I have not written about 9/11 since it happened 25 years ago today. My connection to the World Trade Center came in overlapping circles in time. When I first moved to New York City in 1984, I landed my first job – as a temp – the day after I arrived. It was on the 92nd floor of the World Trade Center. When I called home, my younger brother picked up the phone. I told him that I was working on the 92nd floor of the World Trade Center. He practically dropped the phone and yelled out to my parents, “Mom, Dad - Ray is working on the 92nd floor of the World Trade Center!” The WTC were the tallest buildings in NYC, and I was near the pinnacle.
Fast forward some years, after getting an MBA and establishing myself in New York, I was working as a stock analyst for Citigroup, located just ½ mile north, right on the Hudson River, at 388 Greenwich Street. The week before 9/11, at 8:30 in the morning, I was having breakfast with a client at Windows on the World, the observatory-restaurant located on the 107th floor of Tower 1 of the World Trade Center. One week later I realized that nearly every restaurant worker I saw that day perished, since no one made it out alive from that floor.
My office at Citigroup was on the 29th floor, facing north. If I had been looking out of my window at 8:45 or 8:46 a.m. on September 11, I would have seen the hijacked jet barreling seemingly right toward me, since it traveled along the Hudson, rushing right past our building, to reach its target. But I had my back to the window. I was on the phone with a colleague across the floor, who faced south, towards the WTC. Suddenly, she said, “A bomb went off at the Trade Center.” She was also not looking out her window, but caught the explosion out of the corner of her eye. She thought a bomb had exploded.
I had a busy morning, that beautiful, crisp, clear day. The air was clear, the visibility was excellent. I debated whether to check out what was going on, which involved walking across the floor. Reluctantly, because I had a lot going on, I decided to check it out. So, I ambled across the floor, coffee in hand… and then I saw it. The lips, the open gash of the enormous wound inflicted on Tower 1, the North Tower.
I asked what happened, and learned that a plane had crashed into the building. As I gaped at it, after a while I began to wonder, “How does a jet plane accidentally crash into a building?” If a pilot was dying from a heart attack, his last conscious move would be to put the plane down in the Hudson River or New York Harbor, and avoid harming anyone else. Yet this plane managed to hit squarely into the side of the building, ripping a gash that reached nearly all the way across.
The air was very clear. Everything was crystal clear. At some point, I saw what looked like fleas popping off the side of the building. And then I realized what it was. People were jumping.
I had to turn away. I couldn’t look at it. I walked back to my desk. I began to wonder, “Could this have been deliberate? Could it have been terrorism?”
And it was then that someone yelled out, “Another plane is coming!” I learned later that some people thought it was some sort of rescue plane. It wasn’t. Then someone yelled out, “Another plane has crashed into the other building!”
At that moment, I knew what it was. It was enemy action. I yelled out to my secretary and people around me, “Get out! Get out! Get out!” I somehow managed to grab my cell phone, and I rushed off the floor. As I was descending the stairs, I kept a hand near the railing. I was prepared for an impact that could happen at any moment. At that time, Citigroup was the largest bank in the world. We were a likely next target.
When I reached the ground floor, people stood and gaped. I left the area, and ran home to my apartment in Greenwich Village. As I was running, wearing my suit (everyone still wore suits in those days), tie flapping in the wind and carrying my brief case, a tall, somewhat overweight young man began jogging beside me. He was also wearing his suit, and it turned out this was his first day on the job. In the only gallows-humorous moment of that day, I said to him, “Welcome to Wall Street,” as we ran for our lives.
Somewhere on that trip back home, I learned that the Pentagon was hit. I emailed my team (they probably never got it) and told them to stay away from all symbols of America… the Empire State Building, Grand Central Station, etc. We were under attack. I had no idea how many planes were headed our way; it could have been an armada. I had to get to low ground, somewhere nondescript. It was humiliating.
When I was near my apartment, I realized that I had not eaten anything all morning. I was hungry, and probably a little bit in shock. So, improbably, I went into a diner to order an omelette. And when I stepped out I saw the first building, Tower 2, the South Tower, collapse in the distance. I had the presence of mind to pay my bill, and ran at top speed all the way back to my apartment.
When I got there, I ran into a fellow resident, someone I only knew by riding in the elevator together. I said to her, “The Trade Center has collapsed.” She immediately burst out crying.
When I finally made it up to my apartment, the phone was ringing. It was my dad and he had been trying to call me for over an hour. He had just gotten through at that moment when I picked up the phone. I said to him, “Dad, the Trade Center has collapsed.” He didn’t believe me. He argued with me. I actually cursed at him (the one and only time in my life). He had not yet seen the images just appearing on TV. And then he saw them. We were both crying.
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The next day I made my way down to the wreckage site. I stood near One Liberty Plaza, across from the WTC, when a cop said, “Move away; it might collapse.” (It never did.) There were smashed cars heaped up in piles, and there were pieces of paper everywhere fluttering in the wind. They had burn marks, like small sparks had burned multiple tiny holes through them. They were insurance documents. I recognized them from a prior job I had at a law firm that represented insurance companies. They were basically intact and legible. They survived the destruction of the buildings.
The prior day, on 9/11 when I was headed home, I saw a horrible sight. The nearest hospital was St. Vincent’s in Greenwich Village (the hospital is no longer there today). I saw teams of doctors and nurses on the sidewalk with gurneys with crisp white sheets waiting for the wounded victims. They were ready to treat them… but no one came, since nearly everyone who did not make it out of those buildings perished. Pieces of paper survived; humans did not.
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9/11 was the worst day of my life, and one of the worst days ever for America. There have been others: Pearl Harbor, the assassinations of Lincoln and JFK.
America finally got Bin Laden, the author of this evil, many years later. That was a good day, but we have not vanquished the enemies who want to destroy America and the values that America stands for, at its best.
My mother was still very much alive on 9/11, said that day was worse than Pearl Harbor Day. Never forget.
Ray, those of us who lived through 9/11 will never forget that day & how horrible it was. Your story brings it back so vividly. Yes, the worst day of our lives.