story307.xml
Title
story307.xml
Source
born-digital
Media Type
story
Date Entered
2002-03-23
911DA Story: Story
The Best of Times, the Worst of Times
My Account of the World Trade Center Attacks
Chinatown, New York, New York, September 11th, 2001
By Erin R. Yoshino
December 31, 2001
As I sit here, trying to find the words with which to describe the events of the last year, I know not where to begin. Much of my year was filled with your garden-variety hardship, heartache, and accomplishment. However on September 11th, the world was forever changed. Telling my account of the 11th, I?ve grown into routine and clich?, detached and automated, always sensitive, but never sincere. In our attempt to comprehend the sheer evil and terror of the Attacks, I tell my story to those who inquire. But I can never convey the magnitude of the moment, nor do I want to, for that one day in mid-September shook the very foundations of my world; to explain my account so as to do it justice would require that I divulge much of myself. I neither wish to be so candid with every person that asks, many of whom I don?t know very well, nor do I wish to recount my experience so thoroughly and so often as it is a painful one. So on this, the last day of the year of 2001, I will attempt to retell my experience in its purest form. I?m doing this mostly for myself. I?m afraid that one day I might forget what happened, the fear I felt, the pain I went through. And whereas there was a time when all I wanted to do was forget the hard times, it?s a part of me and I need to remember.
September 11th was a Tuesday. My classes at NYU had just started the Wednesday before. I only had one class on Tuesdays: Italian at 11:00 am. At that time, I was working at the Borders at World Trade Center 5 as a bookseller. I think I was working almost 30 hours a week, which was a lot as a full-time student. I had been offered another job in the package room on September 10th, an incredibly boring job, but it was closer to home, I got off earlier, and I could do homework when it was slow (which was all the time). I had set my alarm for 9:00 am on the 11th in order to call my manager at Borders to rearrange my schedule so that I could work both at Borders and the package room. Just before my alarm sounded, I felt the building shake. Since it was so strong, the first thing I thought was, ?Sounds like a plane just flew into a building.? But yielding to better judgment, I figured a bird had flown into my window, or being a California girl, I figured it was an earthquake (although in my sleepy state, I forgot that I was in New York, where earthquakes are rare). So I rolled over and waited for my alarm to sound off. But instead of waking to the annoyance of my alarm, my cell phone rang and caused me rise.
Knowing what time it was, I knew it was my dad, since none of my friends would call me at that hour and that the only person awake otherwise would be my father. After apologizing for waking me up, he asked if I had seen the morning news yet. I told him that I hadn?t and he proceeded to tell me what had just happened: a plane had just crashed into the north tower of the World Trade Center. In sleepy disbelief, I climbed out of my bunk bed and walked to my window. As my heart stopped the only thing I could say was, ?Holy shit.? My voice started to shake, but I wasn?t sure why, so I tried to hold it back. My dad asked that I call my mother to tell her I was okay. He told me he loved me and we hung up. As I trembled with fear, I plugged the television in and called my mother. She hadn?t heard the news; it was around 6:30 am in California. I told her what happened and as she turned her television on I heard her gasp. I felt another ?boom,? but figured it was the top of the north tower shifting and paid it no mind. At that point in time I didn?t know what to make of any of it, so our conversation was brief. I was a little teary, but once again, didn?t really know why, so I fought the tears back.
After I hung up the phone I got my camera and I as I peeked through the view finder, I realized that the ?boom? I heard was actually a second plane that had left a burning hole in the south tower of the World Trade Center. At that time class hadn?t been cancelled yet, so I sat at my computer trying to type my homework for my 11:00 am class. But as the television blared the horrifying images that resided just outside my window, I couldn?t concentrate. There was talk of the planes being terrorist attacks, but I couldn?t believe that a person could purposefully do something so horrendous. I sat staring at a blank computer screen when I heard a huge, low, rumbling. I ran to my window to see the south tower crumble to the ground. I panicked. I tried calling my sister on my cell phone, but I couldn?t get through. So I grabbed the landline and dialed Brooke?s number, shaking the whole time. She answered the phone and I could tell she had been crying. In my teary voice, I croaked, ?Brooke?? She couldn?t recognize my voice and asked who it was. I?m not quite sure why I called; I was so confused that I didn?t have anything to articulate even if I could have. I stated the obvious: ?The World Trade Center just fell.? I don?t really remember what else I said, I just remember crying. I got off the phone and had decided that even if classes weren?t cancelled by that time I wasn?t going anyway. I had told my dad, when the first tower was hit, that it looked like the building shouldn?t be standing. He said, ?Well, we build ?em good here in the United States.? And so when the south tower fell, I was in complete shock. It caught me completely off guard and I was overcome with fear.
Having composed myself to some extent, I received a numeric page on my cell phone from Adam. I sat in my windowsill, holding my knees tightly against my chest, staring at the one existing tower and the cloud of debris that surrounded it, as I called him back. His roommate picked up and just as Adam came to the phone the north tower began to fall. I became hysterical. An odd mixture of crying, sobbing, and inaudible speech left Adam begging, ?Erin, what?s wrong? Are you okay? Where are you? What?s happening? Are you okay?? I tried to explain what I was seeing, but he couldn?t understand me. ?Erin, slow down, what?s happening? Are you okay?? I finally managed to calm down enough to say, ?The second tower just fell.? He told me he knew, that he was watching it on television. I told him I was watching it from my window. In shock, I didn?t have much to say, but I told him that I was okay and that it meant the world to me that he had called.
