Things I Miss About Life Before 9/11
The loss of community and quality of life
It was 4:30am on September 11th, 2001. I had just finished breakfast at a restaurant in the village with a group of people I had just met. In a dimly lit room with cream mosaic floor tiles, a beautiful, strange man rested his arm around my neck as I finished my egg white omelet and Perrier. The long windows were tilted open and the coming fall air mixed with the departing balmy summer breeze. The music of laughter, dishes chiming, and the different tones of overlapping conversation were a familiar and comforting urban overture. Some were drinking hot coffee; others were still drinking cold cocktails. It was still dark and warm outside; the sun was not yet rising.
The 24-hour café was filled with all varieties of beautiful people, laughing, smiling and enjoying life together. There were artists, designers, financiers, and celebrities alike. Little did I know it, but these people who I barely knew would live in some of my most beautiful memories, like the very last scene of the titanic. I don’t even know them, but I miss them dearly. I miss the loving, friendly energy of the city, as its own entity. The living energy of what the city used to be was a deity in her own right, and she was cruelly sacrificed.
I miss everyone in the room, and everything that they represent. I miss the cab drivers waiting outside, lined up for a fare, taking you for a little less if you promised cash. I miss the smiling faces and the glistening skin of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen in my life. I miss the gods that came out at night, in the most secret, exclusive places that only true New Yorkers knew about. Nightlife in Manhattan was something that was hard to describe unless you were there.
Most people don’t know that there was a certain kind of love that lived in the city, if you’ve experienced it, then you know it. A lot of people will say that New Yorkers are cold and mean, but I know nothing of that. New Yorkers are some of the most helpful, fearless people around. We aren’t nice, but we are straightforward and kind.
As the moon was getting ready to shut her eyes, I turned the corner in a yellow cab and handed the driver some cash. I stepped out in Harlem, pushed the cab door, and walked past the tall artistic gates and artful pillars of my building. I couldn’t wait to take my high heels off and take a shower. I continued walking, and quietly unlocked the large wooden door to the pre-war apartment where I grew up, careful not to wake anyone.
After a night of dancing, mingling, and galivanting about Manhattan, I was socially satiated. I finally took my contact lenses off, had a shower, put on fresh clothes, and went to bed. The cardio that was dancing and going from hot spot to hotter spot had me beat. As I closed my eyes, I had no idea that I was less than three hours from one of the worst days of my life, and the life of New Yorkers. Life as we knew it was over, and it would never be the same.
I awoke to hear my mother in our kitchen, the clock was blurry. I rolled over to put my glasses on. I looked at the clock and I was confused. Maybe the clock needed a new battery, and it was really much later. I opened my bedroom door, eyes squinted. The kitchen lights were so bright, the metal end of the string coming from the kitchen fixture hit me in the forehead, and I swatted it away.
I was puzzled for three reasons: one, my mother rarely did anything with dishes other than eat the food that I prepared. Two, she was home at 11:30am on a weekday, and she worked in East Midtown. My Mom worked very long hours in the legal field, so, being home during the week was extremely odd. Three, she seemed disturbed and upset, her clothes were disheveled, and I saw that tears had stained her face. I can count the times on one hand that I’ve seen my mother cry, or even tear up. I was convinced that it would take a black ops military official who tortured people for a living to make my mother’s tear ducts actually do work. My mom looked sweaty, and one side of her button-down blouse hung out of her pencil skirt.
My inner alarm bells began to go off, my mother was home during the day, she had tears on her face, and she looked terrible. Three things I never saw. The air around her was heavy. I tricked myself into quieting my anxious and intrusive thoughts as I quietly asked, “What are you doing home during the day?”
“The twin towers…no longer exist.” My mother answered sullenly and walked out of the room, almost in a daze. I will never forget the way she said it and her tone. I followed her to the pantry. “What do you mean?”
“They collapsed. I walked home.” My mother said. I walked out of the pantry and back to my bedroom. I was convinced that my mother was mistaken. It couldn’t be true, I was just down in that area, hours ago. I was at Windows on the World last week.
I went back to my bedroom, turned on the TV and there was nothing but jumping buzzing grayscale bits. I hit the up button on the Time Warner remote repeatedly, and turned from channel to channel and it was all the same: gray snow vibrating back and forth.
I finally got to NY1 and saw the beginning of the footage of the first tower being hit, the ticker at the bottom of the screen said 8:46 am. The timestamp under the NY1 logo said 11:32am. I listened to the journalists and watched the footage.
I reassured myself that my mother was wrong, the towers were still standing, and she was misinformed, all was still well. After all, the towers had been hit before, and they were fine. I sat up in my bed and watched the next video with the ticker mentioning 9:03am, as the second plane hit. My stomach dropped. I watched as the journalist’s mouth moved and the time changed to 9:59am and the South tower collapsed. The ticker changed to 10:28 am and the North tower fell in a plume of smoke and debris. My mind was frozen, none of this was real.
