Life + Death at Ground Zero: 20 Years Later
Engine fuselage from one of the planes that hit the WTC on September 11, 2001, shown on Murray Street, where I lived then and still live now. Image from CBS News Then & Now
October 2001
I live in the area that we have come to know as "Ground Zero." It was not called "Ground Zero" in 1999 when my husband and I decided to buy a loft here. Then it was called "Southern Tribeca" or "Lower Manhattan." It was a good neighborhood for families because the Public Schools were among the best in the city. Real estate was reasonably priced as the area was underdeveloped. We felt like pioneers.
My husband, Alan, and I lived in the shadow of the World Trade Center, but it was not really a part of our lives. I would go to the concourse from time to time to do a little shopping. I thought the daycare facility in the WTC might be convenient if we ever had children. The impact that the WTC would come to have on my life was unimaginable to me on the bright fall morning of September 11, 2001.
The two towers have come to symbolize not just this city's skyline but a lifestyle, a sense of invulnerability and privilege that has been lost. Their destruction is a demarcation for all of us, before 9/11 or after?
The story that follows is true; it happened to me. I have written to document for myself and later, for my son, the strange, horrible, miraculous, and beautiful events of September 11 and beyond. I was an unwitting and unwilling participant in history--the christening event of the new Millennium. From my perspective, history is observed not by a scholar or journalist but by an ordinary woman. The fact that I was 37 weeks pregnant with my first child on September 11 only heightened the drama, if that is possible, and gave the event even more resonance for me. I experienced the double whammy of new Motherhood and post-traumatic stress.
Since the attack, I have thought about explaining the events to my son, Luca. My hope has been that in writing down my recollections, I will gain a perspective, which will enable me to tell this story to him.
We are back home now, on Murray Street. Life has regained a feeling of normalcy. I am learning to be a Mother. I have done most of this writing in the dark of night, during Luca's late feedings. In those moments, I sit with nothing but the glow of the computer screen and with the groans and beeps of heavy machinery outside our window clearing the debris from the site of the WTC. I hunt and peck my way across the keyboard, looking for answers and documenting my new life. Sometimes, in those wee hours, I have felt that the darkness would ever end, but most of the time, I have seen the dawn, and I know that mine is a story of hope and birth, not death and despair.
Within these walls, nothing seems to have changed, but outside these walls, the world is a very different place. How we choose to live in this new world has yet to be seen. This story is about how the old world ended and how one pregnant woman struggled to create normalcy out of chaos.
Dearest Luca,
The following is the story of what happened on a day in September 2001, right before you were born, and on the days following. It is a true story, and you were a participant, although you can't remember it. You are much too young now to understand what took place and what it means. I am writing this so that someday when you are older, you can read it and witness the historic events through my eyes, which were your eyes while you were within me.
I awoke on 9/11/01 37 weeks pregnant with you, late and moving slowly. I was tired, bloated and achy. Your dad had already left for work, so I had the place to myself. I stepped into the shower the warm water felt great on my sore back. I tried to gear myself up for another day at the office. I was counting down to your birth and my Maternity leave.
Aside from the usual aches and pains of late-stage pregnancy I was feeling fit. I still exercised several times a week. I walked a lot and still worked late. I had a lot to accomplish before you were born. I had a staff to organize and a department to maintain while I was away. I was thinking about all these things as I showered and the soothing waters baptized my great belly. As I stood in the shower worrying about my day at the office the world outside changed forever.
I was in the kitchen buttering my toast when I heard Jane Hansen of the NBC local affiliate break into the Today show to say that a plane had crashed into one of the towers of the World Trade Center. I ran to the TV in the living room and was immediately horrified by the sight of the blazing building just three blocks away from me on my TV screen. It felt so unreal; the scale of the towers was so gigantic that it was impossible to judge the extent of the damage from the TV show. A beat later, I heard the screams of sirens and the blasting sound of horns as fire engines, police cars, and ambulances snaked their way through the choked streets towards the disaster. They were driving against the traffic on Church Street outside our window. It sounded like they were stuck, gridlocked. They wailed like a frustrated infant, trapped.
