Meerkah's Blog

I was wondering if I should post my 9/11 story. I’ve posted it several times over the last 20 years, and figured, maybe I shouldn’t – not this year.

But then a couple of folks asked me to…so I feel maybe it’s still relevant, especially on THIS anniversary.

Twenty years

I still can remember everything, as if it happened yesterday. What I saw. The fear I felt. The subsequent anger I felt. And the smell that seemed to just stick to all of downtown New York City for years after the attacks.

A little over two years ago, I was lucky enough to be re-employed by the New York City Economic Development Corporation – the same company I worked for back on 9/11. I had left in 2004, and all but regretted having done so because no matter where I worked in the years after, nothing compared to the sense of purpose I felt being a part of EDC.

At the time of my return, the company was still located on William Street, just a couple of blocks down from the World Trade Center. Four months after my return, EDC moved to its new location – across the street and adjacent to the WTC – right next door to the park where I stood watching in horror on 9/11 as the top of the North Tower, already hit by the first plane, bled smoke into the blue sky, and right on the spot where I made my turn to head to the office as the second plane hit the South Tower.

Every day, I see those two locations, and marvel at the resiliency of the city I call “home.” It’s amazing what we have built there – and I’m amazed to be a part of the company that helped make that happen. People from all over the world come to visit the Freedom Tower and to stand by the memorials in the footprints of where the two buildings once stood. Companies, much to what the naysayers in the aftermath of that horrible day predicted, have come back to create workspaces in the buildings there. There is life again there, where once there was a gaping hole of smoke and debris. There is joy, even among the sadness of remembrance of all those we lost in the course of a day full of terror.

One thing I can say – New York City always bounces back. Those who keep calling it ‘dead’ must be tired of being so wrong so often.

For those who have asked, here’s my 9/11 story.

Back in 2001 I lived in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn and worked three blocks away from the World Trade Center. My train stop coming into Manhattan was across the street from the North Tower.

My plan to catch an earlier train than usual was thwarted by my more immediate desire to look good for our monthly board meeting. I remember running in my three-inch platform heels and cursing my vanity as I watched the train leave the station. I didn’t realize at that moment how lucky I was. You see the train I took back then left the station every twelve minutes. Had I made the train I ended up missing, I would have likely been walking up the stairs to street level as the first plane hit The North Tower. 

Instead, I caught the next train, which had me arriving in Manhattan shortly after the North Tower had been hit.

Of course, at the time, I didn’t know any of this. I just knew I was running late and I needed to get to the office before the Board Meeting started.

During the ride into the city, we were stuck between Brooklyn and Manhattan for a few minutes. I remember all the passengers, including myself, being annoyed – cursing the MTA – a favorite pastime of all passengers running late for work.

There was no announcement until we arrived at the first stop in Manhattan – Whitehall Street – and all they said was:

“Due to a Smoke condition, we will be bypassing the Courtland Street station.  For the Wall Street area, please use the Rector Street or City Hall Stations.”  Everyone looked irritated. It seemed back then that every week there was a “Smoke Condition” at the Courtland Street Station.

Usually, it meant a garbage can was on fire or some stupid kid was pulling some stupid prank effectively delaying the trains for what amounted to nothing, leaving harried employees irritated, and late for work – But not this time.

I got out at Rector Street because it was closer to where I worked than City Hall – annoyed that I would have to walk a few extra blocks in heels.

When I got out of the station, I could smell the smoke. I walked up to street level and saw smoke and fire coming from the North Tower and paper wafting down to the ground from the building as well. All I could think was, “oh no, not again.” I apparently said this out loud because a lady passing me by stopped to say, “oh no, it was just a freak accident – a small jet or something flew into the tower – it’s very weird – they think maybe the pilot had a heart attack.”

Now mind you, I was suspicious – Hey, I was there in 1993 too. But I decided to just go on to work so I started making my way in the direction of the WTC. Downtown can be a bit difficult to navigate because it’s not the nice little neat grid that the rest of Manhattan is, so I was trying to use the most familiar path I knew. I got to Zucchotti Park, which was full of people staring up at the Tower – some were crying. I looked up as well, but was mindful of the time, because again – I had a meeting.

I know I walked a little further and then, closer to the South Tower, I made a right to head towards my job, all the while hearing many folks talking in disbelief about the ‘freak accident.’ I walked three steps in the direction of  my building, placing my back to the burning Tower, when suddenly, I heard what I can only describe as very loud blasts – it sounded like something was blowing up.

I, along with countless people, started to run. 

At this point I remember thinking that maybe the plane that had flown into the North Tower exploded (later, I learned that, in fact that noise was the sound of the South Tower being hit). I was also, at that moment, thinking “don’t fall” for fear I’d be trampled.

