Walking down the streets of New York today, you would never think that the same streets back in 01 were covered in white powder made up of steel and pulverized materials from the world trade center, or that the calm streets were once under complete marital law imposed by the Federal Government. I spent my coming of age years in the wake of the world trade center attacks in New York. I lived in Little Haiti in Brooklyn at the time and worked as a security guard at a Museum. Before that, in the spring of 01, I had been working as a waitress at a Bulgarian restaurant on West Fourth in the West Village with a superior view of the World Trade Center towers. I would often stare at their sublime majesty and imagine working inside the buildings. It was the spring of 2001, and I had no idea what was to become of my life in the wake of the worst terrorist attack the world had ever seen. There had never been an attack of that scale on American soil to date. Naturally, after that day, the country had its doubts about the day to day security of living in New York, and little did I know I would live with terror alerts at levels as high as the deadly readings of air quality.
*
Memories of going to Jones beach with my fellow security guards from the Museum faded away like a childhood sandbox as we were assembled that fateful morning. I had already heard at my post, which was the modern art department that day. As I studied Autumnal Rhythms by Jackson Pollock, I was interrupted by a fellow guard running in screaming that the world trade center had been hit by planes. Shortly thereafter, the heads of the security team gathered us and announced that the staff members had left the building but the security team was to stay and protect the building.
It hit me emotionally just as I had been hit as a child by an enormous wave at the ocean on vacation in New Jersey. I had been swept and rolled under with the wave, thrown like a golf ball and then spat back out again onto the beach, covered with sand and seaweed. The city that I had dreamt of living in my entire life, which my family all hailed from, was being destroyed. Earlier that summer, I had been offered a temporary position in one of the offices in the second tower, as if by some stroke of miracle, I escaped death by being offered a security position at the museum. My mind flashed to the memory of looking up at those towers, two chunks of my dreams which stood for the America I had been taught to want.
That day’s sticky end of summer heat clung to my temples; the cell phone signals had been knocked out because the towers had held the transmitter. By some miracle my cell signal worked, apparently because my company’s receiver was elsewhere. Eight messages that day. All my mother and father. Not the romantic partner that I had left back in England at School. To a person in their early twenties, it was too much to bear that there was only family on that voice mail.
When I was finally done with work that day, which seemed like an eternity, I was lucky enough to have family who received me on the upper- East Side where I was working. It was only a short walk to my aunt and Uncle’s apartment and I gave the doorman my identity and was shown to the elevator. As the mirrored doors of the elevator closed I realized my incredible luck. I had seen glimmers here and there as I caught the footage on television of the streams of people trying to get home to the outer boroughs walking across the Brooklyn bridge en- masse- a throng of the worried and harried trying to reach their homes. Desperate for safety and longing for comfort. Comfort that I guiltily had on the Upper East Side- safe and sound. I didn’t dare try to reach my little apartment in Little Haiti – the thought of even trying to return there was not even entertained, per my family and my just underneath high intelligence. All I had there was a futon and some clothing- which I didn’t need because I wore a uniform to work. My life at that time was all contained neatly in my Manhattan portage messenger bag which I clung to until my fingers sweat into its black writing, making my fingers grey and the backpack’s writing smudged.
The next few days were just this horrible waiting until the subway which passed under the trade center had been cleared enough to return to my temporary Brooklyn abode which, interestingly enough was located next to a voodoo house of worship. As I boarded the train on the upper- east side, my surroundings reflected my own sense of doom and fear which overcame me as I walked onto the platform and boarded the Brooklyn bound green line. As the doors shut I watched my fellow passengers and what struck me most was not the everyday diversity which I would often study, but rather the uniformity of expression and tension. Everyone, from the stock broker with the highest grossing commission to the homeless dreadlocked, and stinking resident of the train, was feeling the same ominous weight of emotion. It developed and congealed into a collective consciousness which culminated into a mutual stare as we all watched with mouths agape as we passed through the tunnel where the attack had occurred. The fluorescent lights reflected on what looked exactly like snow, three inches of which covered the subway benches and the platforms and filled us all with the same sense of dread. The smell of the subway changed and slowly the entire car became aware of the choking stench of the dead, and pieces of metal. The “snow” was of course the debris from the towers, not yet cleared out of the fateful spot, where the planes had hit just two short days prior.
The next week I walked around dazed and sullen as it dawned on me that the towers, which had stood for me just two months ago as a beacon of hope, were no longer there. When I first arrived in the city I stood outside serving the guests of a small restaurant in the West village from which the trade center was in full view. Those towers were my vantage point and a symbol of everything that I had left home to find.
“Mom, someday I’m going to work in those towers. “ I proclaimed sharply as I dreamt of success that would never come.