I looked at the TV screen and there was footage of the scarred North Tower vomiting black smoke into the clear blue sky. As I sat transfixed by the image on the TV, I saw the explosion of the second plane colliding into the South Tower.
I heard the blast three blocks away, and I felt a sonic wave pass through my home and body.
I physically experienced the sound of the explosion; it is hard to explain, no blast blew through our southern facing wall, but I felt the specter of that blast. If things had gone differently, just slightly, if the plane engine had not hit the roof of the building across the street before it hit our roof, the trajectory could have been such that it would have crashed into our building instead of coming to rest on top of it. The shock wave that I felt pass through me was a premonition of things that could have been and were not thanks to fate.
I ran into the back of the loft, suddenly afraid of the windows that line the eastern portion of our living room. I called your Dad. I was still in my robe, my hair was wet, I felt utterly unprepared for a disaster. I was crying, I tried to speak intelligibly, but I felt the panic overtake my body. My heart was racing,
"Get out right now," he said. "Walk North on Church Street, on the west side of the street, and don't look back. Don't look at it, Linda."
I quickly got dressed; I didn't put on my makeup, although I did brush my teeth. I looked around for our kitty, Otto. I saw him slip into the closet and grabbed for him, but he dove into the deepest, darkest recess. My huge belly prevented me from getting into the closet. I realized that I would not be able to carry him very far anyway, so I made the decision to leave him. I had to get out. "After all," I said to myself, "I will be back later today."
I walked out the door, clutching a paper towel square. This is a silly thing. Maybe it is just the way I dealt with the horror and loss of security or the fact that I am very superstitious. But I had that paper towel square in my hands, drying my tears the entire way up Church Street. When I saw the subsequent horror, I promised myself that I would not lose that stupid paper towel square until I could throw it out in my own garbage can at home on Murray Street (and I did).
Once on the landing, I was greeted by our superintendent Adam. He was in emergency mode. "Get in the Sub-basement now Linda." He said to me. His tone was commanding, something I was not accustomed to from my Super. I saw something wild and panicked in his eyes.
Sub-basement? Stay put, or walk away? I stood in the entryway for an instant, not knowing what to do. Whose advice should I follow? "Listen to your husband," I told myself. "Leave."
A large piece of one of the plane's engines lay on the street in front of my building.
I took the stairs down to the ground floor. I was afraid to take the elevator for fear something else would happen and I would be trapped. I rushed out the front door and what I found outside my apartment building. Made me stop dead. A large piece of one of the plane's engines lay on the street in front of my building. "No fucking way!" I remember saying to myself. I walked over to the largest piece across Church Street, in front of the Burger King. Yup, that was a piece of one of the planes on my street, in front of my home. It had knocked down the Murray Street sign and had broken the street light. The lamp hung precariously from its electrical cord. My heart was racing, and I heard a high pitched whine in my ears. As I looked around me at the people standing in the middle of the Street, my vision was so clear, the edges of objects seemed sharp enough to cut. There were no more cars on Church street, only pedestrians, looking up to the South, I could not stop myself. I looked up at the giants, bloodied and burning. I looked up at the smoke hemorrhaging from them, the flames shooting out of the gashes, and I saw a shower of paper sucked out of the wounds. The paper fluttered in the wind. At that distance, it looked the size of the confetti that rains down on champions when they drive down Broadway after winning a World Series or landing on the Moon. But there were other, more substantial objects descending from the towers. These objects had weight and fluidity. They flailed in their decent. They were people. My stomach turned. I felt like Lot's wife who, against her husband's admonition, allowed herself to look upon Sodom destroyed and then was turned to salt. I felt like salt. In that instant I remembered myself. I was pregnant; I was responsible for a life other than my own. I had to get away and get somewhere safe. I turned north and walked away from the wounded twins. I would never see them again. I would never see how huge they were. How they blocked out the sky and yet were almost invisible at this proximity. I walked on the west side of the street as Alan had instructed me. I kept saying to myself and to you, "We are ok, we are ok." Over and over this mantra was my lifeline, a thin invisible thread that I clung to as I dragged my swollen body uptown toward your dad and safety.
