a journal on the writer's role in society edited by esther altshul helfgott Contributors are invited to address the question: What is the writer's responsibility to self & society? |
a journal on the writer's role in society edited by esther altshul helfgott Contributors are invited to address the question: What is the writer's responsibility to self & society? |
My City, My Story by Bernard Whitman Friday, September 14, 2001 6:30 PM Friends & Family, A cold hard rain is coming down this morning in Manhattan. As I walked around my neighborhood, I kept thinking, "What have they done to my city?" The terrorists who hijacked two planes and flew them into the World Trade Center on Tuesday shattered thousands of lives, and have forever turned upside down my neighborhood and my world, indeed, the entire world. In an instant, things changed. Over the last 3 days I have seen both the worst of humanity and the best. I'd like to take a few minutes to share some of this with you -- mostly for my benefit, to help get it off my chest, to process this horror, and as a way to begin the process of getting my life back together, but also to share with you some idea of what things have been like here, just up the street from "Ground Zero." Almost 73 hours ago, I was here, sitting at my computer downstairs in my apartment, preparing for a meeting that afternoon. I am working from home now, as I have started my own consulting business. My boyfriend Scott, my eight year old son Zach, and I live on West 14th Street in Lower Manhattan, just at the top of Greenwich Village. It was about quarter of nine in the morning on Tuesday, September 11, and I heard a loud noise outside my window. Probably a plane, I thought, not an uncommon sound to hear. But for some reason it seemed a bit odd, and I found myself daydreaming for a moment, the image of a plane crashing into a nearby building filling my mind. "What would that be like," I thought, imagining the force of such an impact and the immediate aftermath. "What would I do?" Within a few seconds. I pulled myself back to reality, and returned to my work. About an hour later, around 9:50AM, I got an email news alert from the New York Times (a free service where they automatically send you breaking news, usually about 30-60 minutes after a major event occurs) entitled, "Plane Crashes Into World Trade Center." I couldn't believe it, and immediately turned on CNN, thinking there had been some horrible accident, only to see a split-screen picture with both towers in flames on the left and a crash at the Pentagon on the right. I freaked out, and when I saw the replay of the second plane crashing into the south tower, I screamed. Just as I was getting up to go outside and see what was going on, the announcer reported there had been a huge explosion, and he could no longer see the south tower, as it was obscured by an enormous cloud of smoke. By the time I ran to the corner outside and looked down 7th Avenue, all I could see was a huge plume of smoke, and the north tower on fire. We live just under 2 miles from the World Trade Center, a straight shot downtown from my house. We also live around the corner from St. Vincent's Hospital, the main trauma center for the victims of the blast. I ran down 2 short blocks where a crowd had gathered to see what was going on. It was horrific. Stretchers were lined up outside the hospital, waiting to receive patients. Chairs had been draped with sheets, waiting to receive the injured. I ran back to grab my video camera, not really knowing what else to do, and not fully believing what I was seeing. When I got back, I trained the camera on the one tower still standing, with flames licking out the side. I then looked for the other tower, trying to see it through the smoke. I heard people say it was gone, and remembered the news anchor suggesting that, but I couldn't believe it. No way, I thought, there's just no way that my son's favorite building could be destroyed. "What would that be like if there was only one tower?" I remember thinking. Little did I realize the other one would fall so soon. After staring at the remaining tower, I made my way over to 6th Avenue, where I had an appointment I was already late for. I didn't quite know what to do with myself. I kept trying to call people on my cell phone to let them know what happened, but no calls would get through. My boyfriend, my sisters, my parents -- I couldn't reach anyone. I looked one last time at the burning tower and climbed the stairs to the sixth floor office where I was going. By the time I got up there, the second tower had collapsed. I couldn't believe it. I rushed back downstairs and into the street. The building was gone. The Twin Towers -- symbols of New York, recognized all over the world -- were gone. Never again could my family and I look down the street and gaze at those