I post this essay every year in memory of September 11th, 2001 (see 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023, 2024, and 2025).
Every generation has a watershed moment. For my generation, that moment was 9/11/2001.
The memories I hold of 9/11/2001 begin on a Tuesday.
I was a senior at Staten Island Technical High School, situated roughly twenty miles from Ground Zero. We were about a week into the new school year. I found myself seated in Ms. Endriss’s AP Political Science class in the second period. We were reviewing the district’s discipline policy and debating which weapons were prohibited in schools (brass knuckles were off-limits, for instance). A late student walked in with a rumor that a Cessna had struck the World Trade Center. A girl in our class blurted out that her father worked there. I could see the fear in her eyes as she reached for a way to contact him. I happened to be the only one with a cell phone, so I offered mine to her. The call did not go through—the father worked on one of the upper floors and did not survive.
We finished the second period with growing anxiety. I logged onto a computer to check the news. A friend suggested MTV.com for updates. At that moment, reports were murky and unclear, and no one fully understood what was unfolding. We moved on to third period, AP Calculus with Mr. Curry. By then, someone told us that it wasn’t a Cessna after all, but a passenger jet. The atmosphere grew tenser as we struggled to make sense of what was happening. Later in class, a student came in and said a second plane had struck the other tower. We also heard there was an explosion at the Pentagon. It was evident this was more than an accident.
I left the classroom—something I rarely did—and headed to the library where I knew a TV was set up. Just as I arrived, I witnessed the first tower collapse on live television. I stood there in disbelief, unable to grasp what I was seeing. I pulled out my cell phone to call home, but service vanished almost immediately after the collapse. I could not reach my mother in Staten Island, though I could reach my father who was working on Long Island. Long-distance calls managed to go through, but local calls did not. My father later told me this would be a life-changing event, though he could not foresee what lay ahead. I heard rumors on TV that as many as fifteen planes had been hijacked or were unaccounted for.
By lunchtime, the guidance counselor had organized a conference room where students could talk. I watched as many peers spoke of relatives or friends who worked in the World Trade Center or in Manhattan. Staten Island is home to a large number of firefighters and police officers, and a significant portion of the emergency responders who perished came from the island. What could we tell those students?
After that, the day became a blur. I recall hearing that the second tower had fallen, although I did not see it with my own eyes. I remember the image of the entire United States Congress singing God Bless America on the steps of the Capitol. I had never felt fear of that magnitude before. Later that night, I took a bus home. The New York City public buses were still running, and the driver did not collect fares. On the bus, people spoke of an impending war (against whom no one knew) and the possibility of a draft. Some argued that students would be exempt.
The next morning, September 12, 2001, I woke to a dreadful odor in the air. The smell was sharp, like burnt flesh at a barbecue. Attendance was low, and in every class we discussed the prospect of war. I asked whether the U.S. might resort to nuclear weapons. My teacher explained that carpet bombing—an unfamiliar term to me—could cause substantial damage in Afghanistan. Later that week, students began making sandwiches for relief workers and collecting goods to donate to the relief effort.
From Staten Island, I could see Ground Zero still smoldering. The skyline looked hauntingly empty. Even today, whenever I gaze at the skyline—a view I had seen countless times—I feel an uncanny sensation. And whenever a plane passes overhead, we all freak out, and this fear lingered for months.
For days, weeks, and months after 9/11, people on Staten Island waited for their loved ones to return home. Many patients remained alive but were so badly burned that they could not be identified. People prayed that these unnamed patients would soon come home. A woman whose husband was a firefighter stood outside her house every night for months, eventually placing a candle in her window each evening. Later she added a memorial lamp. He never came home. Others waited for the remains of their loved ones to be returned. Many were never identified.
I ordered a gas mask from eBay, keeping it in my car out of fear of a biological weapon attack on New York City. I remember trying it on once and nearly suffocating. I even contemplated ordering Cipro for an anthrax attack, but I could not locate any.
It is difficult to condense what a New Yorker endured on 9/11. Looking back at that day, when I was only 17, I realized I had to grow up very quickly. It felt like a new world had emerged before us.
Never forget. Ever.
