After Tuesday

Tuesday, September 11, 2001 started out as a beautiful sunny day.

I flew up the night before and was attending a meeting on the 47th floor of equitable building in midtown Manhattan.

As we worked in a conference room, someone rushed in and said, “There is a hole in the World Trade Center”

We ran to the window and our mouths dropped to the floor. We stood in silence and stared at a smoking 15-story hole in the north tower. It was an accident, we were certain of it. A plane must have flown too close or malfunctioned. We had work to do so we went back to our conference room. Every once in a while, I would get up to stretch my legs and peer out the window.

Then it happened again, this time before my eyes. A glint of light reflected from the sun followed by a 20-story fireball. The second plane hit the south tower.

There could be no mistake, no alternative explanation. What did this mean?

We scrambled to find a radio and listened for anything that would explain what we just saw. The details started to pour in. None of them was reassuring.

I knew my mother would be worried so I called her. I told her everything was fine. That I was all right and that I was far, far away from any danger. Truth be told, I had no idea. But, she needed to be reassured. I guess so did I.

It was the last phone call I could make for the next several days.

It was very hard to concentrate on work but we made the effort still focusing on our deadline. Our trips by the window became more frequent. I joined my colleague and tried to see the buildings. “I can't see the buildings through the smoke,” I admitted after awhile. “They aren't there anymore, the buildings have collapsed” he quietly replied.

Another colleague that flew up with me the night before from our home office arrived visibly shaken. She had a meeting in one of the towers. She stepped out of the subway in time to see what no person should ever see.

A security guard entered the office and asked for a list of everyone in the building. “We need to know who is here. And, who is missing.” We got word that SAS headquarters back in North Carolina decided to shut down. Then, they told us we too could go home. Trying to get something, anything, done would be very difficult at this point, but we discussed it for a moment. The client was willing to stay, so we went back to the conference room and did what we could.

Suddenly a security guard opened the conference doors and told us that the building had already been evacuated and that we must leave. Now! On the elevator ride down, a woman tells us her husband is a pilot and told her that terrorists are targeting several tall buildings in Manhattan.

Now what?! My hotel was just as tall and my room was on same floor as office, just one block north. We hit the streets just as a group of emergency vehicles raced by and then an army of ghosts appeared, slowly walking towards us. Armed with briefcases and faces devoid of expression, they were the lucky ones, covered in dust.

When we heard that the pentagon was attacked, my imagination took over and I went into survival mode. Get food and essentials. Head to central park (no high-rise buildings there).

Day turned to night. You could hear the sirens wail everywhere you went. I watched the news for as long as I could until I dosed off into a dreamless sleep. Suddenly, the deafening roar of fighter jets flying low and fast shook the building. I thought the hotel had been hit. I ran out into the hallway but no one was there. I called the front desk and the said we were fine. It was 4 am.

So many thoughts and feelings were rushing through my head. Is this real? How could it have happened? What do we do next? So many dead. There was no way I could fall asleep.

The days that followed were surreal. We continued our work but there was a hush over everything. When it was time to eat, we found all the restaurants still operating. Much of the wait staff were forced to sleep in the restaurant because Manhattan was all but sealed off. I too was stranded when they shutdown the airports. People just ate and watched TV. No words of anger or hatred. The staff looked exhausted but went on serving people with kindness and patience.

That was perhaps the most surprising thing of all. The humanity people exhibited. Asian and Middle Eastern restaurants put tables of free food out of the sidewalk for anyone who happened by. Cab drivers were often in tears. My two-day trip turned into a nine-day trip into the twilight zone. Nine days spent at the worst time and I do not recall hearing a single harsh word.

I guess the surroundings were harsh enough. My eyes and throat burned every day with the smoke that emanated from lower Manhattan. Bomb scares would empty buildings. Fences and lampposts were plastered with pictures of all races from loved ones pleading for information about their whereabouts. Fire stations were bathed in flowers, candles and cards as communities mourned the entire shifts of fire fighters that died in the initially response. You wanted to help. You needed to help. However, no volunteers were needed. Whenever they asked for something, they were inundated. There was nothing constructive you could focus on. Nothing to get lost in. No escape from the grief that surrounded you.

One night, we found a place to eat that would normally sell out weeks in advance and sat outside. A slow parade of white 18 wheeler trucks drove past. Without thinking, I asked a question I would later regret. They were refrigerator trucks carrying the remains of those that lost their lives. So many trucks.

At night, the city was a very lonely place. My cell phone still did not work and listening to the news was heartbreaking. I went by some old places that my sister had shown me years ago. Her apartment on 30th and 3rd, the Chrysler building where she worked, the Chinese restaurant where we subconsciously fought to get the lion share of the broccoli. The bar where we had our first heart to heart as adults. It was a carefree summer back in 1990. She and her unborn child would die in a mysterious car accident some 6 years later.

The memories and emotions were overwhelming. I started writing about what life meant and what I hadn’t done yet. I wanted to make a difference but I just never got around to doing it. I vowed that I would make it a priority from that day forward.

My family had several common interests, one of which was the theater. Looking for an escape, I stood in line to get tickets one night and found that I was the unwitting subject for a photographer. She would stealthily snap a few when I wasn’t looking and then pretend to check her lens when I was. I stopped looking away and she packed up and left. It was strange and a little unnerving. I finally got seats to a play guaranteed to lift my spirits, “The Producers”. As the curtain went up, the cast came out and began to sing. Soon the entire audience joined in and the words to “God Bless America” were never sung so earnestly.

On Thursday, 9 days after my quick 2-day trip started, the airports were operating and the backlog of flights cleared enough for me to return home. I went through security and surrendered my razor and nail clippers. Oddly enough, they gave me a metal knife when they served me lunch.

When I arrived in Raleigh, the airport was nearly empty. The cab driver confessed that he was worried about the future. He had had only had one fare all day. I unlocked the door, dropped my bags and looked around. Everything was just as I had left it. I was finally home. However, it wasn’t the same home I left the previous week.

I sat and pondered about that Tuesday morning and wrote down these four lines:

After Tuesday, will we have learned that violence does not lead to peace?

Will we realize that we have more in common than we have differences?

Will we take our freedom for granted?

Will we understand just how interconnected we are and learn to live together?

It is 20 years after that Tuesday.

What did we learn?

How have we changed?