“And the shock was subsonic. And the smoke was deafening. Between the setup and the punch line, ?cuz we were all on time for work that day. We all boarded that plane for it to fly. And then while the fires were raging, we all climbed up on the windowsill. And then we all held hands and jumped into the sky. And every borough looked up when it heard the first blast and then every dumb action movie was summarily surpassed.” ? Ani DiFranco, Self-Evident
I saw a man in a Brooks Brothers three-piece-suit standing at the crosswalk glancing down at his watch and tapping his foot. A woman with a clumsy duel-wheel stroller struggled to the small chunk of curb beside him. The light changed, the beeping alert ensued and the man sprinted. He stopped in the middle of the street and looked back. The stroller wheels were caught on the curb and the frantic mother twisted and turned the contraption. The man walked back, picked up the stroller and set it on the curb on the other side of the street. He never made eye contact with the young mother. She looked at him and opened her mouth to say thank you but he had already disappeared into the ocean of New Yorkers scurrying to their prospective locations.
That was years before Sept. 11, 2001, the day my city was brought to its knees.
The spirit of strangers helping strangers came to full fruition during the immense tragedy that a city, state, country and world will never forget.
I watched helplessly on a television screen more than 3,000 miles from my father, the surreal scenario played on every station. I ran for the phone to call my father. His train to work ran underneath the World Trade Center. All lines were busy.
I dropped my girls off at school and went to work. “Don”t worry mom, Grandpa”s the iron horse,” Miranda said, as she grabbed my arm when she arrived at the elementary school.
Once at work, co-workers popped in occasionally and asked, “Have you gotten ahold of your dad yet?” I hadn”t.
Many hours passed before I was able to hear my father”s voice. His train made it through that section of the city. Tears poured down my face.
Others were not nearly as lucky.
Rick Rescorla, 62, took the 6:10 train to Manhattan. Rescorla was a combat veteran who fought in Vietnam”s bloody Ia Drang Valley. He was at his desk in a corner office of the World Trade Center by 7:30. He was on the 44th floor of the South Tower when the first plane hit. He grabbed a bullhorn. “He went to work in the same calm fashion that he showed under intense combat fire in Vietnam,” according to Bill Gertz, defense and national-security reporter for the Washington Times. Rescorla ordered everyone to evacuate the building immediately.
He was vice president for security at Morgan Stanley Dean Witter.
Gertz wrote, “The company had 3,700 employees in the World Trade Center ? 2,700 employees in the south tower on floors forty-four through seventy-four and 1,000 employees in Building Five across the plaza. A short time after the aircraft hit, an official of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, which owned the Trade Center towers, called. Everyone in the building should stay put because there was no danger, the Port Authority man said. Rescorla shot back: ?Piss off, you son-of-a-bitch. Everything above where that plane hit is going to collapse, and it”s going to take the whole building with it. I”m getting my people the f*** out of here.””
Of 3,700 employees, Morgan Stanley lost only six, including Rescorla.
On my side of the world, Miranda”s principal, Susan Duran, called an assembly. She talked slowly with her head held down. Tears dropped and splashed on her hands and the pale wood of the podium. Her blond hair covered her face. She told the children and parents about her best friend and neighbor growing up. “Jason loved flying,” she said. “He got his pilot”s license before he got his driver”s license.” Her friend Jason Dahl, 43, was killed when the plane he piloted crashed into a field. Dahl was the captain of United Flight 93 on Sept. 11, 2001.
Whatever memory you have of that day, honor it by caring for your neighbors. Show special kindness and care today.
It”s a day to take a deep breath and a moment of silence. It”s a day to remember.
“There is a blood red circle on the cold, dark ground. And the rain is falling down.
The church door”s thrown open. I can hear the organ”s song. But the congregation”s gone.
My city of ruins. ?Bruce Springsteen, My City Of Ruins
Mandy Feder is the Record-Bee news editor. She can be reached at mandyfeder@yahoo.com or 263-5636 Ext. 32.
