Random Thoughts on the Attack -- From 4 Blocks Away -- and Updated Nearly 2 Years Later

Tuesday, September 11, 2001 (911--is there intentional irony in the date?) The lights blinked. The slight hiccup in the power supply, normally invincible in the Wall Street area, is something that I've learned to take as a warning signal. At the same time, someone walking by pointed at the television set we have hung from the ceiling to catch breaking news. The camera showed smoke pouring from one of the World Trade Center towers.

We had a TV on in my office and had the surreal experience of watching an explosion and feeling it at the same time. A war zone is the best way to describe what happened. I did not see any of the awful sights, such as people jumping from the towers or the actual collapse of the buildings. But what I saw was awful enough. The sky darkened as the smoke rolled over us, the crowds of ghostly people walking along the FDR or over the Brooklyn Bridge. I joined the marchers (it was so quiet -- only sirens and the people from the missions offering us water and bathrooms). It took me close to six hours to get home (usually an hour commute). But true to the New Yorker-form, everyone was orderly, quiet, and helping each other out.

I was horrified, and wondering if another jet-bomb was about to strike. A part of me didn't want to believe the attacks had happened and didn't want to believe another one could occur. I also didn't want to think that my part of Wall Street could be a target. I chose to think about something else.

The smoke... the people who waited to be sure their office mates were safe and those who fled without a backwards glance... the walk to the Hudson River and the ferries...

The Spirit of New York dinner-cruise boat became a ferry, moving 500 people at a time across the river. That's all we wanted to do: get across the river and away from the uncertainty. Let me get back to New Jersey, became the motto of every person patiently, quietly waiting in the hot sun. As if New Jersey was a bunker that couldn't be penetrated by fuel-laden 767s crashing down at 345 miles per hour. We believed that the horror would not -- could not -- follow us home. Once on the boat, we sat at a round banquet table with seven strangers, who were no longer strangers. We were related by our journey out of the war zone. Another act of kindness stands out. A waitress drifts through the crowded room offering rolls. Suddenly realizing that it had been hours since breakfast, we grabbed them and chewed on the dry rolls as the resculptured New York City skyline rose in the background. Plumes of smoke had replaced the tall, silver towers.

I'm glad to be home, but it's going to take forever to forget the site of plumes of smoke coming up where those silver towers used to be, or to wash the grit from skin, or flush the odor of burning wires from my memory. I had planned to settle down and work on my book after walking the dog. Instead, I'm sitting here crying. Houses in my neighborhood have candles on the front stairs (interesting, it's the houses of foreign-born Americans...) Some of the houses have people sitting out next to the candles. The one that did me in was the house that had five girls, a mom and a dad standing on the curb holding burning candles. I found myself compelled to go over and thank them (as I did anyone who was sitting outside). The girls told me that their teacher said they should fly the flag and burn candles. "Wall Street" has been my home for about 20 years now -- the candles and the sad little girls were more than I could stand...

This is not a tale of epic proportions. You will not find descriptions of collapsing towers, cascading debris, or the horrific loss of life. Instead, this is the story of a neighborhood. A place where ordinary people walked, shopped, and tried to earn a living to support their families. They bombed the neighborhood that I loved. That I still love...