Once I made it to my building on William Street, I could see my co-workers staring up in disbelief in the direction of  the North Tower. We had a very good view of that tower from the corner of our building. One of my friends, having noticed me, out of breath, and I’m sure disheveled, asked me if I was okay.  As I began to nod my head “yes,” I put a hand through my hair to push it out of my face and noticed there was glass in it. I, also at that moment, felt glass down my back. As one friend handed me her orange juice, another started to pick the glass out of my hair. I was a little freaked out at that moment, but not nearly as panicky as, should I ever have imagined myself in that situation, thought I’d be. I looked up towards the tower to see why folks had started gasping and noticed fairly large figures falling from the area above the smoke.  It took a while for it to register that those were people throwing themselves out of the tower.

I realized at that moment, that whatever the situation was, my parents needed to know that I was fine. No one’s cell phones were working, so I went upstairs to try the landlines. I managed to reach my father’s answering machine.  One of my friends had offered to let me come to her apartment in the Village but I declined her offer, saying: “No offense, but I’m getting off this Island even if I have to swim.” Another one of my co-workers was in her office crying and I looked in to see if she was okay. She said that the Pentagon had been hit too. Clearly these were no freak accidents.

And then we started hearing rumors of other planes.

I had decided I was going to cross the Brooklyn Bridge with three of my co-workers. We all agreed to meet in the lobby by the elevators. I got downstairs and met up with two of the three ladies I was going to walk home with. I told them I wanted to let the co-worker who had offered me to stay with her in The Village know I was going with them instead.  She and another co-worker were out in front of our building next to the revolving doors.  As I walked towards them, the building began to shake, and the lights began to flicker on and off.  We heard a huge rumble and lots of crashing noises. 

The folks milling outside ran into the building and we all ran towards the side door. I linked hands with the two women who had been waiting for me and we ran outside along with the crowd. I was the last in our human chain and looked behind me. I saw a huge cloud of smoke heading our way. I tried to yell to them that we’re better off inside the building. They didn’t hear me. I broke off the chain and ran back into the building. I found out later that another co-worker HAD heard me and followed me inside. She said that had she been caught up in that cloud of smoke she most likely wouldn’t have made it, as she was asthmatic.

Once the initial brunt of the cloud of smoke that once was The South Tower passed, all those inside the building walked out to the street. It was eerie. You couldn’t see or hear anyone. The smoke/dust was so thick that you could be right next to a person, and they would sound as if they were far away. I could vaguely hear crying and I swear I heard my own heart beating. For the first time, I was truly scared. I thought I was never getting home.  I tried to keep myself in check though, as I tried to make my way to the South Street Seaport.

I turned left on Pearl Street. The smoke/dust on that block seemed to have lifted a bit and I recognized a familiar face from work.  He took one look at me and said, “are you okay?” and suddenly I couldn’t control the tears anymore and whimpered, “I want to go home.”   He asked me where home was, and I said “Brooklyn.”  He was from Brooklyn too and told me that he was looking for another one of our co-workers and that once we found him, we’d all go home together.

The third person found us pretty quickly (they had told each other where to meet), and we headed for the Seaport. At that time I worked for the New York City Economic Development Corporation and we were working on moving the Fulton Fish market to the Bronx.  The guys I was walking with were working on that deal so the folks at the fish market let us go into their offices for a quick rest before we started out to the bridge.

The folks in that office were very nice to us and kept trying to clean off my bag, my skirt, my shoes – giving me wet paper towels to wipe off my dust covered face. All I wanted was a working phone line. I HAD to get in touch with one of my parents to let them know I was STILL okay.  While we were there, the news was on, and they were talking about rumors of other planes and were trying to confirm a plane crashing in Pennsylvania.

At that moment I felt a sudden urgency to just get going.  I wanted off the Island of Manhattan. We decided that since the Brooklyn Bridge is the most famous bridge in New York City, it would likely be the first target if they wanted to cut us off from the rest of the boroughs – we weren’t taking chances.  We walked to the Manhattan Bridge (which also goes into Brooklyn) instead.

As we got to the foot of the bridge on the Manhattan side, we saw a throng of people running in our direction.  We found out later that the North Tower had fallen as well.

The Twin Towers were gone.

As we crossed the bridge, I kept looking back at the smoke coming from the spot where the towers used to be in disbelief.  Again, my thoughts were spoken aloud and I said to one of the guys “Wow, not to get all biblical or anything, but this reminds me of the story of Sodom and Gomorrah.”  My friend responded “well, we don’t want you to turn into a pillar of salt, so stop looking back. Let’s go home.”