Sometime in all the commotion, I had managed to take a short shower. I love to take showers, so I thought it would make me feel better. However, the thought that I might have missed some breaking story on the news required me to rush through my shower and resume my place in front of the television. And at some point in time I went down stairs, eyes red and sore from crying, to tell the woman in charge of the package room (Olga) that I (obviously) wasn?t able to contact my boss at Borders and that my store probably didn?t exist anymore, thus freeing me to work at the package room. I?m not really sure when all of that happened and I?m not really sure why I thought that was a priority at that time. But as I entered the lobby I felt like I was in the midst of a war zone. Stepping off the elevator, people were crying, wailing, hardly able to walk, traumatized. The dramatic intensity of the scene made me want to return to the safety and security of my own bedroom. As I concluded my conversation with Olga, I passed a woman wailing, being supported by a friend of hers who walked her to an empty office to cry, and I stepped into the elevator. I hid my head in the corner as I tried not to cry. I got to my bedroom and remained firmly seated in front of the television.
Just after the second tower fell, someone knocked on our door. My suitemate answered it and we were informed that we needed to evacuate the building immediately. They told us to go anywhere north of Houston Street; the NYU sports center had been set up for us if we didn?t have anywhere else to go. Then our R.A. came around, knocking on everyone?s doors, delivering the same message. I went to gather my things and in my fuzzy state of mind, I thought I was well prepared for what lay ahead. I loaded my book bag with all the things I felt were essential to an evacuation: my walkman (so I could listen to the radio), a bottle of water (since everyone needs water), 3 packets of peanut butter crackers (2 for me and 1 just in case I ran into my roommate, Winnie), my camera (to document my experience), my planner with all of my phone numbers in it, my cell phone, my wallet, and my sweatshirt. I walked down the 16 flights of stairs with some guy that lived on my floor whose sole desire was to get outside and light up a cig.
I found myself once again in the lobby. As I stepped through the front doors, I looked downtown to see a huge dust cloud hanging overhead, dark and dense, something from a movie, like Independence Day. Having stopped to stare, I was ushered uptown as the entire southern tip of Manhattan was being evacuated. I started walking uptown, listening to the radio in a catatonic daze. As I made my way, I passed two women covered in ash and dust walking like zombies, unaware of the world around them. I passed dozens of cars with the radios blaring as crowds gathered around them. At every working pay phone there were lines of people that went around the block. I got to the sports center. There were counselors and first aid on the ground level along with missing persons boards, an information center and a phone bank. There were cots, chairs, and food on the field house level. I got there but was embarrassed of my puffy eyes, so I left and went to Washington Square Park. The park was full of people talking on their cell phones and staring downtown at the cloud of smoke. The voicemails started flooding in. I spent some time trying to return phone calls, but the Sprint network serving the Manhattan area was down since its antennae was on top of the north tower. I got tired of being in such a crowded area. So I walked to Bleeker Street where there was a courtyard-like area in an apartment complex.
I sat, away from the crowds, in the beauty of the fall afternoon, making futile phone call attempts with wet eyes while I listened to the radio and the foreboding cloud of smoke migrated slowly towards me. I finally got a hold of Beanie, who had left me a voicemail message asking me to call her. The first thing she said was, ?Do you know how long it took you to call me back?!? Somehow Ruth got through on her first attempt, I spoke with her. Then in the afternoon, after hours of waiting and sitting and crying, I got a hold of Winnie. I told her where I was and she met me there a few minutes later. She came prepared with a bottle of water and a box of saltines that she had fought for in the supermarket in addition to the few school supplies that she had left the house with that morning. Then we got hold of Ed and he graciously offered us a place to stay when I told him we had been evacuated. So Winnie and I made our way to Kmart where we purchased toothbrushes then we met Ed in the lobby of his building. We got there and he said, ?I feel 1,000 times better now that you?re here.? I felt the same way.
Winnie and I met all of Ed?s suitemates and they were great, so great in fact that I named them ?the Sweetie-mates.? We sat around watching the news coverage, we told our stories of where we were when it happened, and periodically one of us would leave to answer a phone call. They made us dinner and baked us peanut butter cookies. Ed?s friends from down the hall, these giddy girls, brought extra pillows and bedding for us. Kenny called me that night to see if I was okay. He said that the television was on when he left the house in the morning, but when he saw the burning towers he thought it was a movie, paid it no mind and went to work. But that?s really how it seemed, like a movie, it hardly seemed real.
Later that night Ed let us use his computer to check our email. My cell phone was out of juice and I had left my re-charger at home so I wanted to let everyone know that I was okay even though they couldn?t get a hold of me. I was completely overwhelmed by all of the people that called to make sure I was okay, but when I checked my email I almost cried. People I never met, people I hardly knew and people I hardly ever spoke to had written me, in addition to my family and many of my close friends. Some wrote brief messages, like Mike, who just wanted to know if I was okay. Some wrote and said they were friends of my mother. They informed me that she loved me very much, that she was so scared for me, and that I should call her. I was so completely taken aback by their support, encouragement, and concern. So this winter, I was looking for Christmas cards and I ran across a box of square shaped cards that read, ?It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.? And although I can?t stand Charles Dickens, I don?t think that anyone could have said it better; it certainly was the worst of times, but it was the best of humanity that I had ever seen.
The next day, we decided to go outside and get some fresh air, but as we stepped out the door we realized that was not going to be possible. A horrid acrid stench of burning chemicals filled the air and as we looked around us, people donned facemasks. So we grabbed some lunch fixings at the deli on 14th: turkey, bread, and mustard (for the Ed Boy), and decided to go back to the room to eat. 14th Street was home to a checkpoint station that spanned the entire width of Manhattan, where identification was required in order to proceed south of it. There were two others, one at Houston Street and one at Canal Street. The streets were eerily empty. Since most of the city was closed, especially that far downtown, no one was in much of a hurry, just aimlessly walking around, with no particular destination, purpose, or motivation. No one was pushing, no one was rushing, just strolling. The pressures of normal New York society had been lifted from their shoulders, and a weariness, an emotional tiredness, a mental numbness took its place. They walked with a different sort of edginess where every loud noise sent every head turning in search of its source, where nothing mattered, but everything did. Every plane (fighter jet) that flew overhead snapped every eye to the sky and every siren heard conjured tears for we knew what it was for.
