visions that haunt me. I put the words down on paper but they just don’t express what I see, what I hear, what I feel and I struggle to convey what’s being pressured into my mind. Restless sleep I toss and turn, somehow trying to reach out to soothe and comfort the bleeding agitated entity that is the city.
I’m here. I care. You are a part of me as I am a minute bit of you. As in a puzzle, every piece counts, and you’ve lost so many already. I know you don’t want to lose any more.
Please don’t cling so tightly that you strangle me. Please don’t crush me under the weight of your anguish. Please think past the hurt and listen to what I am trying to tell you.
I know you can’t get away, you can’t escape, but a touch of you travels with me, so please give me the time I need to help myself so I can help you Let me go where I need to, when I need to, but I promise to come back. I need healing too! It has to start somewhere so let me start small, let me start someplace.
I shall begin at the beginning. I shall try and take the time to rest and recover, to regain myself, because that is a start to restoring the city.
The city is crying, but it is listening now. The tears have slowed as I speak my thoughts, as the ideas coalesce and the iron-clad grip loosens until I can breathe again. I may only be one person, but just as a drop of water can wear away a stone, so can I start soothing the suffering, enough to take the edge off so the city can see a little past what is gone and look ahead to what may be. I shall hope the tears will slow so I may dry them away. I shall bandage the bleeding, splint the breaking, and ease the pain. I shall heed the city, calling in my dreams, and do what I can … what I must.
KiiA of all trades. Master of…well, the one that counts the most. The one side effect to learning all those trades was the over-exposure to the film projector; she’s the only human alive who blinks 24 times a second.
I thought I’d keep my author tag so you could see some of who I was back then. My column name was View From The Balcony. And yes, I was a projectionist at Vanderbilt for 13? Years – I don’t remember off the top of my head. How strange. And it was by no means all of what I did.
There is so much more I could say about today, 25 years ago. So. Much. More.
Never forget, people. NEVER forget.
~~Susan