My safety that morning was serendipitous because that week I had been late twice. And each time I had found myself right underneath the world trade center towers, desperately hailing a cab to get myself uptown on time to report for duty at the Met. That fateful morning, I was actually early and taking a run around the central park reservoir.
*
When I ran up to the officer on duty and presented the sweaters and pants that I had collected from my apartment’s storage area depths, the clothes that I had shrunk out of in my mid- twenties crisis slump of depression, I almost wept as I gazed past the honeycomb and smoking wreckage.
“I’m not in charge here, you have to talk to them.” The dutiful NYPD officer pointed to a makeshift tent area wherein many obviously sleep deprived men in suits lingered hopelessly awaiting orders from superiors.
I approached them timidly and stretched out my arm, full of hope as I handed the man in a ruffled grey suit with a name tag which bore the eagle in a hologram and his name. It was a Midwestern solid name which didn’t strike me as memorable, but his voice gained my attention as my heart started to race.
“You know we are really busy here and you were supposed to go to the Red Cross tent like everyone else. “ He said angrily, I thought I my legs would start running without my brain’s consent.
“Um, they are just some donations I thought the volunteers or workers would start getting cold at night…” I stammered on as the overworked Federal worker sized me up.
“Wait here.” He said shortly as I stood, frozen in time, falling into sheer anxiety as I realized the error I had made.
Twenty incredibly long minutes later I stood still in the same spot, terrified of what would happen. Would I be arrested for trespassing in a newly federal zone? Would I bear the indelible mark of the idiot wanting to do well? After the man gave me an itemized ticket and told me that it was the best thing I had ever done, I ran into the subway, went through the turn stile and took my seat, riding into the next millennium.
*
In the weeks and months thereafter, the smell of death was what lingered to remind the once again functioning city of what took place. Attacks on Muslims, although forbidden by law, were unfortunately commonplace and many formerly open minded New Yorkers found themselves becoming racist monsters in the name of avenging the dead. One coffee shop dweller rambled on about Arabs calling them the proverbial “towel heads” and proclaiming himself innocent of racism because his friends’ life had been taken. I, ever the observer, simply listened and took it all in. Perhaps this was my function in life and I was simply here to observe these sublime happenings and record them in my mind’s eye forever. All the events of that day melded together in my mind as I stood on the dirty subway platforms in the weeks that followed, choking along with everyone on the stench of death and metal. All I could see was the smoke pluming from the honey comb mess downtown when I ran out of the green line to find a friend or get a cab.
*
When I look at my eight month old daughter these days back in Albany, I see a bit of myself in New York in my twenties. I think about not only how lucky I am to not have worked in the towers, but about how lucky I am to have lived through that horror in New York and come out the other side. When I see my child laugh, I see the hope I had for myself back then and I realize, I survived.
Author : Nora Bunk
Read also Big Agra, Big Pharma and Big Brother post from the author.
*
Memories of going to Jones beach with my fellow security guards from the Museum faded away like a childhood sandbox as we were assembled that fateful morning. I had already heard at my post, which was the modern art department that day. As I studied Autumnal Rhythms by Jackson Pollock, I was interrupted by a fellow guard running in screaming that the world trade center had been hit by planes. Shortly thereafter, the heads of the security team gathered us and announced that the staff members had left the building but the security team was to stay and protect the building.
It hit me emotionally just as I had been hit as a child by an enormous wave at the ocean on vacation in New Jersey. I had been swept and rolled under with the wave, thrown like a golf ball and then spat back out again onto the beach, covered with sand and seaweed. The city that I had dreamt of living in my entire life, which my family all hailed from, was being destroyed. Earlier that summer, I had been offered a temporary position in one of the offices in the second tower, as if by some stroke of miracle, I escaped death by being offered a security position at the museum. My mind flashed to the memory of looking up at those towers, two chunks of my dreams which stood for the America I had been taught to want.
That day’s sticky end of summer heat clung to my temples; the cell phone signals had been knocked out because the towers had held the transmitter. By some miracle my cell signal worked, apparently because my company’s receiver was elsewhere. Eight messages that day. All my mother and father. Not the romantic partner that I had left back in England at School. To a person in their early twenties, it was too much to bear that there was only family on that voice mail.
When I was finally done with work that day, which seemed like an eternity, I was lucky enough to have family who received me on the upper- East Side where I was working. It was only a short walk to my aunt and Uncle’s apartment and I gave the doorman my identity and was shown to the elevator. As the mirrored doors of the elevator closed I realized my incredible luck. I had seen glimmers here and there as I caught the footage on television of the streams of people trying to get home to the outer boroughs walking across the Brooklyn bridge en- masse- a throng of the worried and harried trying to reach their homes. Desperate for safety and longing for comfort. Comfort that I guiltily had on the Upper East Side- safe and sound. I didn’t dare try to reach my little apartment in Little Haiti – the thought of even trying to return there was not even entertained, per my family and my just underneath high intelligence. All I had there was a futon and some clothing- which I didn’t need because I wore a uniform to work. My life at that time was all contained neatly in my Manhattan portage messenger bag which I clung to until my fingers sweat into its black writing, making my fingers grey and the backpack’s writing smudged.
