|
Three Blocks
Story | Slide Show | Pictures | Tour
In dedication to my long lost
Uncle, Over the Summer of 2001, I interned at Merrill Lynch in New York City. On the morning of September 11th, my flight was scheduled to leave at 8 PM. That morning I had a VIP ticket to the New York Stock Exchange. I exited the subway station in the financial district after the first plane hit. This is my story from that moment on. There are moments I have to remind myself to forget, particularly when those reoccurring events activate my memory: the acrid smell of crimson fire, screaming ambulance sirens or the echo of a plane flying nearer as It is September 11, 2001. Stepping off the train in a bustling subway station near Wall Street, I ascend the concrete steps towards the street, and a large man flies toward me yelling, “Watch your heads, the building is on fire!” Leaving the train, I emerge into a new reality. Arriving in the financial capital of the world, I hear someone say, “I can't believe a plane accidentally flew into the World Trade Center.” As my eyes climb one hundred and ten stories, my consciousness is blinded as a morbid confetti of account statements, faxes, plane tickets, letters and documents of paper float to the ground while bodies remain in the burning building. Through the streets of Manhattan, I walk among frozen statues. In my mind, New York becomes silent. Scattered people, shell-shocked, stand with their heads cocked up in disbelief, inhaling cigarettes, gulping venti cups of Starbucks. Frantically dialing cell phones with tears streaming down their faces, people begin flooding the streets as the crowd emphatically moves faster and faster. People walk by with cell phones attached to their ears as they fearfully whisper, “There is still a chance they are alive, maybe they didn't go to work today.” People solemnly pray “please answer, please be there” as their eyes shoot to the sky with hope and desperation to connect with their husbands, wives, moms, dads, best friends, and coworkers in the World Trade Center. I succumb to tears as I realize many calls will remain unanswered. The flames have already devoured the executive suites; the cremation is occurring before our eyes; we can see which floors are gone.
I can hear resounding screams, “People are jumping out of the building!” Then, a sonic boom. I hear a roaring explosion: rocketing to the sky, my eyes magnify the fireball engulfing the top of the second tower. A draft of wind and the entire city sways. People are running in every direction. Shrieks of fear and terror ricochet between the buildings as the flood of people strive to run faster than the tidal wave of debris. As I fly through the city following the mobs, I ask myself: Where do I go? I glance back.
Flames are consuming the Twin Towers. I've never seen anything so big, so powerful, so unimaginable. It feels as though I am in a movie. As people slow, I move through the streets, watching the reactions of people while my eyes attempt to swallow the chaos and my ears record confused voices in the street: “A plane crashed into the other Twin Tower.” It is beyond surreal seeing the burning people strapped in their airplane seats flying away from the building. Televisions broadcasting live throughout the city. New York is being attacked!
Two planes have crashed into the World Trade Center. I say to myself, “I should get a camera.” Although I feel guilty taking pictures of people during such a traumatic time, I know I won't regret taking photos because words cannot bring justice to what lies before my eyes. I want to take a picture with the bronze bull in the financial district as a memoir for my internship. I decide to ask a young woman leaning against the bull statue; she also appears to be fairly undisturbed, considering. I ask the young woman, "Would you mind taking a picture of me with the bull?"
“I think we are the only two people in Manhattan not hysterically crying or freaking out!” She replies, "Oh, I'm used to this. We have terrorist attacks everyday in my country. I came to New York as a tourist to get away from this." The girl begins rapidly speaking, "I don't know why everyone is acting hysterical". "The towers are burning, what are we supposed to do about it?" "There is nothing I can do." "I was supposed to meet my friend here an hour ago at 8:30, and now, I don't know how I'm going to find her."
I look around and imagine terrorism as my everyday life. The scene is so familiar to her and yet so unfamiliar to me. To this day, I will never forget the serenity of the Iranian tourist I met in New York on the eleventh of September. For one day I experienced terrorism. For one day I experienced her everyday life. I have to call my brother. Behind every visible pay phone are lines of twenty people waiting to make a call. I find a phone at a deli hidden inside a building. "Ryan, hey listen, the World Trade Center is on fire." He says, "I know, I'm watching it on TV." I say, "Oh, well I happen to be in the city three blocks away and transportation is limited, I have no idea how I'm going to get home, I think all of the subways are shutdown and the busses are packed. Call Uncle Ron in Queens, let him know I'm OK and I might miss my plane tonight if I don't get home in time. I still have to pack. Can you call him right now?" He says, "yeah." We hang up and I find my way to the subway. Third step down the subway stairs, something doesn't feel right. There are no people running up and down the stairs, no sardine packed crowds to push through. I'm entering a dark vacant hole. Maybe a bus would be a better way to get home, even if it takes longer. Walking through the city streets, I can feel ash settling in my hair, brushing against my face. Then the ground starts to tremble. I hear screams of terror. Glancing back, I see a huge dark tidal wave of smoke and debris as tall as the buildings billowing at me. I think, run Melissa, run as fast as you can, do not look back, just keep going. It is getting closer, I can't run any faster. I spin through a revolving door. I take deep breaths. Turning around, I see blackness. I don't want to be trapped in here. Adrenaline begins rushing through my body; my heart is stretching the skin of my chest, and I can hear my pulse. The fire is waiting to eat us alive; it will slowly creep through, under the cracks of the door, the intensity of the scorching heat teasing…torturing…before its fingers begin to wrap around the thirty bodies filled with fear of death. I look around. I don't know anyone. The thought of being alone, surrounded b shell-shocked strangers intensifies my anxiety. Fear-stricken business people dressed in Armani suits and ties are gripping leather briefcases. I am surprised to see the women comforting one another, while the men appear oblivious to the crying females surrounding them. I realize: there is no way out, no window to jump from.
