From my office I can see the World Trade Center building site. I look out the window, drum my fingers lightly on the keyboard, and think about terrorism and the world we live in.
September 11th, 2001 was the most exhilarating day of my life. That morning I was standing outside my dorm, waiting to catch the bus that ferried us from the Financial District up to Greenwich Village and NYU. I was wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a t-shirt, an outfit that was memorable only because I would have to wear it for the next week. The bus hadn’t come yet, and someone mentioned that a helicopter or a small plane had hit the Trade Center. I walked to the end of the block, looked west, and saw that, indeed, there was something burning near the top of the building. Intriguing, but not a valid excuse to skip class. The bus still hadn’t come. I waited. After a few minutes the excitement began building among the growing crowd, and I got swept up in it. I walked back to the end of the block, and saw that whatever had crashed into the buildings was clearly larger than a helicopter. I followed the crowd up to Broadway, only two or three blocks away from the buildings. Ambulances were coming now. I watched the building begin to disintegrate. The first wave of horror came when the pieces of debris falling from the tower sprouted arms and legs – people were jumping. Still, I was more excited than scared. I rushed back to the dorm to get my disposable camera and alert my roommate. While I was back in my room the first tower fell. The dorm was being evacuated through the stairwell, where I ran into a friend. She was crying. We hurtled down the stairs and emerged into a impenetrable fog of dust. It was impossible to see more than 10 feet in front of you. The police were handing out face masks, but only to women and children. My friend and I didn’t know what to do. Walk uptown? Go across the Brooklyn Bridge? We decided to take the NYU bus, which was being driven by a very frightened young black man. From the back of the bus I shot pictures of the second tower coming down.
We were dropped off at NYU. Looking down Broadway one saw a huge mass of people trudging uptown, framed by a background of billowing chaos. Some people were crying, screaming, but most just seemed perplexed. I came across some friends, and we wandered the streets, asking each other questions no one knew the answer to, gathering around cars to listen to the radio reports. We eventually sat down in the plaza of an apartment building and smoked some weed. No one hassled us. My cell phone wasn’t working, so I couldn’t call my parents. In the early afternoon I decided to head up to my then-girlfriend’s place at Columbia. The train was packed, and the energy was palpable. I made it to her dorm and called up. She came down and hugged me, crying. I got quite drunk that night, and the next night as well. I must have been subconsciously scared. But it was also thrilling, and I cannot deny that I was somehow proud at being a part of the defining moment of my generation.
Now, whenever I learn of another large-scale terrorist attack on the Western world, part of me wishes I were there. After terrorists bombed the trains in Madrid I found myself anxiously watching the news, noting how only a few months before I had been living there, walking through that station, maybe even brushing shoulders with the victims and their killers. Upon hearing about yesterday’s attack on London I soaked up all the coverage I could find, trying to establish a connection. It’s not that I consider myself a victim – I never suffered from any nightmares, anxiety attacks, or debilitating fears. What it comes down to, I think, is a feeling of solidarity, and perhaps a perverse desire to once again play a role in history. The way things are going, this wish will likely be granted soon enough.