As I walked further away from the devastation, I realized that it was a spectacular day. The kind of day that makes you wish you could play hooky from your obligations. A wonderful early fall day, clear and cool. The air was crystalline and invigorating. For any other reason, it would have been bliss to be out walking. The incongruity of the day and the event made the sight more terrible. It was a high visibility day; anyone who had a view of lower Manhattan could lookout and see the horror unobscured.
I walked at a modest pace. One foot in front of the other, each step felt unreal. I didn't feel the weight of my pregnant body. Strangely I felt light, like I was walking on the Moon's surface with heavy boots to keep me from floating off into the great yawning abyss. As I walked, I noticed people standing in the street staring up at the catastrophe, I walked past lines of people waiting for public phones, I walked past people crying, people consoling each other, people trying to get their cell phones to work. I walked to Canal Street to catch the C train, but the attendant standing at the top of the stairs said the train was not running. No trains were running. I asked about the N or R. Maybe at Prince Street?
I continued to walk. At Canal Street, I took West Broadway. I walked through Soho. People emerged from chic shops and bistros to stare at the smoke plume streaking the downtown sky. People were standing in the middle of West Broadway, traffic had stopped, and it felt like a movie. One of those disaster films like "Independence Day." I think I was the only person not facing south. As I walked North, I looked into people's eyes; they did not see me and my pregnant belly; they all looked at the smoking, flaming carnage above my head.
I tried repeatedly to call your dad on my cell phone, but the signal was "not available." That sounded ominous!
"That is going to be hard to fix."
At Prince Street, I turned off West Broadway, and remember looking back at the towers smoking and in flames before I lost sight of them and thinking, "That is going to be hard to fix." In fact I would never see them standing again.
I descended into the subway. I waited for a long time; at least at the time, I thought it was a long time. I now realize it was a wonder that I got a train at all. As I waited, I spoke to two high school students. They were very distraught. How could this happen? A deranged looking large man with headphones was screaming that "they" had attacked the White House. The young ladies were concerned. I didn't believe the crazy man. He said he was listening to the radio news, but we were underground in the subway, where was he getting his signal?. "He's crazy," I told the young ladies. My need for normalcy was so strong I couldn't believe the obvious was true, that this had not been a series of accidents, but we were under attack. I don't know if it was the hormones or if it was my self-preservation technique, either way I did not believe. After 20 minutes or so a train came, and we boarded gratefully. At last I was on my way to see your Dad.
The subway car was not as crowded as you would expect. Not at all like the last helicopter out of Saigon. We all sat in stunned silence. Not the self-involved quiet that one finds on an early morning subway, where everyone is too sleepy to make noise. This was a mournful silence, full of meaning. We all knew what we were thinking about. The ride was slow. Eventually we came to Union Square. I got off the train because the subway car operator informed us that the trains had stopped running. I walked over to the 4 train that stops in that station to see if it was running. The landing was a mob scene. I became apprehensive about my pregnant belly. I was afraid of being crushed or jostled roughly. I saw a woman with a baby in a stroller try to get down the stairs and felt panic for her. After a few moments, I decided to give up my wait for the 4 train. I came up into the station and found yellow police tape everywhere and officers telling people to get out, they were shutting down the station. I went to a payphone to call Alan and tell him where I was. But it was not working. I went to another payphone, and still no dial tone. They had shut off the phones! I panicked. What was happening? I remembered that there was a police station in the subway station, and I went there. "Officer, I am nine months pregnant, I haven't spoken to my husband in over an hour, and I need to call him."
"Come in."
I walked into the precinct, bright fluorescent light and Formica counters. Full of nervous activity. The TV was on and I could see the towers smoking, Wait. There was only one tower.
