Since I was first asked to write this piece, the world as we know it, has forever changed. The old article has been deleted and in its place, my own personal story and thoughts on the occurrences of Sept. 11th.
At 8:48 on that fateful Tuesday, my boyfriend and I had left my apartment in Gateway Plaza, Battery Park City, to take our usual walk to the Fulton Street subway. As we were passing by the South Tower of the World Trade Center, we heard and felt the explosion. We were unsure of what had just occurred. Suddenly, debris, documents and flames were falling out of the sky. To get shelter, we ran into the World Trade Center. People everywhere were screaming and running. We then ran out into the street. We got a few blocks away, where we stopped for a moment, and looked back at a gaping, burning hole in the tower. People were jumping. I will never get those images out of my head. Then the second plane hit. At this point, my only thought was of my nine-year-old son, Max, in school at P.S. 234, four blocks north of the towers. The only way we could get to him was to walk north, towards Chinatown, and go back down around to the school. After about 45 minutes, we were able to get to the school. The children were all in the lunchroom, totally calm and protected. The teachers had drawn the blinds, and to the children’s knowledge, there had been an "accident." They were then taken upstairs to the auditorium, and we went to use the payphone to try and call Max’s frantic father, his babysitter—who was still at my apartment—and my office. At that point, my boyfriend looked out the window as the South Tower began to fall. We ran upstairs, grabbed Max and ran. We went from Greenwich Avenue to my boyfriend’s apartment in the East Village. As we walked we turned back and watched as the North tower fell. Along the way, we passed many people—all with the same scared, horrified, and disbelieving looks upon their faces.
On the Thursday after the attack, I went back to work and brought my son with me. We had a bomb scare and had to evacuate the building by walking down 19 flights of stairs. Children should not have to endure this.
We are now in temporary housing with about 10 other families from Battery Park City, and my son is attending P.S. 41 while his school is being repaired. And even after all we’ve been through, I know how very lucky we are. We, unlike many, many others, have remained safe and unharmed. And as I watch how healthy it’s been for my son to return to school and some sense of "normalcy," I realize how important it is for the grownups to get back to work and continue on with our lives. And just as my son, unable to sleep that first night kept repeating, "Mommy, I can’t get the pictures out of my mind," we will all probably never get the pictures out of our minds. But we will not allow the terrorist’s dream to become a reality. New Yorkers’ are a tough breed. For most of us, this is by far, the worst thing we have had to endure. But we have endured, and will continue to do so. The skyline has certainly changed, but our view remains the same.