Winnie and I learned that we were allowed to return to our building at 4:30pm. We packed up our toothbrushes and jumped on the subway. Hoping to get off at Canal Street, we forgot that security was increased and that the subway bypassed all of the downtown Manhattan stations. So we patiently rode the train to Brooklyn, since we had nothing else to do anyway. The train was silent. No one spoke a word and everyone wore a tired look of weary eyes and steadfast frowns and as the train came above ground, every head turned to see the emptiness of the New York skyline. I was never so relieved to get back home.
That night the glow of flood lights and smoke rose from the vacant hole where the World Trace Center once resided. The wretched smell filled our room. Winnie and I somehow wasted the night away and when we woke in the morning, she decided she was going to her aunt?s house. She would never admit it, but she was afraid of asking her aunt if I could come along. But her mom (her aunt?s sister) told me to go with her since I didn?t have any family nearby and so we packed our belongings and headed to Brooklyn. We hardly spoke on the train. Her aunt, uncle, and cousin greeted us. They spoke mostly in Chinese. Winnie did some studying, but I spent the first day with a textbook in my lap, reading the same paragraph over and over again, not comprehending anything, getting frustrated all the while. So I decided to go easy on myself for the next few days. I read a novel and watched countless hours of television. Inundated with images of the falling towers, of horrified faces, of wreckage and heartache, each day left me emotionally and mentally exhausted. By the end of the day, all I could do was sleep. Time had an odd feel to it: each minute seemed like an eternity, but each day seemed to pass in a second.
Friday, after spending an entire day in front of the television watching the same news broadcast over and over, Winnie?s aunt and uncle handed us all candles. They walked with us, and the dozens of others bearing candles, down to the pier. Many had congregated on the pier in order to gaze back on Manhattan Island and mourn for those who had perished. People handed out free candles and red, white, and blue ribbons. They hugged their loved ones as I grew jealous that I was 3,000 miles away from those that meant the most to me, that the only thing I wanted, a hug from someone I truly loved, was the one thing I couldn?t have. As the crowd sang Eric Clapton?s ?Here in Heaven? tears came to my eyes. And as the Pledge of Allegiance was said and the Star Spangled Banner was sung, the words took on a new meaning. Soon we were ushered off the pier by the NYPD for security reasons. Returning home, I took my place in front of the television. As part of their regular broadcast, they showed the second tower falling one last time. I lost it.
I snuck into the guest bedroom where I huddled in the corner on the cold tile in the masking darkness. I cried. I cried harder than I can ever remember. I called my mother, my sister, then my father, but none of them were home. I called my mom?s cell phone and when she answered I apologized for calling because I was making an analogue call. I tried to explain what was going through my head, but my speech was jarred by short, clipped breaths and periodic sobs. I felt guilty that I was so concerned with my studies when there were (at that time) 6,000 people who had lost their lives, just blocks from where I lived. I was so lonely, surrounded by people who not only didn?t speak to me, but who spoke among themselves in Cantonese. I was tired. I told her that the one thing that scared me the most was the sound of my own voice. Every free moment my mind found, between the constant stimulus of the television, the fighter jets, and the sirens, I replayed the cry/sob/inaudible speech that wailed from my mouth as Adam picked up the phone and the second tower fell. I felt guilty that he had to hear that. But the panic and freight that was demonstrated by that sound sent chills up my spine for weeks. I had never been so scared and that sound was a constant reminder of my freight. My mom kept saying, ?Oh, baby, I?m so sorry,? whenever she could understand me. And at one point I heard her voice quiver; that scared me. My mom was strong, she never buckled under pressure, but that night I heard her voice shake. She told me she would come and get me if I wanted: a sign that she was scared, because otherwise she would?ve encouraged me to stay. Although we were on the phone for a substantial length of time, I was not able to say much, so we hung up and I continued to cry. After awhile I called my sister?s cell phone and the same type of conversation took place: crying, crying, and more crying. I wanted to come home more than anything; I wanted to be in a place where life was normal, where the smell of the air, the haze in the sky, the sounds of the street weren?t all constant reminders of my darkest time. But I knew that would be difficult as air travel for the first time in aviation history was completely halted. My pride also interfered; didn?t want to seem like a quitter, ya? know? My sister encouraged me to stay and I agreed it was for the best. I wanted to tell her all the things that were in my head, all the things that were making me cry, but I physically couldn?t and I didn?t think I really needed to; I had the feeling she already knew. After I got off the phone I sat in the darkness, holding my knees, hiding my face, and crying. And for the first time I prayed; I prayed for the heartache to stop.
I tried to keep a low profile, but Winnie found me. She dragged me out of the corner and sat me on the bed. She sat down next to me, put her arm around me and just let me cry. In her typical way, she didn?t try to draw any explanation out of me; she just let me cry. Besides, she knew why I was crying; it was the same thing that she would lose countless hours of sleep over throughout the next few months. But then it was time for dinner, so her aunt came to seek us out. She flipped the lights on and told me, in her broken English, not to cry. ?Stand up, we have to be strong, stand together, be strong fo? each other, stand up, stand up.? I thought she was saying, ?stand up? in a metaphorical sense, but she meant, ?Stand up. It?s time for dinner, stand up and walk to the table.? Later that night a phone call with her uncle sent Winnie into an inconsolable crying state as well. We were all worn down to our wits end, exhausted and waiting for the relief that never came. We stayed until Sunday and the rest of our time was spent in awkwardness.