"Did one of the towers fall?!" As I cried out, the second tower fell! As the floors compacted on one another like the withdrawing of a tide, I saw the end of civilization, I saw the murder of thousands, I saw the demolition of my home, the death of my cat, Oh God, what was happening. I screamed. The police looked nervous,
"Lady, you got to calm down. Get her a chair."
They probably thought I was going to deliver the baby right then and there. They brought me a chair and a glass of water, and then phoned your Dad.
My poor husband, who had not heard from me since he told me to leave the apartment more than an hour earlier, was calling hospitals. He did not know if I had left, if I had gotten out, or what condition I was in. To say he sounded relieved to hear from me is an understatement.
"Tell me where to meet you"
"In front of the Barnes and Noble"
"I'll be there right away."
The officers took the phone and tried to calm me down.
"Your husband's coming for you?"
They looked relieved. I was so caught up in my own troubles that it didn't occur to me then that they had lost comrades in the collapse. They were stunned by the horror and overcome by grief, but kept it together. They were "on the job". A police officer escorted me out of the now deserted and silent station. He had the token booth attendant unlock the gate and we ascended the subway stairs into the bright light of Union Square.
"Your Husband is going to meet you here, right?" The officer asked.
"Yes. I'll be ok. Thank you, officer." I replied. He turned and walked down the stairs into the darkened Subway station, I walked across the square to 18th Street.
The city seemed as if someone had turned down the volume. People were walking more slowly and there was fuzziness about everything. The only loud sounds were emanating from the occasional car or van parked with the radio blasting the news. There were groups gathered around these information centers listening in rapt silence to the reports. There was a van parked in front of the Barnes and Noble. A group of five stood listening, quietly exchanging their views. I tried to find somewhere to sit. Alan worked on 45th Street it would take him quite a while to get to 18th. There was nowhere comfortable to sit, so I slid down to the sidewalk as gracefully as I could with my enormous belly. I sat in the bright sun, wishing I had a bottle of water, but not wanting to get up (I knew that effort would take more than just me). I must have looked pathetic. A woman asked me if I was OK and didn't seem to believe me when I said I was. She looked very relieved when I told her I was waiting for my husband. I felt so lucky to be able to say that: I am waiting for my husband. Your Dad was safe and alive. I knew there were so many who couldn't say the same.
I looked across the square into the downtown sky, a huge cloud of smoke and debris filled the area where the towers had just stood. I began playing a game with myself, "Could you see them from here?" Would I be able to see the Towers from this perspective? Their absence is impossible to observe. Their loss is invisible. They were obliterated so completely, so efficiently, so finally. I feel like I didn't have a chance to memorize their place in the skyline, even though I had seen them there for most of my life.
He was my hero, my knight in shining armor. He helped me up, and we hugged a delicious warm loving hug.
Luckily I didn't have much time to obsess because your Father showed up in just 15 minutes! He was riding a bicycle. He could not have appeared nobler to me if he had arrived on a black steed. He was my hero, my knight in shining armor. He helped me up, and we hugged a delicious warm loving hug. Nothing else seemed to matter for that moment, not the world in chaos, our home destroyed, our city scarred, the future unknown and scary, we were together and safe, and everything else was expendable. I know it was selfish, but it is how I felt. I felt so lucky. I had brushed death and destruction, and my family had emerged unscathed.
"You got here so quickly."
He had commandeered a bicycle from a delivery guy at a deli in midtown.
"You got here so quickly."
He had commandeered a bicycle from a delivery guy at a deli in midtown.
"This is your chance to be a hero," he told the man.
He gave him his driver's license as collateral and the man let him take his bike. He had started off on foot, leaving his office on 45th Street. Running against the tide of people headed North. He ran in the middle of the street to avoid the fleeing masses. After 12 blocks, he realized this was going to take forever, that's when he thought to borrow a bike.