magnificent buildings. And that was just the beginning. I went back to St. Vincent's to find a crowd of perhaps 500 gathering to donate blood. In these moments after the catastrophe, New Yorkers from all walks of life came together to help, to do whatever they could, to be with each other, to try and make some sense of this horrible tragedy. I stood in line for several hours, finally able to reach my family by phone. I saw a man being brought into the hospital, covered with soot and ash. I saw another being taken out of an ambulance. I stood outside the hospital as a man screamed hysterically into a phone, unable to locate a friend and co-worker. I was inside the hospital where a woman in a wheelchair was frantically trying to tell doctors and nurses about others trapped in the building. I saw where families and friends were gathering to find out information about their loved ones. My boyfriend Scott, who had been working in Queens at the time of the blast, finally made it home about 5PM, thank God. This was no small feat, as just about everything into and out of the city was shut down, and I was worried that we would have to spend the evening and night separated, with only the constant barrage of news to keep me company. Fortunately my son was with his mom in New Rochelle, a suburb just outside the city, where he started third grade last week. The next few days have seemed like some horrible dream. Each morning I wake up thinking that there's no way this could have really happened to my city. But it has, and it's very real. On Wednesday, the first day after the tragedy, I went out to get the paper. I had to go a half-mile uptown just to find one, which, in NYC, is an awfully long way. I found myself running to the newsstand, as if I might be able to run it all away if I just went fast enough. Like Tuesday, it was strangely beautiful outside, with bright sun and crystal clear blue sky, except if you looked south, down towards where the Twin Towers had been. There, a dark cloud of smoke continued to billow upward and outward, spreading an acrid smell that burned my nose and throat, and reminded me and all my fellow New Yorkers that our lives were forever changed. And then the fliers appeared. The first one I saw was taped to a street sign a block from our house. "Look," I pointed out to Scott, "I bet we'll see a lot more of these." Little did I realize just how many. One by one, they popped up all over our neighborhood. On walls, bus stops, cars, and barricades. "Missing" "Have you seen this person?" "Help me find Chris." "Last seen the morning of September 11" And perhaps the most heart-wrenching, "Have you seen my Daddy?" Each one with a picture, phone numbers to call, identifying information, vital statistics, pleas for help, employer's name, and most telling, floor location -- 84th, 103rd, 92nd, 105th, 86th. Each picture telling a story, and behind it, a life lost, a family ripped apart, a community torn asunder. On Thursday, determined to help out in some way, I put on jeans and work boots and headed downtown, hoping to assist in clearing debris. By this time they had cordoned off all the streets south of 14th street, with state police checking IDs of anyone trying to get by. I managed to get through, and found the other side to be a ghost town. Seventh Avenue, the main artery through Greenwich Village, was deserted. The corner by the hospital that I passed everyday had been turned into a press staging area, with dozens of camera crews and reporters. I passed a couple other police check points, finally making my way down to Chambers Street, where I was stopped by the military who would not let me through. Crossing to the other side of the street, I was disoriented, unsure of exactly where I was. There were police and firefighters everywhere, along with military personnel, paramedics, construction workers, electrical workers, telephone repairmen, Red Cross, Salvation Army, FBI, FEMA, and EPA. It looked like a war zone. When I first looked down the street, all I could see was a giant cloud of smoke. But then the smoke cleared a bit to reveal a 50 foot high pile of smoldering rubble and debris, the remains of Building 7, which had also collapsed. I instantly knew what it was, having seen this shot many times on TV, but I can tell you that it is hard to appreciate the enormity of the disaster area on television, which seems to compress the destruction to a more manageable level. In person it is simply immense. After waiting for some time with a group of ironworkers, hoping to get in with them, I left. Too many volunteers had shown up, and they were not letting anyone else in, which, despite my disappointment, touched my heart and made me proud to be a New Yorker. My walk back uptown was one of the most moving events of my life. I saw destruction that no one should ever have to see, and people