Reposted from my Facebook wall.
"What's on your mind, Ted?" asks Facebook. A lot, as there always is on this day, and particularly this year.
17 years ago I woke up and went to school. It was the beginning of my senior year at Brooklyn Technical High School. The skies were blue. Similar to what they are today here in Kansas, but clearer. There wasn't a single cloud, or even a wisp of a cloud, to be seen. The crisp fall air was refreshing on the walk from the Nevins Street station on the 4 train, down DeKalb Avenue to Brooklyn Tech. Smiles among friends as we started our senior year.
One of my favorite features of that school was the view of the World Trade Center. Room 5W15, where I had my English class that morning, faced the World Trade Center. From my seat I couldn't see the towers directly as the large heaters those classrooms had blocked the view.
Mr. Williams was an engaging teacher, but I still tended to look out the window. Out the west-facing window I saw a haze in the sky, floating south. I knew, seeing that haze, that something was very, very wrong. It did not belong, and only something very significant could create a haze like that. I also somehow knew that whatever was wrong, there was nothing I could do about it, and once I knew what it was that things would never be the same.
I'll never know how I knew those things, but I sat there for a few minutes, mostly looking at the haze until a girl towards the back of the class screamed and we all looked out the window. By that point both of the Twin Towers had been hit and were ablaze.
The school made us continue going through our classes, although there was no attempt at teaching for the rest of the day. Crying, sadness, hugs. During fencing class (on the 8th floor) the first tower fell, which we all saw out the windows. After that everyone kept the blinds drawn, and the 2nd tower fell during math class.
Nobody was certain at that point what was coming next or what the scale of attacks planned would be. As a school with 5,000 students, we were concerned that our school might be a target, and many of us wanted to leave. We stayed, though, at least most of us did. As upset and scared as we were, nobody panicked, and we moved quietly and orderly from class to class. Cell phone lines were overloaded, it was hard to get a call through. Televisions replayed the footage again, and again, and again. The towers being hit, collapsing. The people who opted to jump out of the buildings rather than be burned alive.
Routes into Manhattan were closed, meaning I couldn't get home when school let out. I spent a few hours at
Foster Chen's house until subways reopened and I was able to get back home. The subway went faster through the tunnel than I'd ever seen it go before or since. The driver must have been thinking what the rest of us were thinking too - afraid that all bridges and tunnels would be targets as well. I made it home, and my mom never hugged me so hard before or since.
The smell. Just thinking about it I can smell the destruction still. From my apartment more than 6 miles north of the World Trade Center we could smell the collapsed buildings.
September 12th was in some ways more surreal than the 11th. The entire city was shut down and law enforcement from all the surrounding areas and the National Guard were all over to direct traffic and relief/recovery efforts. I got on my bicycle and rode as far south as I could, taking pictures, simply to see as much as I could. My church had a special service that evening. Episcopal New Yorkers tend to not be a particularly hugging or crying crowd. Everyone was hugging, everyone was crying.
When the general area was more opened up,
Katrina K. Masterson and I went down to see the destruction. It felt like being in a movie. The sky was still obscured from the dust, the stench was overpowering. Cars parked on the streets were covered in rubble from when the towers collapsed, mostly untouched. Pieces of the towers collapsed.
There were some opportunistic people who tried selling "I survived 9/11" (with the 11 being depicted by the towers) t-shirts. I was surprised I never saw those people get the crap beat out of them, but it didn't last long.
The recovery efforts went on for months, along with the stories. In Grand Central Station, huge bulletin boards were placed, where thousands put pictures of their loved ones, asking for anyone who saw them to call. To me, that was one of the greatest signs of desperation. Almost all of those people were dead, but their friends and families held on to what little shreds of hope they could. Back at school, many of my classmates lost family members who worked in the towers. My local fire department lost 8 firefighters. I couldn't bring myself to walk past the station for months. Those of us who didn't lose friends felt guilty that we weren't somehow more directly impacted. One friend was in a Starbucks across the street when the first tower hit. He walked out, saw the tower ablaze, then turned around and started walking away.
Trucks lined the streets near the World Trade Center, waiting for body bags. Thousands of body bags. Many New Yorkers debated whether or not to leave the city after this realization of how much of a target it could be, but on the whole, we decided not to.
The sun rose, the sun set, time marched on, but none of us were truly alright, and many of us never will be. For years I hated airplanes, and simply hearing one overhead was enough to send me into panic mode. It was 4 years before I boarded a commercial flight again, and I never would have thought that I would become a pilot. The New York City skyline will always look wrong to me. What I will always remember is standing at the base of the World Trade Center, looking up at these structures so tall that they seemed to touch the heavens themselves, and from which you looked down on helicopters from the top floor.
Perhaps of extra significance on this day is the fact that it has been 17 years. A seemingly meaningless number, but for me that means that half my life has now been lived in the post 9/11 world. Not a day has gone by that I haven't thought about that day at some point. Mostly the sharpness of the memories have dulled, but they can and often are still set off. A year later in college, some particularly idiotic oaf said that it'd been a year, and I should "be ok with it." I'm still surprised I didn't punch him. Sometimes you don't get over it, you get on with it.
This morning Beatrix, who's almost 4, woke up early, and was downstairs in the kitchen with me as I was getting breakfast ready for the kids. "Daddy the sun isn't up!" she said, protesting it was too early. "Don't worry, the sun will rise. The sun always rises" I told her. The sun has risen 6,209 times since the World Trade Center was hit, and it will rise many times more. Time marches on, even for those of us for whom time stopped that day.
As we drove up the driveway, Beatrix exclaimed "Daddy! The sun is rising!" Yes, sweetheart, it is.