By Cynthia Horner
Twenty-five years later, I can still see the plane, the smoke and the people running through the streets of Manhattan—some covered in white dust, some without shoes, and many crying as they desperately searched for a way home. I can still remember the overwhelming feeling that something unimaginable was happening right before my eyes.
It was the morning of September 11, 2001.
I was traveling from my apartment in New Jersey to New York City on a New Jersey Transit bus. As we approached the Lincoln Tunnel, several passengers noticed a plane that appeared to be heading toward the World Trade Center. I looked up and, to my astonishment, saw that a plane had crashed into one of the upper floors of one of the tallest buildings in the United States.
People began screaming. Some passengers immediately feared that America was under attack by a foreign country and urged the bus driver to stop. Unfortunately, he could not simply stop the bus. He had instructions to continue bringing passengers into New York City.
So, as we continued toward Manhattan, I was unaware that my ordinary commute was about to take me on a journey leading to what would become one of the most frightening experiences of my life.
When I arrived at the Port Authority, I rushed down the street to catch another bus that would take me to my workplace near Seventh Avenue and 28th Street. Before I could board, however, a police officer stopped me and told everyone on the bus that they needed to disembark because the vehicle might be needed to transport people away from the World Trade Center area.
I explained to him what I had just seen, and he was horrified.
I got off the bus and literally ran to work.
At that moment, I was still carrying a bag of clothing that I had planned to return to Century 21, the department store located near the World Trade Center. I had been running late that morning because I was suffering from a backache, so I had decided to return the item after work.
Obviously, that was no longer going to happen.
Once I reached my office, people began calling and asking whether I had seen what happened or watched the horrific incident on television. I hadn’t. I ran to our conference room, turned on the television and finally saw the magnitude of the tragedy.
The World Trade Center had been attacked. People were trapped and dying. I was horrified. It felt as if I were living inside a movie, except this wasn’t a movie. It was tragedy happening in real time.
Back then, cell phones were not nearly as common as they are today, and communication was far more limited. There was no constant stream of information coming through social media. People depended heavily on television, radio, and telephone calls on landlines to figure out what was happening.
I received a few calls from friends who were trying to make sure I was safe. Then I received a call I will never forget—from my landlord.
He was of Middle Eastern descent and wanted to know if I was okay. He knew I worked in Manhattan but apparently did not realize how close my office was to the World Trade Center. He was terrified for me and told me that if I could not get home that night, he would watch my apartment and make sure everything was okay.
What struck me was that I had never received a call from him at work before. I didn’t even know he had my office number. He had gotten it from my rental application.
That call stayed with me because it reminded me that, in the middle of this enormous national tragedy, people were worried about one another.
There was no work to be done at the office. Few made it in. What should I do? The bridges and tunnels were closed, and I had no idea how I was going to get back to New Jersey.
Looking out the windows of my workplace, I saw hordes of people running through the streets, desperately searching for taxis, buses or any other form of transportation out of Manhattan. The subways and the PATH trains were not appealing options because so much of what was happening was underground, and no one knew what was safe. People were talking about taking ferries across the Hudson to New Jersey. After awhile, it was impossible to get out of the city, as everyone was in the same predicament.
Rather than immediately trying to get home, I decided to stay where I was for a while. I packed some clothing and toiletries that I kept in my desk and began thinking about where I could safely stay in New York.
My parents called and urged me to go to the home of my longtime friend Steve Manning, a publicist who lived in Harlem. They knew Steve and felt that I would be safer there. I reached him by telephone, but getting to Harlem was another story.
I was near 28th Street and Seventh Avenue, while Steve lived closer to 125th Street. It was hot that day, transportation was nearly impossible, and I began considering whether I would have to walk.
As I made my way through Manhattan, I saw hundreds of people dressed in business clothing, but they didn’t look like the people I had seen earlier that morning. Their clothing and hair were covered with white dust. Some were barefoot, apparently having lost their footwear while running for their lives. Other businesswomen clutched high heels in their hands, finding solace in holding onto treasured possessions.
People were crying, screaming, and embracing complete strangers. I saw frightened customers entering restaurants and stores simply looking for somewhere to sit, breathe and gather themselves. Some restaurant owners didn’t even bother charging them. They simply allowed people to come inside and try to compose themselves. Naturally, the bars were packed. Who couldn’t use a drink after witnessing bodies falling out of windows, debris crashing down, and New Yorkers jumping over rubble, gasping and choking, as they evaded the inevitable demolition of some of the world’s most prominent office buildings?
There was a sense that everyone had suddenly become connected by tragedy. Nobody knew what was going to happen next, and many people were terrified because they had family members, friends and colleagues who worked in or around the World Trade Center.
I was terrified too.
Colleagues worked in that area, and I feared the worst. Before leaving my office, I tried to reach people I knew who might still be working downtown and might not know what was happening.
