Remembering 9/11

September 11, 2006

It’s eerie – today, September 11, 2006, is a cool, crisp morning, signaling that fall is on its way. I’m sitting upstairs at the bay window of our Brooklyn Coop, right where I was five years ago at 8:46 AM, when the Bloomberg radio program I was listening to went static. I was working from home because I was going to vote that morning, before heading into work. Then my colleague, whom I was chatting with over AOL Instant Message, told me to turn on the news because a plane flew into the Word Trade Center. I did, then quickly ran to the roof of our building and watched the horror unfold. In the end, roughly 3,000 people were murdered within a few hours.

By far, it’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever witnessed. Aside from the sheer horror and shock, one of the things hardest to explain to a lot of non-New Yorkers, where most of the carnage occurred, is how far-reaching the impact was to the city. Certainly, hundreds of thousands of immediate family members and close friends of victims were left mourning. But in a city of over eight million, three thousand people means there was likely only one or two degrees of separation to at least one person who was murdered. You either knew someone, or you knew someone who knew someone. It was likely you knew several people. It was a hell of a lot more than a sensational event that made for great television imagery, and I hope it’s not forgotten once this fifth-anniversary tribute passes (a phenomenon perhaps more descriptive of New Orleans and the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina).

Five years later, I still don’t know what to make of it. It’s opened up more questions: What to make of of Bush’s misguided efforts in Iraq, which took our nation’s defense off the real terrorist problem. What to make of Bush and the larger federal government’s failed promises to reconstruct, and invest more in anti-terrorism infrastructure in vulnerable U.S. cities, particularly New York. Oh yeah, what about our borders? How come the world was supportive and sympathetic to the U.S. in the days following 9/11, but somehow the U.S. seems to have squandered that? How come it seems there are so many more copycat terrorists? Why is that hatred is like a nasty virus, and our efforts to fix the problem are actually only treating symptoms? Why is it that the fundamental problem has gotten worse?

It’s a sad day. But we’re New Yorkers and Americans, and we’ll move on.

 

  • BCE

    As a Californian, I never understood how my dear friends on the Jersey shore could suggest that the impact of 9/11 was even stronger to those in NY/NJ–that is until spending a few days in NYC last week and having the pleasure of riding back to Penn Station on a rainy evening in the company of a very friendly (customer-focused!) Egyptian cabbie.

    While he traversed the congestion from W. 59th down toward Penn St, he shared with me his personal story of 9/11. His cab was directly in front of WTC2 and he watched the second plane impact the tower. Instinctively, he jumped from his cab, leaving everything behind, and started running north . . . not sure where he was going but driven instinctively to find home. He did–walking in the front door of his Brooklyn home at 2am after walking 36 miles. His wife thought he was dead; he could not sleep for a week. And, he was an Egyptian.

    In the weeks that followed, when he was able to drive a cab again, he took a man home late one night, a man whose brother had died on 9/11. The man paid his fare and got out of the cab. But then he leaned into the open passenger side window and shouted, “Why did you have to kill my brother?” This American, this Egyptian cab driver, instinctively got out of his cab and ran . . . ran around the front of his car and embraced the man–his customer–a fellow American, and said he was so sorry. But while his name and skin may have telegraphed murderer to the man, he loved this man’s brother as any other American would love another, particularly during the painful period following the attack. They cried together and held each other. A New York 9/11 moment, perhaps.

    I cried in the cab listening to this story and realized I had not been back to WTC since having lunch at Windows on the World in 1999. Somehow felt a little shameful about that and asked the driver to take me there. The train, my plane could wait.

    Not sure what I was expecting–maybe horrible images or reminders of death like I had seen on CNN from the protection of my home 2500 miles away on the morning of 9/11/01. He dropped me at WTC PATH in a soft rain and I made my way over to the pictures, the memories, the sadness displayed on the exhibit walls. Maybe just 100 others there that night and, like me, many sauntered in silence to peer through the fencing surrounding the site. I entered almost a meditative state for a few minutes and stared out though the drizzle and light fog, made almost surreal by the glaring high intensity lights illuminating the nothingness, the void, the gaping rip in America’s soul. . .

    Happy Birthday LHE.

  • BCE

    As a Californian, I never understood how my dear friends on the Jersey shore could suggest that the impact of 9/11 was even stronger to those in NY/NJ–that is until spending a few days in NYC last week and having the pleasure of riding back to Penn Station on a rainy evening in the company of a very friendly (customer-focused!) Egyptian cabbie.

    While he traversed the congestion from W. 59th down toward Penn St, he shared with me his personal story of 9/11. His cab was directly in front of WTC2 and he watched the second plane impact the tower. Instinctively, he jumped from his cab, leaving everything behind, and started running north . . . not sure where he was going but driven instinctively to find home. He did–walking in the front door of his Brooklyn home at 2am after walking 36 miles. His wife thought he was dead; he could not sleep for a week. And, he was an Egyptian.

    In the weeks that followed, when he was able to drive a cab again, he took a man home late one night, a man whose brother had died on 9/11. The man paid his fare and got out of the cab. But then he leaned into the open passenger side window and shouted, “Why did you have to kill my brother?” This American, this Egyptian cab driver, instinctively got out of his cab and ran . . . ran around the front of his car and embraced the man–his customer–a fellow American, and said he was so sorry. But while his name and skin may have telegraphed murderer to the man, he loved this man’s brother as any other American would love another, particularly during the painful period following the attack. They cried together and held each other. A New York 9/11 moment, perhaps.

    I cried in the cab listening to this story and realized I had not been back to WTC since having lunch at Windows on the World in 1999. Somehow felt a little shameful about that and asked the driver to take me there. The train, my plane could wait.

    Not sure what I was expecting–maybe horrible images or reminders of death like I had seen on CNN from the protection of my home 2500 miles away on the morning of 9/11/01. He dropped me at WTC PATH in a soft rain and I made my way over to the pictures, the memories, the sadness displayed on the exhibit walls. Maybe just 100 others there that night and, like me, many sauntered in silence to peer through the fencing surrounding the site. I entered almost a meditative state for a few minutes and stared out though the drizzle and light fog, made almost surreal by the glaring high intensity lights illuminating the nothingness, the void, the gaping rip in America’s soul. . .

    Happy Birthday LHE.