whose bravery, courage, and compassion caused tears to well up in my eyes. Dust and ash was everywhere, burnt out cars and smashed police cruisers, bits of burnt paper from offices now destroyed, a school playground filled with debris, crushed cars laying on top of each other -- one with a door light still on, wheel rims with only the steel left from tires which had melted away. Someone had come along and placed fresh lilies in the dead cars, a reminder that life continues. Others had written messages in the dust -- "God bless us all," I added to one vehicle. The media, hungry for stories, pounced on a woman who had just rescued her cat. I saw other people making their way back up the West Side Highway, which had become a staging area for the relief effort. People carried their dogs, suitcases, and rollerblades up from the area around the disaster site, not knowing when they'd be allowed to return home. As I walked back uptown, I became angry. This was my home, my neighborhood, the place I bring my son to play, the place Scott and I come to take quiet walks along the river. Look what they had done, look what they had done. But as I continued my walk, my anger and bitterness and sadness began to turn. I watched as hundreds of new firefighters and police and medical personnel poured into the area. Fresh groups of construction workers came to relieve their comrades and contribute to the relief effort. A man passing out American flags pinned one to the back of my shirt. Crowds gathered along the highway to cheer on the volunteers and thank them for everything they had done. I stopped to help fill up a van with sandwiches headed for the workers at the site. Signs appeared saying, "Thank You," "God Bless America," and "You Are the Real Superheroes." I returned a couple hours later to the West Side Highway, which runs along the Hudson River straight downtown to where the World Trade Center had been. I brought a huge American flag that someone had given me many years ago, the kind that flies around the Washington Monument in D.C. And I stood there, along with dozens of other New Yorkers, waving that flag and screaming "Thank You" to the hundreds and hundreds of volunteers and rescue workers, police and fire fighters, doctors, nurses and EMTs, construction workers, military, and FBI who had come from all over the New York area and indeed from around the country to help us. As I walked around my neighborhood this morning, I wondered how I was going to explain all this to my son. At first I wanted to shield him from it, but I soon realized that would be impossible for it is all around us, and even at 8 he is much too aware of the world for that. Driving back into the city with Zach this afternoon I came around a bend in the highway where you can first see the outline of New York. It is one of my favorite views, always giving me pause as I wind my way back home, a little jolt of excitement and reassurance of the city that awaits. But today it was bittersweet, missing those two indelible landmarks rising into the sky, signaling that I was almost home, reminding me of the terrible loss that had taken place, reminding me that I still had not figured out what I was going to say to my son. Scott, Zach, and I have just come back from a short walk, stopping at Starbucks for coffee and McDonald's for a Happy Meal. On the way we stopped to look at a bus stop shelter that was covered with pictures of those still missing. "He's tall," Zach said. "Yeah, 6'1"," I responded. "I don't think he got out -- 104th floor," Zach said. "No, unfortunately I don't think so," I replied, and he skipped off ahead towards home. Life is slowly returning to normal in our city. But normal will somehow always be different. Thanks for listening, Bernard ================================================================== If you would like to make a contribution in support of those affected by the World Trade Center tragedy, I encourage you to visit or call one of the following charities: The United Way has set up a fund to aid victims and families. Contributions can be sent to the September 11th Fund, care of United Way, 2 Park Ave., New York, N.Y. 10016, or by calling (212) 251-4035, or visiting its Web site at www.uwnyc.org. The American Red Cross also is accepting contributions for is American Red Cross Disaster Relief Fund at 195 Willis Ave., Mineola, N.Y. 11501, or by calling (516) 747-3500, ext. 203. The Daily News has set up a fund to benefit the families of police officers, firefighters and emergency workers who have fallen in the line of duty at the Trade Center. Send your check or money order today to: Daily News Charities, Inc., P.O. Box 3307, New York, NY 10001. Or, to use your credit card, call 212-210-2244 between the hours of 6 a.m. and 5 p.m., Monday to Friday, and between 6 a.m. and noon on Saturday and Sunday. THANKS!!! |