When we got to the other side of the bridge, we all breathed a sigh of relief and just sat there on the grass watching as more people poured into Brooklyn.  The folks in Brooklyn were passing out water. I bumped into the lady me and my other two friends had been waiting for inside our building.  I was relieved she had made it out. She took one look at my feet and said, “go into the store behind me and get yourself a pair of flip flops NOW.”  So, I did.  My shoes had given me a couple of very large blisters at the bottom of my feet. I was in pain (and probably in shock), but relieved to be out of the city.

Bay Ridge was clear on the other side of Brooklyn, and it would have taken me all day to get home if I had walked.  Luckily a nice gentleman was picking up folks and driving them as far as his daughter’s school, which was about fifty blocks away from where I lived.  I took the ride.  Then I got myself a cab.

I had managed thus far to keep myself together but as I turned the corner of my house (the cab had to let me off about five blocks away because there was traffic backed up to the Verrazano bridge which had been closed because of the day’s events, so I walked/ran the last five blocks), I started shaking. 

Once I was inside, I just slid down to the floor and let it all out. My roommate at the time, came out of her bedroom and said, “Thank God you’re okay. We’ve all been trying to reach you. Call your sister. She’s in a panic.”  Luckily, outgoing calls from landlines were working, so I was able to call my sister and let her know I was fine. With the exception of the message I’d left on my father’s home phone (which I later found out he hadn’t heard, having not been able to leave his office for two days – he was the President of a Livery Cab company at the time, and they were trying to find the drivers that had been dispatched Downtown that morning), I still hadn’t reached either of my parents.

After taking the longest shower ever, I still felt as though I had glass in my hair and down my back, and no matter how many times I bathed, I could still smell the contents of the big ball of smoke I had walked through. It took days for me to feel physically normal again.

For the next few days, I slept in the living room with the TV on. By day two I had it on PBS because that was the only station NOT airing continuous images of the Twin Towers.  I had to take sleeping pills to be able to sleep.  Loud noises scared me. 

I’m a pretty tough person, but for the first week or so after 9/11, I wasn’t me at all.

I went back to work the following week.  We were working out of offices in downtown Brooklyn.  Like I said, I worked for the Economic Development Corporation, and we were clearly going to be busy for a very long time to come.  They told everyone to take their time, come back when we were ready.  But I had to be around people who understood how I felt.  No one in my personal life did because they hadn’t actually been there.

A week after that, we were back Downtown. I can’t describe to you the odor or the sights.  There were national guardsmen walking the streets asking for ID to prove you had a reason to be below Canal Street.  I took to wearing my Work ID around my neck.

I was lucky, really.  I truly feel like I was blessed that day. I have a sense that maybe my grandfather, who had passed a couple of months earlier, was watching over me on that day, making sure I got home alright. He was notoriously late for everything. Maybe he was the one who made me miss that train.

I was also lucky in that while I knew a few of the people who perished (three firefighters), all my family and close friends managed to escape physically unscathed. Because of this, I was able to concentrate on the folks who did lose those close to them and on the work we had ahead of us.

I kept the outfit I wore that day for about 15 years. I even wore it a few times, when I felt I needed a little extra luck – because I felt it was my lucky outfit – it was what I was wearing on the day I made it home when so many didn’t. I wore those shoes too, for years. I repaired them over and over again, until, sadly, I had to retire them permanently in the summer of 2008. But for the seven years after 9/11/01, every time I’d wear them, I’d remember how they got me across the bridge on the scariest day of my life.

It’s been twenty years and my heart still races and I still tear up when I think of the devastation of that day. I’m fine in my day-to-day life. But each year, on 9/11, I allow myself to dwell – to remember every detail. Because while we all must move on, if only to honor those whose lives were cut short, we can never forget.

I know that so much has happened in the years since the towers fell. There have been weddings and divorces, births and deaths. I met and married a wonderful man and then he passed away. I have moved. I suffered through being unemployed during the last recession. My heart found itself expanded in ways I never knew possible with the births of my nephew and then my niece. I found love again, with another wonderful man. I found myself, happily, back at my old job – helping New York City bounce back from yet another nightmare – a global pandemic.

Life, for me, has moved on.

And each day, I marvel at the resiliency of the town I call ‘home,’ and the human soul that can reimagine itself, heal itself despite the scars, and move on.

There are so many different stories folks who managed to escape that day, physically unscathed, will tell. I can pretty much guarantee each one will contain two elements:

– Gratitude at having been lucky enough to get out of there alive and unhurt.

– The need to  never forget the ones who weren’t as lucky as we were.

I don’t know if I will repost this story in another five, ten, fifteen, however many, years. But, I know I will never forget the day I came home.