Remembering

I am remembering today. I don't talk about the horrific events of September 11th, 2001 unless someone asks me to tell my story. Even then, I make it very short. I would rather suppress than relive those sickening and frightful moments. I have shared my story with only a few people. Today, I have copied and pasted my 9/11 story onto this blog. I thought it would be fitting to post it on this, the tenth anniversary of 9/11. I put it all out there, as they say, one last time before locking it in the vault until who knows when. Once it is posted, I may or may not decide to keep it up on my blog, but it stays, at least for today, on our day of remembrance here in New York City.

I was born in New York City and I have lived here my whole life, except for the year and a half I spent serving a mission in England and Wales for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I never, ever thought in a million years anything like this would happen here in this country.

I am probably alive today because I turned down a job offer at a bank on one of the top floors of 1 World Trade Center just a few years before that horrible day. I was no where near the WTC on September 11th 2001 and was therefore not hurt because of a simple clerical error. I guess you can say that I was at the wrong place at the right time that day.

I was working at 7 WTC, the third building that collapsed later on that afternoon. The bank I worked for sent me to a two-day seminar. I was given the choice to either go to 1 World Trade Center or the Met Life building in midtown Manhattan. I chose the latter because it was a shorter commute. I arrived bright and early that morning to the midtown office for the seminar, only to be informed that since I worked at 7 WTC I had to report to 1 WTC and that if I left quickly I just might make it in time. I turned around to leave when I saw everyone in the office run towards the windows.

We were up on the 36th floor of the Met Life building and had a clear view of 1 and 2 WTC. Some were speculating that perhaps a news helicopter had lost control and crashed into the building. Not likely, I thought, considering the severity of the impact. Then, we all witnessed the second plane hit. We saw the ball of fire all the way from midtown Manhattan. I felt like the whole experience was being played out like an action feature film. I couldn't believe my eyes. Just then, my brother called me who was working at the time at a city hospital in Queens. He asked me where I was and when I told him that I was in midtown, he frantically told me to leave Manhattan by any means necessary. To quote him, "The U.S. is under attack by Muslim terrorists! They have hijacked five planes and are striking New York City and other major cities! Our hospital is on code red and we’re getting ready to receive the overflow of victims." I have never heard my soft-spoken, easy-going brother speak so alarmingly. I immediately turned around to leave. I have since wondered 

I made it to the ground floor and made my way to Grand Central Station. Everyone was either walking swiftly or at a stand-still, but they were all on their cell phones. My legs started to buckle and so I sat down at the bottom of one of the marble staircases, also trying to call home. When my calls didn’t go through, I thought of all my options. I knew that I had to avoid the subway system all together, so I decided that the best way home was to take a bus or just walk across the Queensborough Bridge and then take a taxi the rest of the way home. When I walked out into the street, I made my way to Madison Avenue. Again, everyone I saw was either at a standstill or walking hurriedly, but everyone was looking towards downtown. When I turned to take a look, I saw a grey haze. People all around me kept saying repeatedly, “I can’t believe it! This isn’t happening!” I hopped on a bus (the last bus to leave Manhattan into Queens), took my seat, and kept calling home. My mother’s call suddenly came through and she told me the horrifying news that the both 1 and 2 WTC had fallen. The bus somehow decided to take a different route and ended up leaving me just a block away from home.

When I got home, my time was split between watching the TV, answering the landline phone, checking my e-mail messages and frantic voicemail messages from friends and family inquiring as to whether I was okay, but I was far from okay.

I will never be okay and will never be tired of asking “why”. I didn’t record the news on TV and I didn’t care to buy the newspaper the next day like millions of people no doubt did. Two or three days later, the plume of smoke from the still smoldering debris blew in a north-eastward direction and it could be smelled from Queens. I could smell it from our apartment when we opened the windows. I lost my appetite in more ways than one and having a full night’s rest for many nights was very often difficult to achieve when thinking about the pain and suffering of all those immediately affected. Everybody tells me that it wasn’t my time to go, I was spared, God was looking after me, I was protected by angels, etc. I never know how to respond to that. I appreciate the sentiment, but when I think of all of those people that were murdered that day at the WTC, I can’t help but feel survivor’s guilt. 

I couldn’t go anywhere near downtown Manhattan, not for at least a couple of years. Any attempt prior to that would make me kind of sick. I finally had the courage one day to go to Ground Zero, as everyone calls it, and I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of reverence and loss. The pain was still very much palpable. To this day, it still feels like hallowed ground and it will no doubt always feel that way to me no matter what is built there.

I do admit that I experienced  survivor’s guilt for a long time. There is no way to reconcile those sickening and frightening feelings than to alleviate some of the pain by saturating oneself with the stories of valor and camaraderie of that day. All of those stories have helped me in some way over the years. Prayer, service, temple attendance, and living the Gospel has also aided in the healing. After all is said and done, I am a New Yorker and a strong, smart and faithful Latter-day Saint woman. All of New York City was in mourning for a very long time, but life goes on and we New Yorkers picked ourselves up, some quite literally dusted themselves off, and we all went back to work to care for ourselves and our families. We are taught to love our enemies. Maybe one day I can learn to forgive, but one thing is certain, I cannot ever forget.