A Look Back at My Lost Journals from 9/11

20 years.

20 years since I’ve watched coverage. 20 years since I’ve spoken about it. I’ve shared the bullet points, of course, as one New Yorker does with another.

“Where were you?”

“2nd day of my first job. 2nd week in the city. Stood on the street with strangers and watched the buildings I once toured at 10 collapse to the ground.”

“How horrible.”

“Yes.”

But I haven’t elaborated. It still feels too close. There were other things going on in my life, of course. That’s the thing with tragedy. Even though it feels as if the world stops, struggles persist. They’re just compounded. At times, it feels like if I access those memories, the others will follow. And as much as I want to connect with that lost girl, she’s safer at a distance.

Today, I finally do so. I wake early for a Saturday. My daughter’s still sleeping. My son, blissfully downing donuts in the other room. I turn on the TV. There it is. All day coverage. Much like two decades ago. Except now we have perspective. On what, I’m not sure. That it’s really as tragic as it felt? That we still mourn for our city, country, people. That the war we waged is still being fought and, at the same time, ending. That life can never go back to what it was. That we’re fighting an entirely different kind of evil now. So many more lives lost. Senseless as the first.

I cry. It feels good to get it out. To allow myself to access the pain. I’m happy to be alone. To have this long overdue moment to myself. When I can no longer stomach the names being read, I retreat to the basement to look for a photo of myself from that time. A week ago, all of my albums were almost lost in the remnants of Hurricane Ida as waters wrecked our small town of Millburn, NJ, 15 miles outside of where I was that day in 2001. As our basement began to flood, I ran for buckets, pitchers and vases. My husband vacuumed up the area for five hours. Our memories were saved. Just in time for me to relive them again.

I doubted I had an image from that day. The morning, while still new, was not momentous like the one before. It was my second day at work. There were no longer intros, tours or a welcome lunch. I was tasked with organizing the storage closet. Nothing remarkable about that. The closet, like our lives and my future basement, would remain chaotic for months.

I’m not able to find a single photo from around that time. It seems as if an entire album is missing. But I find my journals I thought I’d lost. I’m a terrible journal keeper. I’m lucky if I have a few entires a year. It’s a practice I’m so delinquent at, I gave it up over a decade ago. Years later, poorly written blog posts became my journals for all to read as I started publishing pieces on The Huffington Post and eventually my own website, among other outlets. I flip through book after book until I find it.

Scribbly blue Bic marks on a dingy wide-ruled page of a chinoiserie-covered notebook. I don’t remember writing them. I don’t remember much from that time. And, yet, so much is so vivid. I sit down on the cold cement floor and began to read. An hour later, I’m still here. I revisit that time. That girl. Who she was. Who she came to be. The city that shaped her and the world she still cries for.

I often feel like I shouldn’t share my story. There are others with far worse tales. There are far more deserving of the space and the mic. Others who were in the building, lost a loved one, ran for their lives. My friend ripped off his button down shirt so a bloodied woman could breathe through it. He was new to New York and never returned after that day. A colleague screamed out in horror after watching the first tower collapse on TV, revealing that her husband was inside.

It almost becomes a game of one-upmanship. “You were on 18th street? I was on West 4th.” Most are swapping stories. But there’s an underlying element of who had it worst. Who was impacted more? But the thing is, we were all impacted. And all of the stories are worth sharing. Commiserating, comforting, honoring. That terrible time in our lives. One that would forever change us. But one that still unites us.

Much has been made about what a perfect fall day it was. And it’s true. It was. Bright blue skies, a slight breeze, the golden rays warming the brisk air. There’s something about this season that’s different from the rest. I think there’s more hope and renewal than the new year. Maybe it’s because it’s the start of school and I’m still conditioned to think like a child. Or perhaps it’s because everyone’s back in town from a summer away and reunions are aplenty. That September was particularly special as it was the start of my new life, in my favorite city in the world, the one I’d always dreamed of living in. I felt like, more than ever, it was all ahead of me. Little did I know, so much would be left behind.

September 14, 2001

Three days ago, the world changed. It was my second day of my first adult job. My second week in my new city, New York.

What they’ve been talking about for so long became a reality. The World Trade Center and The Pentagon were crashed into by terrorists and hijacked planes. 4 plane crashes and 4 building collapses, our world will never be the same.

I had just gotten into work. The receptionist told me that a plane crashed into the tower. I immediately went to my desk and called home. My dad said it must’ve been an accident. He asked how far I was. I only knew what subway to get off of for work. I didn’t know where the World Trade Center was or how far I was from it. I heard someone say something about 14th street. I was at 18th. So I told my dad I was a few blocks away. That was the last I spoke to him for 12 hours.

We were evacuated from our building and then brought back in. We watched the first tower drop on TV before being evacuated again. It was there, on the street with a sea of strangers that I saw the second tower, one I’d once toured, collapse in front of me. No TV screen. A real life horror film. I’ll never forget people’s screams. The gasps. The circus. People running every which way. So much confusion. Cabs halted as our lives did.