When we returned home, everything was hard. Everything touched a nerve but I could never cry; I was too tired to cry. Everything took on a new meaning. I was walking through Gould Plaza one morning as they prepared for Autumn Fest. A group of a capella singers rehearsed the Star-Spangled Banner on a makeshift stage. I stood captivated by the rich notes booming overhead; so beautiful they seemed to be those of angels. As they sang, ?And the rockets red glare,? each note struck my heart with such force that tears filled my eyes, although not one was shed. I was worn out. I kept thinking, ?Please let life get easier; I don?t think I can take any more.? But then W began Operation Enduring Freedom and talk of a draft left me terrified. Shortly thereafter Israel bombed Palestine after a series of Palestinian suicide bombings. Then tensions grew between Pakistan and India (both nuclear powers) when a Pakistani opened fire on the Indian Parliament. America delved further into recession, Argentina neared default and as this all ensued, letters full of finely milled Anthrax made their way through the United States Postal Service. And as my new job in the package room once seemed perfectly timed and ideal for studying, it was suddenly a dangerous job, adding more stress to my anxious state. It felt as though the world was falling apart around me.
For months I couldn?t concentrate on anything for prolonged periods of time, which made studying pretty much out of the question. The smell still lingered and the glowing hole outside my window was a constant reminder of the 11th. Our telephone service was out, as was our internet connection. My contact with my friends grew scant. I spoke only with my family. My mom, sister, dad, and stepmother, were the only people I didn?t live with that I kept regular contact with. I didn?t feel like talking with anyone else. I didn?t want to burden my friends with my troubles and was annoyed by their inability to comprehend what I had been through. I wanted to be able to talk about ?normal? things, but the only topic of conversation that could hold my attention was the World Trade Center. I desperately needed my friends, but was too afraid to reach out for them. Jolene would call me about once a week and listen to what I was going through. She reached out to me and speaking with her helped the healing process. Beanie would call every once in awhile, but would always skirt around the issue of the 11th. Towards the end of the semester I heard from Adam quite a bit and I slowly realized why I needed my friends. But in the meantime, without school, friends, or work to occupy my time, I spent all my time with my roommates, avoiding the responsibilities of life. I turned to exercise for a while, did a lot of cooking and cleaning, read a lot of newspapers, watched a lot of news, and became increasingly interested in world affairs.
As the city began to wake up out of its daze, patriotism boomed. Everyone fashioned red, white, and blue, a phenomenon that took my friends and I aback. Having never grown up in a patriotic period and being accused of having no loyalties, cares, or concerns for anything, I was surprised at how accepting and appreciative my peers and I were of this new found identity as Americans. I?m told this sort of expression took the whole country by storm as flag companies worked around the clock to keep up with demand. Jessica, who was studying abroad in Montreal, Canada, said that she saw a Canadian fire truck go by sporting an American flag. But as cheesy as it may seem, it was comforting to see such support, collaboration, and unity during a time when it seemed that everything in my life was so disjointed.
A few weeks after the Attacks, the roomies and I went down to ?Ground Zero? to see the wreckage. The closest you could get was Broadway, so huge lines formed and street vendors whipped out their flags, pins, pictures, and scarves all donning patriotic themes. Everyone was fairly civil and respectful, but of course there were a few who treated it like an amusement park. One man instructed his daughter, whom his wife was wheeling around in a stroller, to smile as he took her picture in front of the World Trade Center remains. I saw my building. It was a hollow shell of a building. The steel beams were there, but they were charred and supported nothing; you could see through to the other side. On the ground level I could see a huge sign reading, ?Borders.? Even as far as Broadway, the buildings were covered in ash and debris. All the stores were closed. It looked like an abandoned ghost town or a movie set. Walking along the sidewalk, you could peer into the shops and see their merchandise covered in soot. One clothing store left everything in tact well after the clean up had begun in order to show people what it really looked like. It was unbelievable.
I hadn?t heard from Jonathan since the summer, but was finally able to get a hold of him at the end of the semester. He said that Heather had come to New York and said that nothing was that different. I was so annoyed. Perhaps things appeared to be in order uptown, but there was nothing normal about where I lived. During every second of everyday one could find National Guard, State Troopers, and NYPD outside our building, at every corner. The smell, sort of a burning rubber scent, lingered for months. The day I returned to California, Governor Pataki announced that all of the fires at the World Trade Center had been extinguished; that was on December 19th. Every night the glowing hole sits outside our window.
The semester was filled with reevaluations of my place in life. I went through several phases. After that Friday when I cried so hard, I didn?t shed another tear until a few months later. I had been getting so frustrated with my lack of motivation in school. So, when I found some emails that Adam and I had written each other last year when we were together it made me reconsider my priorities in life. I was so tired of everyday life being so hard; all I wanted was to be happy, to be in love, to have something to look forward to. Thus, the struggle over school seemed futile and trivial. It felt like life was too short for hardship and heartache; all I wanted was to be happy. I also went through a phase where I felt like I needed to make an impact on the world and that in order to do that I needed to be educated so I focused on school. I pulled several all-nighters as I tried to redeem the grades that I had let slip all semester. I worked myself ragged; but all said and done, I pulled my grades up. And in this process I decided on my academic focus: American foreign policy and its affect on the international arena. As winter break approached, I synthesized the two outlooks on life together to create a complex world for myself, where I wanted both to be happy, to make the most of each day, and to make a difference in the world. I returned home, shared my story, loved every second spent with my friends and family, and anticipated the coming semester.
I had hoped this memoir would reflect more true to life the feelings, emotion, and hardship of my experience. However, as I read back through what I?ve written, it seems as cold and rehearsed as my automated verbal responses. But in the end perhaps there is no way to convey it in its entirety. But as the year comes to an end and a new one begins, I hold high hopes for what lies ahead. I believe that there will be peace, that we can be both happy and purposeful, that love is the most important thing in life, that there is still good in this world. I believe that what does not kill me makes me stronger. And although I would never wish for another September 11th in my life nor in someone else?s, it is a part of my life and it has been formative in shaping me. I?m excited about the future and the role I play in it. I?m excited about life and fun and growth. I?m excited about love.
