Remembering My 9/11 Experience

Note: My experiences on September 11, 2001 pale in comparison to those of thousands upon thousands of others. I did not lose anybody I personally knew in the attacks. I discovered very soon afterward, however, how fortunate I was. This is my experience and mine alone ... and by no means do I mean to indicate that it is more significant than anybody else's. To those who lost a loved one on that terrible day, I continue to offer my most honest condolences. To the first responders ... NYPD, FDNY, EMTs and private citizens ... you have my utmost admiration.

Ten years? How the hell is it that ten years have passed?

On the morning of September 11, 2001 I had some time to kill before I went to work. We had moved to NYC only the week before and I was spending each morning riding the trains and ferries and finding alternative ways to get to the office in Long Island City. I was exploring the city more than I ever had before and enjoying every moment of it. I was riding trains I had never been on and exploring neighborhoods I had never spent any time in. I wanted to know my beloved New York better than I ever had before. That morning I chose to visit the twin towers and take a stroll through Battery Park.

At about a quarter after eight I bought a bacon-and-egg on a roll and a cup of coffee from a street vendor at the foot of the World Trade Center. I sat on a bench wolfing down my sandwich and calling a few family members to tell them (to brag, really) about where I was. This was in the days before Facebook and Twitter ... so you had to actually call people to boast about your mini-adventures of the day. I spoke with my brother and my mother-in-law and told them how I was nearly blinded by the sun glistening off the towers above me. I had always loved New York ... but now I was a citizen and I loved it even more ... I wanted to share that love with everybody I knew.

I finished my boasting and my sandwich and went downstairs to catch the N train for the long ride to Queens. Little did I know it would be the last N train to pull out of that station that day ...

Somewhere along the ride (probably beginning at Penn Station or 42nd Street) I began to overhear passengers talking about how a plane had just crashed into the World Trade Center. At the time it didn't seem to be all that serious. Those of you who lived in NYC before the attacks will remember the amount of air traffic above and around Manhattan in those days ... there were always tiny planes and helicopters all over the place, many of which flew in and around the southern tip of the island. In my mind's eye, I envisioned some idiot in a two-seater prop plane had probably tried to buzz the towers, got too close and clipped the building. In my mind's eye it was just another "only in New York" kind of moment.

Getting off the train at Queensboro Plaza, I heard a loud bang ... it sounded like thunder. I cursed myself for forgetting my umbrella! Why, just the night before it had rained like crazy and I hadn't remembered my umbrella and was forced to walk through a downpour getting soaking wet. Now I was going to have to do it again ...

I turned to look back at the sky when the cloud of smoke caught my eye. The World Trade Center was on fire! My God ... that plane must have really done a number on the buildings! At this time I didn't realize that it was a jetliner that had crashed into the towers, I didn't realize that the noise I had just heard was actually the second plane crashing into the South Tower. I walked to the office, only a few blocks, in a bit of a rush ... went up the elevator and stood staring at the burning towers through our window. We began to listen to radio reports and ... to be honest with you ... I couldn't really tell you what news was being reported at the time. At one point, I turned to a colleague and said, "it just goes to show what amazing buildings those are. Somebody flew a freaking plane into them and they are still standing." Seconds later the South Tower collapsed ... making me feel rather the idiot and having me wish I had just kept my stupid mouth shut. Half an hour later the North Tower fell ... and suddenly I was truly frightened.

All mass transit was shut down and I was, for all intents and purposes, stranded in Queens. All I could think about was getting to Hoboken where my (then-) wife was teaching because cell phone service was dead. I walked with somebody from work to his apartment and we tried to watch the news ... except no channels were coming in, just a very broken-up signal on the CBS station. After a few hours of waiting (talking nonsense with this fellow from work who I didn't really like), I had had enough. I was getting to Hoboken come hell or high water!

And so I began my walk ...

I couldn't tell you much about that walk really ... I was in such a daze. I walked across the Queensboro Bridge with thousands of people coming the other way ... people were trying to get out of Manhattan, not back into it. Many of them were covered in dust and soot ... it instantly reminded me of news images of refugees trying to escape war-torn countries. I had to push and shove my way across that bridge into Manhattan. I made it to Central Park and began to walk down 5th Avenue to Rockefeller then over to 7th Avenue through Times Square ... all of these areas normally teeming with tourists ... and I hardly saw anybody for hours. In fact, outside of a handful of police officers, during the walk from Central Park to the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel, I bet I saw less than twenty people. New York had become a ghost town! It was eerie and disconcerting. As I approached the tunnel, however, I became just one of hundreds of people trying to escape the island.

It was nearing the evening and they had just opened traffic back up at the Lincoln Tunnel ... we had all lived in fear all day that "whoever-this-was-that-attacked-us" (we weren't really using the word "terrorist" yet) would be targeting the bridges and tunnels next ... but the Lincoln Tunnel is not just something you can walk through. I, and several dozen others, hitched a ride through the tunnel in the back of a meat truck. There were no windows and the ride was slow and uncomfortable. I was scared. Amazing how not being able to see your surroundings will increase the fear level. On the Jersey side of the tunnel, past the toll booths and up the hill, we stopped and my fellow passengers and I departed. I was on the edge of Hoboken (only a mile long) and minutes away from my destination ... but first, I jogged to the 14th Street Pier to look back at Manhattan. The southern edge of the island was covered in black/brown smoke which appeared to be bellowing into Brooklyn.

Enough!