I contacted a law firm I had worked with. Someone answered the phone at their office, which was very close to the World Trade Center. The employees had no idea that they were in the midst of the most horrific sites one would ever see. They had arrived at work early, as they normally did, and were simply doing their jobs while history was unfolding around them.
I urged them to leave immediately.
“If the situation isn’t as bad as we think, you can always come back,” I told them. “But you need to get out of the building.”
They listened, and they left.
Years later, Mark Seitelman, the owner of that law firm, still thanks me for making that call. That experience has stayed with me because sometimes you don’t realize that a simple phone call—or a moment of awareness—can save someone’s life.
Getting a taxi from Midtown Manhattan was an ordeal. People were literally fighting over cabs, while others were sharing rides and helping strangers. Many of the taxi drivers were immigrants, and I remember seeing drivers who were reluctant to pick up some White passengers because of the fear and confusion that had engulfed the city. Because I am African American, some of the drivers seemed particularly sympathetic to my situation, and eventually I was able to get a ride–free of charge!
I made my way to Harlem and to the safety of my friend’s home. Once I arrived, we turned on the television, and that was when I truly understood how much worse the situation was than I had realized while I was on the streets.
I knew the second tower had been hit, but I had not fully comprehended the magnitude of the destruction. Television reporters were particularly emotional as images of the towers literally evaporating were displaying on the screens. It was exactly like watching scenes from disaster films except that it was happening to us, our friends, our neighbors, our co-workers.
I also learned about the attack on the Pentagon and the other events unfolding across the country.
I remember thinking that America was under attack and that New York City itself might be destroyed. It reminded me of images from old World War II movies—bombs falling, people running for their lives and innocent people caught in the middle of destruction.
Except this wasn’t historical fiction in a box office film.
It was happening to us.
In the days that followed, the stories became even more heartbreaking. I learned that a friend of mine, photographer Perry Thompson, was among those who died. Perry worked full-time as an accountant and also did freelance event photography for our magazine, Right On!. He was a gentle soul, well-dressed and the kindest man I had ever met.
Then there were the stories of colleagues, spouses, friends and loved ones who could not escape the conditions in the towers. Some were disabled and needed assistance. Others could not hear or see, or relied on wheelchairs and canes. There were people who went back to help them, and some of those rescuers never came home.
There is no way to repay someone who gives their life trying to save another person.
Amid all the horror, something else became visible: humanity.
Restaurants offered free meals. People gave strangers money for transportation. Businesses opened their doors to people who simply needed somewhere to sit and compose themselves. People shared information, helped one another and comforted strangers. Hardened New Yorkers had a heart.
America is resilient, and in the midst of one of the darkest moments in our nation’s history, ordinary people did extraordinary things.
There were heroes everywhere—firefighters, police officers, first responders, emergency workers, and ordinary employees who helped strangers down stairwells.
Many of those heroes never received media attention, and some didn’t live to tell their stories.
I eventually spent several days in Harlem because getting back to New Jersey was difficult. I stayed in contact with my landlord, who continued reassuring me that my apartment was safe.
Eventually, it began to rain, which impeded the search for survivors. It was as though God was crying for all of us.
The emotional impact of September 11 never simply went away. It became part of me. To this day, I can see the white dust and remember the color of the sky, the faces, the fear and the screams. I remember looking at those towering buildings and realizing that something I had always believed was permanent could disappear in a matter of hours.
I still have difficulty entering tall buildings, and sometimes I can feel that fear come rushing back.
Twenty-five years later, September 11 is not simply a date on a calendar for me. It is a memory that lives deep inside my soul. Actually, it pierces my soul, and as I write these lines, I continue to shed tears for the airplane passengers, the office employees, and the innocent victims on the street who could not escape death’s path. I cry for the families who were destroyed by this tragedy, the elected officials who had to make tough calls about America’s position about the 9/11 incident, as well as our friends and allies who were not responsible for the most destructive act that took place on our soil.
But there is another part of that memory that I choose to hold onto: the strangers who helped strangers, the people who risked everything to save someone else and those who ran toward danger when everyone else was trying to escape it.
Those are the stories we must remember.
Twenty-five years later, I still carry the trauma of that day, but I also carry its lessons.
We all view September 11 differently, and I would never judge how another person feels about it. Those who live or lived in New York may have very different perspectives. But I know that New York City became a greater place because of what happened and because of the humanity that emerged in its aftermath.
Years later, the area has been rebuilt. It is beautiful, respectful, and a unique tourist spot, but I still feel the spirit of those lost souls. May God bless everyone who lost a loved one on September 11, 2001, and those who continue to live with the scars of that day.
WHAT DID I DO TO HELP AFTER 9/11?
Along with members of the Kappa Sigma Chapter of Sigma Gamma Rho Sorority, Inc., we adopted a family whose patriarch died when he attempted to rescue someone who was in a wheelchair. Giving back made our hearts smile.