My Account of the World Trade Center Attacks
Chinatown, New York, New York, September 11th, 2001
By Erin R. Yoshino
December 31, 2001
As I sit here, trying to find the words with which to describe the events of the last year, I know not where to begin. Much of my year was filled with your garden-variety hardship, heartache, and accomplishment. However on September 11th, the world was forever changed. Telling my account of the 11th, I?ve grown into routine and clich?, detached and automated, always sensitive, but never sincere. In our attempt to comprehend the sheer evil and terror of the Attacks, I tell my story to those who inquire. But I can never convey the magnitude of the moment, nor do I want to, for that one day in mid-September shook the very foundations of my world; to explain my account so as to do it justice would require that I divulge much of myself. I neither wish to be so candid with every person that asks, many of whom I don?t know very well, nor do I wish to recount my experience so thoroughly and so often as it is a painful one. So on this, the last day of the year of 2001, I will attempt to retell my experience in its purest form. I?m doing this mostly for myself. I?m afraid that one day I might forget what happened, the fear I felt, the pain I went through. And whereas there was a time when all I wanted to do was forget the hard times, it?s a part of me and I need to remember.
September 11th was a Tuesday. My classes at NYU had just started the Wednesday before. I only had one class on Tuesdays: Italian at 11:00 am. At that time, I was working at the Borders at World Trade Center 5 as a bookseller. I think I was working almost 30 hours a week, which was a lot as a full-time student. I had been offered another job in the package room on September 10th, an incredibly boring job, but it was closer to home, I got off earlier, and I could do homework when it was slow (which was all the time). I had set my alarm for 9:00 am on the 11th in order to call my manager at Borders to rearrange my schedule so that I could work both at Borders and the package room. Just before my alarm sounded, I felt the building shake. Since it was so strong, the first thing I thought was, ?Sounds like a plane just flew into a building.? But yielding to better judgment, I figured a bird had flown into my window, or being a California girl, I figured it was an earthquake (although in my sleepy state, I forgot that I was in New York, where earthquakes are rare). So I rolled over and waited for my alarm to sound off. But instead of waking to the annoyance of my alarm, my cell phone rang and caused me rise.
Knowing what time it was, I knew it was my dad, since none of my friends would call me at that hour and that the only person awake otherwise would be my father. After apologizing for waking me up, he asked if I had seen the morning news yet. I told him that I hadn?t and he proceeded to tell me what had just happened: a plane had just crashed into the north tower of the World Trade Center. In sleepy disbelief, I climbed out of my bunk bed and walked to my window. As my heart stopped the only thing I could say was, ?Holy shit.? My voice started to shake, but I wasn?t sure why, so I tried to hold it back. My dad asked that I call my mother to tell her I was okay. He told me he loved me and we hung up. As I trembled with fear, I plugged the television in and called my mother. She hadn?t heard the news; it was around 6:30 am in California. I told her what happened and as she turned her television on I heard her gasp. I felt another ?boom,? but figured it was the top of the north tower shifting and paid it no mind. At that point in time I didn?t know what to make of any of it, so our conversation was brief. I was a little teary, but once again, didn?t really know why, so I fought the tears back.
After I hung up the phone I got my camera and I as I peeked through the view finder, I realized that the ?boom? I heard was actually a second plane that had left a burning hole in the south tower of the World Trade Center. At that time class hadn?t been cancelled yet, so I sat at my computer trying to type my homework for my 11:00 am class. But as the television blared the horrifying images that resided just outside my window, I couldn?t concentrate. There was talk of the planes being terrorist attacks, but I couldn?t believe that a person could purposefully do something so horrendous. I sat staring at a blank computer screen when I heard a huge, low, rumbling. I ran to my window to see the south tower crumble to the ground. I panicked. I tried calling my sister on my cell phone, but I couldn?t get through. So I grabbed the landline and dialed Brooke?s number, shaking the whole time. She answered the phone and I could tell she had been crying. In my teary voice, I croaked, ?Brooke?? She couldn?t recognize my voice and asked who it was. I?m not quite sure why I called; I was so confused that I didn?t have anything to articulate even if I could have. I stated the obvious: ?The World Trade Center just fell.? I don?t really remember what else I said, I just remember crying. I got off the phone and had decided that even if classes weren?t cancelled by that time I wasn?t going anyway. I had told my dad, when the first tower was hit, that it looked like the building shouldn?t be standing. He said, ?Well, we build ?em good here in the United States.? And so when the south tower fell, I was in complete shock. It caught me completely off guard and I was overcome with fear.
Having composed myself to some extent, I received a numeric page on my cell phone from Adam. I sat in my windowsill, holding my knees tightly against my chest, staring at the one existing tower and the cloud of debris that surrounded it, as I called him back. His roommate picked up and just as Adam came to the phone the north tower began to fall. I became hysterical. An odd mixture of crying, sobbing, and inaudible speech left Adam begging, ?Erin, what?s wrong? Are you okay? Where are you? What?s happening? Are you okay?? I tried to explain what I was seeing, but he couldn?t understand me. ?Erin, slow down, what?s happening? Are you okay?? I finally managed to calm down enough to say, ?The second tower just fell.? He told me he knew, that he was watching it on television. I told him I was watching it from my window. In shock, I didn?t have much to say, but I told him that I was okay and that it meant the world to me that he had called.
Sometime in all the commotion, I had managed to take a short shower. I love to take showers, so I thought it would make me feel better. However, the thought that I might have missed some breaking story on the news required me to rush through my shower and resume my place in front of the television. And at some point in time I went down stairs, eyes red and sore from crying, to tell the woman in charge of the package room (Olga) that I (obviously) wasn?t able to contact my boss at Borders and that my store probably didn?t exist anymore, thus freeing me to work at the package room. I?m not really sure when all of that happened and I?m not really sure why I thought that was a priority at that time. But as I entered the lobby I felt like I was in the midst of a war zone. Stepping off the elevator, people were crying, wailing, hardly able to walk, traumatized. The dramatic intensity of the scene made me want to return to the safety and security of my own bedroom. As I concluded my conversation with Olga, I passed a woman wailing, being supported by a friend of hers who walked her to an empty office to cry, and I stepped into the elevator. I hid my head in the corner as I tried not to cry. I got to my bedroom and remained firmly seated in front of the television.