The next few days were just this horrible waiting until the subway which passed under the trade center had been cleared enough to return to my temporary Brooklyn abode which, interestingly enough was located next to a voodoo house of worship. As I boarded the train on the upper- east side, my surroundings reflected my own sense of doom and fear which overcame me as I walked onto the platform and boarded the Brooklyn bound green line. As the doors shut I watched my fellow passengers and what struck me most was not the everyday diversity which I would often study, but rather the uniformity of expression and tension. Everyone, from the stock broker with the highest grossing commission to the homeless dreadlocked, and stinking resident of the train, was feeling the same ominous weight of emotion. It developed and congealed into a collective consciousness which culminated into a mutual stare as we all watched with mouths agape as we passed through the tunnel where the attack had occurred. The fluorescent lights reflected on what looked exactly like snow, three inches of which covered the subway benches and the platforms and filled us all with the same sense of dread. The smell of the subway changed and slowly the entire car became aware of the choking stench of the dead, and pieces of metal. The “snow” was of course the debris from the towers, not yet cleared out of the fateful spot, where the planes had hit just two short days prior.
The next week I walked around dazed and sullen as it dawned on me that the towers, which had stood for me just two months ago as a beacon of hope, were no longer there. When I first arrived in the city I stood outside serving the guests of a small restaurant in the West village from which the trade center was in full view. Those towers were my vantage point and a symbol of everything that I had left home to find.
“Mom, someday I’m going to work in those towers. “ I proclaimed sharply as I dreamt of success that would never come.
My safety that morning was serendipitous because that week I had been late twice. And each time I had found myself right underneath the world trade center towers, desperately hailing a cab to get myself uptown on time to report for duty at the Met. That fateful morning, I was actually early and taking a run around the central park reservoir.
*
When I ran up to the officer on duty and presented the sweaters and pants that I had collected from my apartment’s storage area depths, the clothes that I had shrunk out of in my mid- twenties crisis slump of depression, I almost wept as I gazed past the honeycomb and smoking wreckage.
“I’m not in charge here, you have to talk to them.” The dutiful NYPD officer pointed to a makeshift tent area wherein many obviously sleep deprived men in suits lingered hopelessly awaiting orders from superiors.
I approached them timidly and stretched out my arm, full of hope as I handed the man in a ruffled grey suit with a name tag which bore the eagle in a hologram and his name. It was a Midwestern solid name which didn’t strike me as memorable, but his voice gained my attention as my heart started to race.
“You know we are really busy here and you were supposed to go to the Red Cross tent like everyone else. “ He said angrily, I thought I my legs would start running without my brain’s consent.
“Um, they are just some donations I thought the volunteers or workers would start getting cold at night…” I stammered on as the overworked Federal worker sized me up.
“Wait here.” He said shortly as I stood, frozen in time, falling into sheer anxiety as I realized the error I had made.
Twenty incredibly long minutes later I stood still in the same spot, terrified of what would happen. Would I be arrested for trespassing in a newly federal zone? Would I bear the indelible mark of the idiot wanting to do well? After the man gave me an itemized ticket and told me that it was the best thing I had ever done, I ran into the subway, went through the turn stile and took my seat, riding into the next millennium.
*
In the weeks and months thereafter, the smell of death was what lingered to remind the once again functioning city of what took place. Attacks on Muslims, although forbidden by law, were unfortunately commonplace and many formerly open minded New Yorkers found themselves becoming racist monsters in the name of avenging the dead. One coffee shop dweller rambled on about Arabs calling them the proverbial “towel heads” and proclaiming himself innocent of racism because his friends’ life had been taken. I, ever the observer, simply listened and took it all in. Perhaps this was my function in life and I was simply here to observe these sublime happenings and record them in my mind’s eye forever. All the events of that day melded together in my mind as I stood on the dirty subway platforms in the weeks that followed, choking along with everyone on the stench of death and metal. All I could see was the smoke pluming from the honey comb mess downtown when I ran out of the green line to find a friend or get a cab.
*
When I look at my eight month old daughter these days back in Albany, I see a bit of myself in New York in my twenties. I think about not only how lucky I am to not have worked in the towers, but about how lucky I am to have lived through that horror in New York and come out the other side. When I see my child laugh, I see the hope I had for myself back then and I realize, I survived.
Author : Nora Bunk
Read also Big Agra, Big Pharma and Big Brother post from the author.