Suddenly, people who appear to be white ghosts are spinning through the revolving door, covered in ash, gasping, and vomiting soot. Outside the air is clearing as people walk by wearing gas masks. I can hear sirens as fire engines and emergency crews speed by. I remember thinking: we are so fortunate the tower did not collapse on us. I decide to call home. My brother answers the phone as I rapidly speak, Ryan, I'm trapped in a building on Wall Street, listen don't make a big deal out of it, I don't want everyone to worry, just call Uncle Ron and let him know I'm ok.” Then, I pause, for I realize the possibility that this may be the last time I talk to him… This may be the last chance I am able to tell my little brother that I love him and I don't want to leave him. I regretfully whisper, just in case, if anything happens, I love you. A long pause. I have to go. Finally, the reality of death strikes my heart as I comprehend leaving my brother. I start to cry, as I reproach myself: “no pull yourself together, you are strong; this is not the time to be weak.” “It is not over yet,” I say out loud, for I realize, “The second tower has yet to collapse, it's only a matter of time.” Why is everyone ignoring me, why are they turning their heads as if they did not hear? I don't understand. It's just like before, the rumbling sound, it feels like an earthquake, darkness, breathless, motionless bodies watching, waiting, praying. Fire, smoke, more ghosts collapsing through the door. "Who is protecting us?" Why isn't the military in the air?" My thoughts pause, I listen to various voices within the lobby: "Don't let any air in; it could be a biological attack!" "Lock the doors to the building, employees only, check their ID's". "You can't turn people away." "We are being bombed. We don't know who these people are coming in and out of the building." "Check their bags too!" Security begins frisking everyone who walks through the door. People are getting mad as their bodies are searched. The strangers being searched shout discriminatory words, "who the hell do you think I am?" "Shutdown the elevators." “How can people be outside smoking in a time like this?” “Why don't they just stand outside and breathe?” “The Pentagon has been hit!” “The White House has been evacuated.” “Schools are out for the day.”—“Obviously!” “It's just like Pearl Harbor--only worse.” “New York is shut down. There is no way out. If you are in Manhattan, good luck,” the radio broadcasts. As I look around, I am astonished to see caterers laying out deli sandwiches on the office desks for people to eat. I presume, to some, working is all they know, it is how they deal. I ask a young woman my age named Flo, also waiting in the lobby, "Is that your Grandma?" She replies, "No. I just met her. We were on the E subway train into the World Trade Center when an alarm went off. I thought some asshole pulled the fire alarm again. Then, the lights went out, I could not see my hands from my face. Immediately, I knew the alarm was not a joke.” “All of sudden, the ceiling started caving in. No one was with her and she was using a walker, so I helped her off the train and we made it safely to this building with only a few burn marks on our face." Flo and I become friends, we sit on the floor of the building's lobby and wait together. I journal. Flo, an actress, studies her lines for a play. Ambulances and Fire Engines continue to speed by. "I don't want to spend the night here." "There is a hotel next door, but it will probably be packed tonight if there is no way out of the city." "Hey the ferries are transporting people to the New Jersey Shore." Do we want to risk the chance, what if we are bombed again? "Some of the bridges are open for pedestrians." We are uncertain as to what to do. Is it safer to stay or go? It is 3:00 p.m. Having concluded that we don't want to spend the night in a bank lobby, Flo and I declare: We don't care how long it takes, we just want to go home. We gather a facemask, a NYC Map and a water bottle.
Taking a deep breath, we begin our journey leaving the security of the building behind; as the revolving doors slowly turn, we step into the forever-changed world of Manhattan and travel back in time to an abandoned, gray desolate city with people few and far between, silent with empty distraught faces.
