This weekend, we all, in one way or another, commemorated the tenth anniversary of the 9/11/01 terrorist attacks. Every year there is news coverage and documentaries devoted to that most awful of days, and while I will catch bits at pieces of them, I, quite frankly, tend to avoid soaking myself in the horrific images and details of that day. While the events of the morning of 9/11, over the past decade, have affected lives and nations in countless massive and small ways, that one day, was, and always will be for me, the absolute epitome of what humanity is capable of when spurred by monstrous hate fueled by insane religious and political fervor. It was mass murder on a horrific scale, and we all had a front row seat to nearly 3,000 deaths. And that will just never sit comfortably with me, or any of us. But it wasn't until seeing the coverage this year--the WTC memorial, plans for the future museum, the building's relics and artifacts being carefully preserved for displays around the world--that I began to see the desire of this country to put 9/11 in historical context and to make sure as many details as possible are protected for the ages.
On September 11, 2001, I was 24 years old. My "mommy days" were still far ahead of me, and I was a working girl with a skinny waist. Brendan and I were still, technically, newlyweds, and I was usually pretty much a self-absorbed basket-case. Ah, the good old days... We had just celebrated my mom's 50th birthday, and I had taken her to see "The Lion King" musical three days earlier in Hollywood. Sometime around 6:30 in the morning I flipped on the news while making our lunches in the kitchen of the condo we rented from my grandparents. If I remember correctly, I didn't usually turn on the TV in the morning, but this day I did. I was confronted with the same image that most of us West Coast early-risers saw that morning: one of the World Trade Center towers on fire. I stood confused for a couple of minutes and then ran into the bedroom to wake Brendan and show him what was happening. New York City was a place that had been on our mind a lot the previous year, as Brendan had made three business trips to the city at a job he held long ago. Over the course of the next hour or so, I saw the second plane hit and the towers collapse. The details are fuzzy because, in typical basket-case fashion, after I watched the second plane hit and the truth of the tragedy became instantly clear, I just lost it. I remember pacing and hyperventilating and even dry-heaving in the bathroom. I called two coworkers, leaving a frantic message for one at my job in Encino telling her I would be in when I could pull myself together enough to drive. Hell no, I should not have gone to work that day. And looking back, I really truly wish I had not gone into panic mode. In hindsight, I wish, as gut-wrenching as it was to witness, I had taken in every last moment of that day and completely digested the significance of what was unfolding on the other side of the country. But instead I threw on some clothes and headed down the 5-freeway while listening to the radio. I was struck by the fact that there was hardly any traffic heading south, as is the case on every other day. Cars were pouring north. Going home.
In the weeks following 9/11, it was, amazingly enough, my mom who reminded me that I had actually gone to the top of one of the World Trade Center towers. It was in April of 1994, and I had traveled with my high school band (and my parents and brother...the chaperones!) to the east coast for a concert band competition in Virginia. We started our trip in New York City, with plans of performing on the steps of Lincoln Center. But that week the weather was cold, wet and dreary, and our hopes of performing outside in New York were dashed. Not that anyone really cared because we took in as many famous sights as we possibly could in a few short days. It was amazing and exhilarating. But it was a trip that, seven years later, I had kind of put in a dusty corner of my mind. That was high school, "so long ago." (I want to tell my silly 24-year-old self that
17 years is "long ago.") But after 9/11, I pulled out the photo album I kept of that trip to check out the pictures I took with my cheapo, plastic, film-based camera. I was happy to see that I had taken several pictures of the World Trade Center. This one was the best, taken from the back of a ferry going to the Statue of Liberty. It gives me a little jolt every time I look at it:
Here's a faraway view of the Manhattan skyline:
Here are the towers up close:
And one of the towers at night:
I don't, sadly, remember much of our visit inside the WTC. I don't even know whether it was the north or the south tower. I seem to recall we were going to go to the top of the Empire State Building, but the observation deck was closed due to the bad weather and we changed plans last minute. I know we couldn't see anything from the World Trade Center, either, but I do remember taking a very, very long elevator ride to the top. I wish I had a picture from inside. After 9/11, I couldn't help but wonder if, when I took these pictures, some of the future victims were working there at this time, seven years and some months before the unthinkable would befall them. The answer is, most likely, yes.
There isn't anything great about these pictures. Thousands, probably millions, of pictures were taken of the World Trade Center in the nearly 30 years it existed. But the terribly sad fact is that these towers now only exist in our memories, and, in part, in the twisted pieces excised from the rubble for historical significance and preservation. They were there. They are gone. But I feel grateful that I got one chance to visit them, to photograph them, to look up at them in awe. People in New York City did it every single day. But I hope that someday I can go back with my family and pay my respects to those who so appallingly died at that site. I can guarantee I will remember
that visit.
Rest in peace, lives lost.