I ran (and I mean ran!) back to Washington Street and then all the way down to 4th, made the right turn and up to where my (ex-)wife was teaching. She was okay! At the time, it was all that mattered.

Early the next morning, she and I went to Pier A (along with another thousand or so people) to survey the damage. We had only just learned about the tragedy and the heroes of 9/11. Many people took pictures. Many others wept. I hadn't the day before ... maybe I was too scared to ... but this morning, the morning of September 12th, I wept as well. A little girl then made a comment that stopped the tears and brought me a smile. She said, "it looks like somebody knocked the front teeth out of New York."

"You're right," I thought. Our smile will never be the same. But like the boxer who has just taken a punch, we will pull ourselves off the canvass and continue the fight.

Final note: The picture above of me with the World Trade Center in the background was taken on September 9, 2001 ... just 48 hours before the attacks. It's a terrible picture of me ... but it shows the towers how I remember them. To that end, I refrained from any images of the towers burning or falling ... I want them to be remembered for the glory of being the nation's largest buildings, not for being the site of one of history's most heinous acts.

A Letter To My Warren Boys

Dear Derek & Ty,

I wonder if you know how unique you are. I wonder if you realize how truly special you are. You are Warren boys ... and that is something to take a great deal of pride in.

There have been generation after generation after generation of boys named 'Warren" before you. But it is only recently that the term "Warren boys" has gathered such a singular distinction. The new and true definition of Warren boys was established long ago by your father and your Uncle Chuckie. We were the first iron-clad, dyed-in-the-wool Warren boys ... we gave significance to the term. We established the parameters from which all future Warren boys, such as yourselves, would be judged. And now it falls on you, the next and the greatest generation of Warren boys, to carve out greater lives and grander stories and legends.

Do you know what 'Warren" means? "To Preserve" ... and that is the task that now falls to you. To preserve the character of the Warren name ... and more importantly, to preserve the unparalleled and sublime grandeur of being a Warren boy.

Sounds all highly dignified, doesn't it? In some ways it is, but in many ways, it is not. It is simply a matter of pride.

You see, your dad and your Uncle Chuckie were as opposite as opposite can be. We really were. Your grandmother may say differently, but trust me ... I was there. Our personalities were different, our eye color was different, our talents were different and our skills were different. Your old man did fairly well in school, your Uncle Chuckie did not. Your Uncle Chuckie could make music out of anything, your dad can not. But there was a special, almost magical knowledge that we always possessed ... our differences made us matchless individually and extraordinary together. Knowingly or unknowingly, we lived by the same code. The same code that I will now share with you:

1. The Warren boys are not afraid to take chances.
2. The Warren boys always appreciate the skills and talents of others ... and always have a desire to follow that up with a "now see what I can do."
3. The Warren boys bask in the glory of the moment ... even if those moments seem to come too few and far between.
4. The Warren boys will fight (and fight hard!) for what is right.
5. No one (and I mean NO ONE) says anything derogatory about a Warren boy ... except another Warren boy ... and gets away with it.
6. Give joy as often as possible. Receive joy and then quickly pass it on. Don't bogard the joy!
7. Do no harm to others (unless they have it coming) and never be afraid to bend the rules when necessary.
8. Stand up for your loved ones. Stand beside your loved ones. Put your loved ones ahead of yourself ... even if they are acting like idiots.

In all honesty, that's a hard code to live by ... and we didn't always succeed. But we tried. Always.

The freedom to be atypical and stand apart from commonality (and more importantly, to support others in their special uniqueness) is what gives the Warren boy his swagger. It's a confidence bordering on cockiness. It's our strength ... because no matter what others may think or say about us, we know the other Warren boy has our backs. It allows us to be ourselves without (too much) concern of what others may think of us. It allows us to move forward in this grand adventure we call life. We are a very exclusive club ... there have only been four of us ... and as wonderful as so many people are that you will meet, they aren't Warren boys.

Warren boys defy the odds. Your uncle had a pacemaker put in when he was only thirteen years old. I remember your grandmother telling a neighbor that it was very likely Chuck would not live to be eighteen. Screw that! He lived to double that ... and he lived his few short years with us hard, fast and full of vigor! I was blessed to learn from the "original" Warren boy ... live for the moment, because the moment is all we really have.

Warren boys are filled with talent! Just look at yourselves. That talent is just as important as your life ... because talent, however large or small, is what makes life worth living. It's what we can share with the world ... and we don't share it to become rich and famous, we share it because we have it to give. Nurture it ... it is the garden of your soul ... sometimes it blooms, sometimes it rests ... protect it and love it.

Lastly, Warren boys would give their lives for one another. You know I would give my life for either of you. But did you know that your Uncle Chuckie would have too? I don't know many truths in this world ... but I know that.

This life is going to knock you on your ass from time to time ... it does it to everybody, but has a special fondness for knocking down a Warren boy ... and there are going to be times when you genuinely question whether or not you can go on. There will be times of great sadness, there will be losses too painful to imagine, there will be times when you question your self-worth and ask God why he has made this life so difficult. There's not a cure-all for those times. I wish I had one to give you. I wish I could take every ounce of pain you will ever encounter upon myself. But it doesn't work that way ... we can only offer one another our undying support ... and it is "undying" because I look at the two of you and I see the spirit of your Uncle Chuckie flowing through you. That support, that love, truly NEVER dies.

But I do know what will help you get through those moments. Just look at yourself in the mirror and say, "I'm a Warren boy." Eventually, the swagger will return to your step. I promise.

Love,
Dad