Our feet become caked with white ash. Curiosity and desire draws us toward Ground Zero, I want to see, I want to know what did this, I want to believe. You can't go down there policemen shout as they build a blockade. Flo and I turn away and begin our long journey home.
We pass by building, windows, cars and people layered in soot. Scattered through the streets are mismatched shoes, pieces of clothing, ripped ties, empty strollers, lonesome vendor carts sheltering untouched bagels and doughnuts, the scattered possessions of people who had been running for their life. It's getting hard to breathe, and the smell is horrid. The dense, ash-filled air is starting to affect us. Normally leaving through Chinatown could not feel more wrong: shoppers buying produce, kids playing in the streets, people walking their dogs. Stride by stride as I leave Manhattan, I succumb to fear as the world falls silent. Before crossing the passage into Queens, I hesitate to traverse the bridge as I eye a helicopter flying in the near distance. I ponder the thought: I might blow up as I am walking across, but I'd rather be walking across the bridge than sitting on an island. Crossing the bridge, I see firemen in full uniform walking into the city ready to put their lives on the line, not realizing they are walking into the valley of the shadow of death. If only they knew they were about to witness an open graveyard filled with limbs and intestines scattered blocks away from Ground Zero. If only they knew they would have to persist through relentless hours of physical and emotional exhaustion not to rescue strangers, but only to lose themselves and their friends. If only they knew what the events of that day would bring.
The next day the reality of the attack finally hit home. Listening to the fifteen messages on my voicemail was like listening to the voices of my family and friends at my funeral as if I had died. I broke down in tears, as I came to realize exactly what I had survived. The night before I was to return home to California, my Uncle and I were having dinner in Little Italy when several fire and police officers walked into the restaurant. My Uncle offered to buy them a carafe of wine. I asked two of the firemen if I could take a picture with them. After we took a picture, I hugged them and said Thank You. Then, one of the women wearing a fire fighter's shirt approached our table. "Thank you, those guys really needed that." My Uncle said, "No, thank you, you saved her life." I asked her, "Are you a fire fighter?" "No", she replied, "my husband is underneath the building." "Oh, we are so sorry," my Uncle and I replied. With the utmost confidence and a smile across her face, she said, "I'm not worried. Those guys will dig him out." I wanted to internalize the reality for her. Any hope, any chance, any possibility, anything, but reality. I will never forget September 11, 2001. Not only did I see, but I experienced the most powerful change of my life. On that day, I watched the city of the New York transform into a community as people began to take notice of each other. Compassion billowed through the streets. There, standing in the midst of the city on that infamous day, when the world stopped for a moment in time, I learned only one thing mattered the people in my life. Later I would recognize my fortune in confronting a near death experience, for I no longer fear mortality. In many ways my sense of self collapsed with the Twin Towers on September 11, 2001. Now, just as the city is rebuilding the World Trade Center I am rebuilding my inner self and becoming stronger, wiser and more compassionate than ever before. Gradually, I am discovering who I am and why I am here. As I trek through life, I am often challenged by quandaries, in which I incessantly recall the phone conversation with my brother when I thought I was going to die. As I began accepting the notion of departing from this world forever, the only affair racing through my mind was the desire to connect with my family and loved ones. Within a few seconds of the phone call, I discovered why I wake up every day and aspire to become a better person and persevere to make this world a more compassionate and peaceful place. I realized at that moment, not a single thing mattered; not the past, nor the future; not acquiring wealth or obtaining power; not achieving a certain GPA to get into an MBA program or proving myself to others via a successful career. When I imagined the world ending, I never hesitated to prioritize my principals because leaving behind tangible possessions was miniscule compared to the thoughts of forever leaving those I love. In a moment of epiphany I realized my family and friends are my everything. September 11, 2001 taught me that treasured moments are few and fleeting, which is why I try to live each day in the moment. On September 11, 2001, Americans elevated their political consciousness and social aptitude as their awareness of the rest of the world ballooned overnight. On that day, Americans experienced suicide bombings, paralyzing fear, and charred remains horrors that characterize the daily lives of millions in developing nations across the world. Following the attacks, reporters traveled throughout the Middle East and enlightened the public to unfamiliar foreign affairs and socio-religious perspectives in non-English speaking countries. Contrasting international stereotypes, Americans grappled with the quandaries facing third world nations; they wanted to understand the abject poverty and languish, which compels many to violence. The tragedy on September 11th ignited the American conscience and induced United States foreign policy makers to realize that we can no longer disregard geo-military and economic challenges facing developing nations. Thank you to all of my family and friends for your love and support. |
I say to myself, “Don't you people realize what just happened? How can you be shopping and smiling and carrying on? We were just attacked; we could have died. Anger, confusion, frustration and fear combined as one emotion. 
-- sound