My September 11th Story

Just like everyone else, I have a story about September 11th, 2001. My story isn't tragic; I was one of the lucky ones. My beloved brother made it out of Tower 2 just minutes before it collapsed. I had left my own job on a high floor of a World Trade Center tower years before, so I was blocks away on Wall Street on 9/11 and never really in danger.

Still, I have a story. I don't tell it very often because it makes me feel self-indulgent to dwell on my own feelings about that day when so many people suffered so much more.

But that doesn't stop me from thinking about my own experiences that day more and more often as the milestone of the 10th anniversary of 9/11 approaches. The images of those two towers are everywhere once again and the news coverage of the 10th anniversary brings back vivid and painful memories.

Recently, at a press preview for a photo exhibit featuring heroes of September 11th, I stood and watched footage of 9/11 heroes and survivors and I couldn't hold back the tears.

Since it's impossible to avoid reliving our September 11th stories as we mark the 10th anniversary of 9/11, I decided to write my story down for the first time and invite you to share your own September 11th story if it might make you feel better to put it into words.

I was supposed to be working from home on 9/11. At the time, I lived in Park Slope, Brooklyn and worked on Wall Street. Ironically enough, I was meant to stay home that morning to test our company's emergency preparedness system, to find out if I'd be able to log in to the system in the event of a disaster.

It was still early in the morning when the technology failed me and I decided to just go into the office. I don't know why I didn't embrace my perfectly good excuse to stay at home and enjoy the sunny September day from our brownstone garden. Instead, I jumped on the 2 train and headed for Lower Manhattan.

I was dozing underground when the first plane hurtled into Tower 1. When I emerged from the subway station onto Wall Street, I stepped into complete chaos. People were running, shouting, crying, lining up at pay phones.

Finally, I got someone to tell me what was going on. He said there had been a plane crash at the World Trade Center. This didn't really compute. It seemed impossible. But I also knew that my brother was working in the World Trade Center that day and I instinctively sprinted toward my office building, assuming that I'd be able to find out what was REALLY going on there.

Unfortunately, I soon discovered that the real situation was worse than anything I could have imagined. I couldn't reach my brother on his cell phone or his office phone, so I started calling family members and friends to find out if anyone had heard from him. Nobody had news.

Meanwhile, I was desperately refreshing my browser window for updates from the news sites. We had no television on my floor, but I got on the line with my husband, who narrated from midtown what he was seeing on a small TV in a conference room full of stunned real estate brokers.

Then he suddenly stopped mid-sentence and let out a strangled sound. "What?" I demanded. He later told me it was the hardest thing he ever had to do to whisper, "Tower 2 just collapsed."

I don't remember much about the next few minutes. I know I collapsed in my chair in that gray corporate cubicle and sobbed as my coworkers streamed past, yelling back that we had to evacuate.

I knew I couldn't leave until we found my brother. Kind colleagues tried to nudge me out, assuring me that my brother was probably fine, that he was probably waiting to meet up with me uptown somewhere. But I couldn't go.

That's when I got the call I was desperately hoping for. The lucky call that so many never received. It was my brother's then-girlfriend telling me that he was okay. He made it out.

Later, I would hear about how he marched down endless flights of stairs, not turning back when announcements urged everyone to stay put. I would hear about how brave firefighters ushered his group through the bowels of the World Trade Center and eventually out into daylight by way of a subway exit a few blocks away. I will never forget hearing about how he glanced back as they started to run and saw Tower 2 crumble.

Eventually, he found a phone and called home. He was dazed and traumatized, but unhurt.

Once I heard he was okay, I was able to stumble down twenty floors and out onto Wall Street to begin the trek uptown with two coworkers. They eventually hitched a ride with a driver en route to Grand Central Terminal, leaving me to walk alone through the dusty, surreal landscape of downtown Manhattan. I walked past the South Street Seaport and through Chinatown, accompanied by other dirty, weary evacuees. I continued through the West Village, where residents were already organizing to give blood and gather supplies, and finally arrived at my brother-in-law's apartment in Chelsea, where I reunited tearfully with my husband and we collapsed to stare numbly at CNN.

I don't remember much more until later that evening, when we walked past the first of the heartbreaking Missing posters on our way to the subway station, then took the train over the bridge to Brooklyn. We looked out at the smoke cloud where the Twin Towers had stood only that morning and knew life would never be the same.