Just after the second tower fell, someone knocked on our door. My suitemate answered it and we were informed that we needed to evacuate the building immediately. They told us to go anywhere north of Houston Street; the NYU sports center had been set up for us if we didn?t have anywhere else to go. Then our R.A. came around, knocking on everyone?s doors, delivering the same message. I went to gather my things and in my fuzzy state of mind, I thought I was well prepared for what lay ahead. I loaded my book bag with all the things I felt were essential to an evacuation: my walkman (so I could listen to the radio), a bottle of water (since everyone needs water), 3 packets of peanut butter crackers (2 for me and 1 just in case I ran into my roommate, Winnie), my camera (to document my experience), my planner with all of my phone numbers in it, my cell phone, my wallet, and my sweatshirt. I walked down the 16 flights of stairs with some guy that lived on my floor whose sole desire was to get outside and light up a cig.
I found myself once again in the lobby. As I stepped through the front doors, I looked downtown to see a huge dust cloud hanging overhead, dark and dense, something from a movie, like Independence Day. Having stopped to stare, I was ushered uptown as the entire southern tip of Manhattan was being evacuated. I started walking uptown, listening to the radio in a catatonic daze. As I made my way, I passed two women covered in ash and dust walking like zombies, unaware of the world around them. I passed dozens of cars with the radios blaring as crowds gathered around them. At every working pay phone there were lines of people that went around the block. I got to the sports center. There were counselors and first aid on the ground level along with missing persons boards, an information center and a phone bank. There were cots, chairs, and food on the field house level. I got there but was embarrassed of my puffy eyes, so I left and went to Washington Square Park. The park was full of people talking on their cell phones and staring downtown at the cloud of smoke. The voicemails started flooding in. I spent some time trying to return phone calls, but the Sprint network serving the Manhattan area was down since its antennae was on top of the north tower. I got tired of being in such a crowded area. So I walked to Bleeker Street where there was a courtyard-like area in an apartment complex.
I sat, away from the crowds, in the beauty of the fall afternoon, making futile phone call attempts with wet eyes while I listened to the radio and the foreboding cloud of smoke migrated slowly towards me. I finally got a hold of Beanie, who had left me a voicemail message asking me to call her. The first thing she said was, ?Do you know how long it took you to call me back?!? Somehow Ruth got through on her first attempt, I spoke with her. Then in the afternoon, after hours of waiting and sitting and crying, I got a hold of Winnie. I told her where I was and she met me there a few minutes later. She came prepared with a bottle of water and a box of saltines that she had fought for in the supermarket in addition to the few school supplies that she had left the house with that morning. Then we got hold of Ed and he graciously offered us a place to stay when I told him we had been evacuated. So Winnie and I made our way to Kmart where we purchased toothbrushes then we met Ed in the lobby of his building. We got there and he said, ?I feel 1,000 times better now that you?re here.? I felt the same way.
Winnie and I met all of Ed?s suitemates and they were great, so great in fact that I named them ?the Sweetie-mates.? We sat around watching the news coverage, we told our stories of where we were when it happened, and periodically one of us would leave to answer a phone call. They made us dinner and baked us peanut butter cookies. Ed?s friends from down the hall, these giddy girls, brought extra pillows and bedding for us. Kenny called me that night to see if I was okay. He said that the television was on when he left the house in the morning, but when he saw the burning towers he thought it was a movie, paid it no mind and went to work. But that?s really how it seemed, like a movie, it hardly seemed real.
Later that night Ed let us use his computer to check our email. My cell phone was out of juice and I had left my re-charger at home so I wanted to let everyone know that I was okay even though they couldn?t get a hold of me. I was completely overwhelmed by all of the people that called to make sure I was okay, but when I checked my email I almost cried. People I never met, people I hardly knew and people I hardly ever spoke to had written me, in addition to my family and many of my close friends. Some wrote brief messages, like Mike, who just wanted to know if I was okay. Some wrote and said they were friends of my mother. They informed me that she loved me very much, that she was so scared for me, and that I should call her. I was so completely taken aback by their support, encouragement, and concern. So this winter, I was looking for Christmas cards and I ran across a box of square shaped cards that read, ?It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.? And although I can?t stand Charles Dickens, I don?t think that anyone could have said it better; it certainly was the worst of times, but it was the best of humanity that I had ever seen.
The next day, we decided to go outside and get some fresh air, but as we stepped out the door we realized that was not going to be possible. A horrid acrid stench of burning chemicals filled the air and as we looked around us, people donned facemasks. So we grabbed some lunch fixings at the deli on 14th: turkey, bread, and mustard (for the Ed Boy), and decided to go back to the room to eat. 14th Street was home to a checkpoint station that spanned the entire width of Manhattan, where identification was required in order to proceed south of it. There were two others, one at Houston Street and one at Canal Street. The streets were eerily empty. Since most of the city was closed, especially that far downtown, no one was in much of a hurry, just aimlessly walking around, with no particular destination, purpose, or motivation. No one was pushing, no one was rushing, just strolling. The pressures of normal New York society had been lifted from their shoulders, and a weariness, an emotional tiredness, a mental numbness took its place. They walked with a different sort of edginess where every loud noise sent every head turning in search of its source, where nothing mattered, but everything did. Every plane (fighter jet) that flew overhead snapped every eye to the sky and every siren heard conjured tears for we knew what it was for.