Now that we were reunited and relieved to be together, we were reminded that we had nowhere to go. We certainly couldn't go home. I needed somewhere to rest, I felt lightheaded and as if my body were made of lead, an interesting combination. I felt disassociated from myself, I was observing myself. "What will she do next?" we were refugees.
We thought of friends who lived in the neighborhood. We decided to call and ask if we could come over. Alan went to a payphone with a line of 5 people. I tried the cell phone. I had no reason to believe it would work because it hadn't all morning, but it did. Our friend Kurt lives in Chelsea he told us to come over right away as soon as he heard my voice. Alan and I walked over to their loft, Alan rolling the bicycle beside him.
Kurt and Cassandra are very social people, and they always seem to have a house full of friends. Today was no exception; their home became a safe harbor for many of their friends who lived outside Manhattan. All-access in and out of the city was closed, so many people were trapped. Cass' brother was in town on business from Alabama. We all sat in front of the TV transfixed watching the collapses over and over; the whole thing was too absurd. I could not believe that the towers were gone. Thousands were dead. The Pentagon had been hit. Planes were being brought down. We knew that we could not go home, did we even have a home? Alan wanted to ride the borrowed bike down to our neighborhood and see what the situation was. Although I wanted him with me, I too was eager to know if our home was destroyed, what had happened to our neighbors in the basement? And Otto? Alan took the bike and rode downtown toward the smoke and destruction, he promised not to take any risks.
I tried to call family and friends, but it was impossible to make calls out of state. I had several messages on my voicemail at work from family worried and asking me to call them. I changed my outgoing message to say that I was all right and where I could be reached. I spoke to coworkers who were in the office. They were relieved to hear from me, they had been very concerned by my absence, they all knew how close to the WTC our apartment was. I spent much of the day watching the news coverage on TV and trying to call my brother.
Alan returned, he had gotten as far as Reade St before he was turned back by the police. From that vantage point he could see that our building was still standing and the windows even seemed intact. That was amazing news. Otto must be ok, our neighbors were alive, and we had emerged from this tragedy remarkably well. I was so grateful to be alive, that Alan was safe and our home seemed ok.
As the day wore into night, people began discussing the repercussions of the event and what had led to it. A friend of ours said that he had heard that the planes were carrying Anthrax. I panicked. What was Anthrax? How did it kill? Could I have been infected by it while I stood outside looking at the buildings? Was I infecting all my friends? When had I last felt the baby move? I was panicking. I had to lie down. I didn't feel you move. Oh my God, when had I last felt the baby move? Was Anthrax infecting my body right now? Had it killed the baby already? I needed to calm down. I asked Alan to get me some juice. All I could remember was that in the many pregnancy books I had (at home) I had read that if you haven't felt the baby move for a while to drink some juice and lie on your left side. I did and waited, and waited. People kept coming by to see how I was. I didn't want to be overly dramatic, so I told them I was tired and trying to take a little nap. My attention had been so focused on the events that I hadn't noticed your movements for hours. It seemed like forever, but finally I felt a little kick and then a series of hiccups. Thank God, you were ok. I wasn't going to worry about Anthrax anymore (at least not that day).
Luca + Alan safe at home.
I was stunned, I felt unconnected and vague. I knew intellectually that the world had been irreversibly altered. I could not have imagined the impact of the events but to be honest the day-to-day implications were foremost in my mind. I kept reminding myself of how lucky we were, but to be honest I also remember thinking: this sucks, I'm about to have a baby, when can we go home?
When I finally lay down to sleep late that night, my body felt heavy with exhaustion, it sank into the air mattress on the floor in Kurt and Cass' loft but found little comfort. I closed my eyes, hoping to welcome sleep, and I saw in my mind's eye, like film being projected inside my eyelids, the bodies falling from the towers. Falling and falling. The film in my head would rewind and they would fall again. Flailing and falling. I opened my eyes to clean the sight out of my mind, but when I closed my eyes there they would be again. How I fell asleep, I don't know, but eventually I did. I had that much more to be grateful for.
Commemorative Lights (2019), Linda Secondari