I convinced myself that I was still dreaming, I was asleep in my bed, and this was all a bad dream. All of this was too terrible to be real. As I tried to process what was happening, I looked at my phone and tried to make a call, it wouldn’t work. My little red Nokia rang, and I looked down to answer, it was a friend that I only knew for a little while, calling to check on me. It was a kind gesture that I’ll always remember, although I was out of sorts. I still didn’t understand.
The videos of the towers falling played in a loop over and over. I started thinking of all of the people who had passed, that this was their final resting place. I thought of all of the people who would never see their families again. I thought of the firefighters and EMS workers who had their last day, the police officers. I wondered what their last thoughts were as they realized this was it. My sister, my mother and I watched people jump headfirst to their final moments, on TV.
Someone’s son, daughter, wife, husband, mother, father, aunt, uncle, had their last and most precious moments captured on the cell phone, or camera of a stranger. As we watched a waiter swan dive towards the concrete, I cried silent tears and my sister broke down, bawling. She had to leave the room.
Later that afternoon I walked outside, still negotiating reality. I could see, smell and taste the smoke that traveled all the way from downtown as I looked down Seventh Avenue. The smell was unmistakable, I had never smelled anything like it before.
The people in the street walked by, some looking dusty and disheveled, still arriving from downtown, after walking all the way home. No trains were running, no buses, and everyone had a look of sadness behind their eyes. In some ways I wondered if this was the beginning of the end of the world. It looked like it to me. I wondered what was coming next, my mind ran crazy with intrusive thoughts. Part of me wished that I was still in a nightmare, and I would be waking up soon, thankful that nothing in the dream realm actually happened here, in earth realm.
I waited until another day, when the trains were running again, and I took the 2 train as far as I could and walked down. I arrived in Tribeca and got as close as I could, without crossing the police tape. I looked around me and felt disoriented.
The towers were a landmark to me, a mile marker, telling me where I was, almost like a lighthouse. I looked around and struggled for a moment to distinguish south, north, west and east from each other. Looking through the smoke and dust, debris flying around me, I felt a lump in my throat, nauseated and dizzy. I felt like I was having an allergic reaction to reality, still having trouble believing that this was actually happening. Part of my delusional brain was maybe hoping that it still wasn’t real, I was still negotiating with myself what was in front of me.
I rebuilt what was once there in my mind, thinking of childhood memories. I remembered all the times I wandered through the World Trade Center after shopping at Century 21 with my aunt, cousins, mom and sister. I remembered the times I listened to music in the World Trade Center with my mom and sister by the water, eating food by the shops. I remembered time spent in a place that no longer existed.
Big rewind to the night before the thanksgiving parade, pre 9/11. The night before the thanksgiving parade was an event known mainly to native New Yorkers. It was about more than celebrating the holidays, it was about celebrating community, and it was beautiful for this reason.
When I was a child, I remember going to 77th street to watch the balloons being inflated. There were toddlers on their grinning fathers’ shoulders, pointing and clapping. Moms laughing and pointing with their big kids, wide eyed and in awe of the gargantuan cartoon characters coming to life on Central Park West. Seeing the balloons inflated in person always trumped seeing them on TV, you can’t truly understand how big and amazing the characters really are until you get face to face with them.
Holiday music played on speakers, people walked freely in and out of 77th street, there were no lines, no huge crowds, and no surveillance. Neighbors ate candied apples with sticky fingers and drank hot cocoa from strangers, just enjoying life. Upper West Side neighbors had their doors open, offering hot chocolate and cider to children and neighbors. On one of these nights, I remember being 14 and needing to use the bathroom. I asked one of the women standing by the door of her apartment “Can I please use the bathroom?”
“Sure,” she smiled “Come in.” She waved me and my friends inside. As I used the restroom, I overheard her ask “We have hot cider and hot cocoa, if you want?”
“Yes, thank you!” my friends graciously accepted, as I washed my hands and made sure to leave her bathroom in a clean, respectful condition. I unlocked the art deco inspired door and came out to thank her again. “Would you like some cider too?”
“Yes, thank you.” I smiled. I didn’t have the opportunity to have my grandmothers with me when I grew up, and I could only imagine that this is what it must’ve felt like to have a grandma. I always envied people who had a grandma, so anytime that I had the opportunity to experience grandma energy, I took it, like Patrick on that one episode of SpongeBob. New York City was a community full of love and kindness, before September 11th ushered in a new age of fear, fearing anyone looking different, and intensely fearing strangers.
Post 9/11, the balloon inflation event has been roped off, filled with surveillance, and lines of people. The experience of community within the balloon inflation event, a time of warmth and community that I wanted to share with my own children, is no more. Balloon inflation night is a shallow hollow of its former beauty. The sense of community and its importance has been overwritten by commercialization, and the constant, imminent fear of bomb threats.
I miss the person I was before 9/11, full of hope. I miss believing that bad things rarely happen to good people, I miss my innocence, I miss the collective connection the New York City community had, I miss the experiences my children will never have, I miss people that I’ve never met, I miss not knowing what mass murder looks and smells like, I miss having a general feeling that everything will be okay, I miss collective integrity, but really most of all I miss the collective love of native New York before September 11th, 2001.