Winnie and I learned that we were allowed to return to our building at 4:30pm. We packed up our toothbrushes and jumped on the subway. Hoping to get off at Canal Street, we forgot that security was increased and that the subway bypassed all of the downtown Manhattan stations. So we patiently rode the train to Brooklyn, since we had nothing else to do anyway. The train was silent. No one spoke a word and everyone wore a tired look of weary eyes and steadfast frowns and as the train came above ground, every head turned to see the emptiness of the New York skyline. I was never so relieved to get back home.
That night the glow of flood lights and smoke rose from the vacant hole where the World Trace Center once resided. The wretched smell filled our room. Winnie and I somehow wasted the night away and when we woke in the morning, she decided she was going to her aunt?s house. She would never admit it, but she was afraid of asking her aunt if I could come along. But her mom (her aunt?s sister) told me to go with her since I didn?t have any family nearby and so we packed our belongings and headed to Brooklyn. We hardly spoke on the train. Her aunt, uncle, and cousin greeted us. They spoke mostly in Chinese. Winnie did some studying, but I spent the first day with a textbook in my lap, reading the same paragraph over and over again, not comprehending anything, getting frustrated all the while. So I decided to go easy on myself for the next few days. I read a novel and watched countless hours of television. Inundated with images of the falling towers, of horrified faces, of wreckage and heartache, each day left me emotionally and mentally exhausted. By the end of the day, all I could do was sleep. Time had an odd feel to it: each minute seemed like an eternity, but each day seemed to pass in a second.
Friday, after spending an entire day in front of the television watching the same news broadcast over and over, Winnie?s aunt and uncle handed us all candles. They walked with us, and the dozens of others bearing candles, down to the pier. Many had congregated on the pier in order to gaze back on Manhattan Island and mourn for those who had perished. People handed out free candles and red, white, and blue ribbons. They hugged their loved ones as I grew jealous that I was 3,000 miles away from those that meant the most to me, that the only thing I wanted, a hug from someone I truly loved, was the one thing I couldn?t have. As the crowd sang Eric Clapton?s ?Here in Heaven? tears came to my eyes. And as the Pledge of Allegiance was said and the Star Spangled Banner was sung, the words took on a new meaning. Soon we were ushered off the pier by the NYPD for security reasons. Returning home, I took my place in front of the television. As part of their regular broadcast, they showed the second tower falling one last time. I lost it.
I snuck into the guest bedroom where I huddled in the corner on the cold tile in the masking darkness. I cried. I cried harder than I can ever remember. I called my mother, my sister, then my father, but none of them were home. I called my mom?s cell phone and when she answered I apologized for calling because I was making an analogue call. I tried to explain what was going through my head, but my speech was jarred by short, clipped breaths and periodic sobs. I felt guilty that I was so concerned with my studies when there were (at that time) 6,000 people who had lost their lives, just blocks from where I lived. I was so lonely, surrounded by people who not only didn?t speak to me, but who spoke among themselves in Cantonese. I was tired. I told her that the one thing that scared me the most was the sound of my own voice. Every free moment my mind found, between the constant stimulus of the television, the fighter jets, and the sirens, I replayed the cry/sob/inaudible speech that wailed from my mouth as Adam picked up the phone and the second tower fell. I felt guilty that he had to hear that. But the panic and freight that was demonstrated by that sound sent chills up my spine for weeks. I had never been so scared and that sound was a constant reminder of my freight. My mom kept saying, ?Oh, baby, I?m so sorry,? whenever she could understand me. And at one point I heard her voice quiver; that scared me. My mom was strong, she never buckled under pressure, but that night I heard her voice shake. She told me she would come and get me if I wanted: a sign that she was scared, because otherwise she would?ve encouraged me to stay. Although we were on the phone for a substantial length of time, I was not able to say much, so we hung up and I continued to cry. After awhile I called my sister?s cell phone and the same type of conversation took place: crying, crying, and more crying. I wanted to come home more than anything; I wanted to be in a place where life was normal, where the smell of the air, the haze in the sky, the sounds of the street weren?t all constant reminders of my darkest time. But I knew that would be difficult as air travel for the first time in aviation history was completely halted. My pride also interfered; didn?t want to seem like a quitter, ya? know? My sister encouraged me to stay and I agreed it was for the best. I wanted to tell her all the things that were in my head, all the things that were making me cry, but I physically couldn?t and I didn?t think I really needed to; I had the feeling she already knew. After I got off the phone I sat in the darkness, holding my knees, hiding my face, and crying. And for the first time I prayed; I prayed for the heartache to stop.
I tried to keep a low profile, but Winnie found me. She dragged me out of the corner and sat me on the bed. She sat down next to me, put her arm around me and just let me cry. In her typical way, she didn?t try to draw any explanation out of me; she just let me cry. Besides, she knew why I was crying; it was the same thing that she would lose countless hours of sleep over throughout the next few months. But then it was time for dinner, so her aunt came to seek us out. She flipped the lights on and told me, in her broken English, not to cry. ?Stand up, we have to be strong, stand together, be strong fo? each other, stand up, stand up.? I thought she was saying, ?stand up? in a metaphorical sense, but she meant, ?Stand up. It?s time for dinner, stand up and walk to the table.? Later that night a phone call with her uncle sent Winnie into an inconsolable crying state as well. We were all worn down to our wits end, exhausted and waiting for the relief that never came. We stayed until Sunday and the rest of our time was spent in awkwardness.