I ran to a bodega to get money from an ATM. It wasn’t working. I somehow hailed a cab. I’d worry about the money later. Once uptown, we stopped at a light, a simple act of normalcy on a day that was anything but. While there, an elderly woman knocked on the window. The driver waved her away. I asked him to roll down the window. She said she was afraid her husband was having a heart attack and they couldn’t get an ambulance. I got out and let them in, but not before she held my hands and said it would be okay. That if I was her granddaughter, she’d want me to know that.

When I got to my apartment, Scott [my boyfriend] was waiting outside. It was his first day on the job. He was wearing a suit and ran 40 blocks to be with me. He couldn’t get home to Brooklyn and stayed with Colleen [my roommate] and me. He had no clothes. We tried to buy him some but all the stores were closed. So he squeezed into my largest pair of sorority sweatpants, which looked like leggings on his big frame. He remained in them for three days until he could get home. I begged him to stay. I’ve never been so co-dependent. But he wanted to check on his mom, which makes me want my own even more.

I can’t let go of this. It’s too much. Too real. Too surreal. Too hard to understand. And I’m one of the fortunate ones. I haven’t lost anyone. But it’s not what’s on the TV 24/7 for the past few days, it’s real life. Before when tragedies have occurred, I’ve been saddened and felt for everyone, but I was detached. I am living this. I watched the building collapse. I was evacuated from my office. I breathed in the smoke. (I still am.) I saw the looks on people’s faces.

I’m so scared. I’m scared that our world will never be the same. I’m scared that if this can happen, the world could end. I’m scared that after we retaliate, they’ll fight back and more Americans will die. I’m scared for our soldiers.

And I’m angry. I’m angry at those “men.” I’m angry that our advanced country let things slip through the cracks. I’m angry that this tarnished my first few weeks in the city, my excitement for my new life. It took the newness of New York away from me. I’m angry that the last remaining bit of innocence I was so desperately clinging to is gone. I’m angry at their pride and satisfaction of achieving their sick mission. I’m angry that they have their children celebrating the loss of our parents. That their lives were destroyed for the sake of ours. I’m angry.

October 17, 2001

It’s been a month since I’ve written because it’s been too hard to write. It’s hard to be in New York right now. It’s equally hard to not be here. I cried for days. I didn’t go into work. No one did. Instead, I sat paralyzed in front of the TV. I don’t remember eating much. I barely showered. I just remained when others couldn’t. It was hard watching the events unfold on the news and then opening my front door and having it in my backyard. I’ve never been in the heart of anything so tragic. It’s so scary. I want to be home with my parents. But I can’t leave. Trains are operating now, but I still can’t leave. I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m not sure why. It feels as if my new home needs me more than my parents do. Or perhaps, I need it. I’m forging my own identity and this city is now a part of it. My city. It needs me as much as I need it.

Now the focus is biological warfare. Two cases of Anthrax have been reported. I told my manager I no longer feel comfortable sitting in for William in the mailroom during his lunch break. They all looked at me like I was weak. Two days later, NBC and ABC broke out in Anthrax. I work at a major magazine that’s owned by a major publishing company and a major film studio. Who’s to say we’re not next? What’s even scarier is the threat of Smallpox. I’m so scared. I’m worried about our retaliations to Afghanistan. I fear for the innocent there. I’m scared we’ll be hit twice as hard. We cannot take any more of this. We cannot handle another thing.

September 11, 2002

One year ago today, our country was attacked and our world changed forever. I tried not to think about it too much over the last six months. Things seem to have relatively returned to normal, whatever that is. I was so avoidant, that it crept up on me. A foreign yet familiar rigidity came over me, a feeling that brought me back to the aftermath. All of yesterday, I was on edge. Skittish. I didn’t get much sleep. It was like Christmas Eve except the anticipation was riddled with dread. The joy replaced by despair. My first thought when I woke was that I was still alive. The world hadn’t ended. They hadn’t come back. Yet. I turned on the news just as I had a year ago. What would it show of my city? Was it still intact? Work was slow, depressing. The once bustling halls were bare. Employees remained at their desks. Others, out for long walks. It was a silent understanding. An unnecessarily explained acknowledgement. We shared a sorrow so deep that words would not suffice. None were needed. Strangers passed offering sympathetic glances. There was comfort in our quiet condolences.

I got home and Katie [my roommate] was watching coverage. I couldn’t bring myself to join her. Instead, I went upstairs to take a nap. Emotion breeds exhaustion for me. And I was overcome. I woke disoriented. What day was it? Of course. It was nice to escape for awhile.

We went to a vigil in Prospect Park tonight. It’s a cold, windy, dark day. Vastly different from the perfect fall day a year ago. Candles lit the walkways as the sounds of the Philharmonic soothed our swelling hearts. Large screens broadcast scenes from Central Park and Ellis Island. We sang. We cried. We even managed some smiles. Fighter jets flew over. We are Americans. From all nations. And this is our home. We will protect it and one another.

President Bush spoke from the tiny island that represents our freedom, “Tomorrow is September 12th. A new day.”

A new day. I’m done with mourning. The pain is too great. I will no longer watch anything to do with this day. I’ll no longer talk about it. It’s time to move on.

September 11, 2021

I moved on. We all did. And yet we’re still there. This day brings us back.