When we returned home, everything was hard. Everything touched a nerve but I could never cry; I was too tired to cry. Everything took on a new meaning. I was walking through Gould Plaza one morning as they prepared for Autumn Fest. A group of a capella singers rehearsed the Star-Spangled Banner on a makeshift stage. I stood captivated by the rich notes booming overhead; so beautiful they seemed to be those of angels. As they sang, ?And the rockets red glare,? each note struck my heart with such force that tears filled my eyes, although not one was shed. I was worn out. I kept thinking, ?Please let life get easier; I don?t think I can take any more.? But then W began Operation Enduring Freedom and talk of a draft left me terrified. Shortly thereafter Israel bombed Palestine after a series of Palestinian suicide bombings. Then tensions grew between Pakistan and India (both nuclear powers) when a Pakistani opened fire on the Indian Parliament. America delved further into recession, Argentina neared default and as this all ensued, letters full of finely milled Anthrax made their way through the United States Postal Service. And as my new job in the package room once seemed perfectly timed and ideal for studying, it was suddenly a dangerous job, adding more stress to my anxious state. It felt as though the world was falling apart around me.
For months I couldn?t concentrate on anything for prolonged periods of time, which made studying pretty much out of the question. The smell still lingered and the glowing hole outside my window was a constant reminder of the 11th. Our telephone service was out, as was our internet connection. My contact with my friends grew scant. I spoke only with my family. My mom, sister, dad, and stepmother, were the only people I didn?t live with that I kept regular contact with. I didn?t feel like talking with anyone else. I didn?t want to burden my friends with my troubles and was annoyed by their inability to comprehend what I had been through. I wanted to be able to talk about ?normal? things, but the only topic of conversation that could hold my attention was the World Trade Center. I desperately needed my friends, but was too afraid to reach out for them. Jolene would call me about once a week and listen to what I was going through. She reached out to me and speaking with her helped the healing process. Beanie would call every once in awhile, but would always skirt around the issue of the 11th. Towards the end of the semester I heard from Adam quite a bit and I slowly realized why I needed my friends. But in the meantime, without school, friends, or work to occupy my time, I spent all my time with my roommates, avoiding the responsibilities of life. I turned to exercise for a while, did a lot of cooking and cleaning, read a lot of newspapers, watched a lot of news, and became increasingly interested in world affairs.
As the city began to wake up out of its daze, patriotism boomed. Everyone fashioned red, white, and blue, a phenomenon that took my friends and I aback. Having never grown up in a patriotic period and being accused of having no loyalties, cares, or concerns for anything, I was surprised at how accepting and appreciative my peers and I were of this new found identity as Americans. I?m told this sort of expression took the whole country by storm as flag companies worked around the clock to keep up with demand. Jessica, who was studying abroad in Montreal, Canada, said that she saw a Canadian fire truck go by sporting an American flag. But as cheesy as it may seem, it was comforting to see such support, collaboration, and unity during a time when it seemed that everything in my life was so disjointed.
A few weeks after the Attacks, the roomies and I went down to ?Ground Zero? to see the wreckage. The closest you could get was Broadway, so huge lines formed and street vendors whipped out their flags, pins, pictures, and scarves all donning patriotic themes. Everyone was fairly civil and respectful, but of course there were a few who treated it like an amusement park. One man instructed his daughter, whom his wife was wheeling around in a stroller, to smile as he took her picture in front of the World Trade Center remains. I saw my building. It was a hollow shell of a building. The steel beams were there, but they were charred and supported nothing; you could see through to the other side. On the ground level I could see a huge sign reading, ?Borders.? Even as far as Broadway, the buildings were covered in ash and debris. All the stores were closed. It looked like an abandoned ghost town or a movie set. Walking along the sidewalk, you could peer into the shops and see their merchandise covered in soot. One clothing store left everything in tact well after the clean up had begun in order to show people what it really looked like. It was unbelievable.
I hadn?t heard from Jonathan since the summer, but was finally able to get a hold of him at the end of the semester. He said that Heather had come to New York and said that nothing was that different. I was so annoyed. Perhaps things appeared to be in order uptown, but there was nothing normal about where I lived. During every second of everyday one could find National Guard, State Troopers, and NYPD outside our building, at every corner. The smell, sort of a burning rubber scent, lingered for months. The day I returned to California, Governor Pataki announced that all of the fires at the World Trade Center had been extinguished; that was on December 19th. Every night the glowing hole sits outside our window.
The semester was filled with reevaluations of my place in life. I went through several phases. After that Friday when I cried so hard, I didn?t shed another tear until a few months later. I had been getting so frustrated with my lack of motivation in school. So, when I found some emails that Adam and I had written each other last year when we were together it made me reconsider my priorities in life. I was so tired of everyday life being so hard; all I wanted was to be happy, to be in love, to have something to look forward to. Thus, the struggle over school seemed futile and trivial. It felt like life was too short for hardship and heartache; all I wanted was to be happy. I also went through a phase where I felt like I needed to make an impact on the world and that in order to do that I needed to be educated so I focused on school. I pulled several all-nighters as I tried to redeem the grades that I had let slip all semester. I worked myself ragged; but all said and done, I pulled my grades up. And in this process I decided on my academic focus: American foreign policy and its affect on the international arena. As winter break approached, I synthesized the two outlooks on life together to create a complex world for myself, where I wanted both to be happy, to make the most of each day, and to make a difference in the world. I returned home, shared my story, loved every second spent with my friends and family, and anticipated the coming semester.
I had hoped this memoir would reflect more true to life the feelings, emotion, and hardship of my experience. However, as I read back through what I?ve written, it seems as cold and rehearsed as my automated verbal responses. But in the end perhaps there is no way to convey it in its entirety. But as the year comes to an end and a new one begins, I hold high hopes for what lies ahead. I believe that there will be peace, that we can be both happy and purposeful, that love is the most important thing in life, that there is still good in this world. I believe that what does not kill me makes me stronger. And although I would never wish for another September 11th in my life nor in someone else?s, it is a part of my life and it has been formative in shaping me. I?m excited about the future and the role I play in it. I?m excited about life and fun and growth. I?m excited about love.
Collection
Citation
“story307.xml,” September 11 Digital Archive, accessed December 12, 2025, https://911digitalarchive.org/items/show/8244.