09/10/2024
23 years ago to the day, on a Tuesday, I stepped out to have a cigarette before a work seminar began. I was at 4th and Mercer just outside The Bottom Line in Manhattan. The sky was a liquid blue. It was one of those clear, clean late-summer days that announced fall was coming. It was perfect, the shedding of skin following a hot and humid summer.
After a few drags, I heard a loud boom. Truly, it was loud, but I thought little of it. To me, it sounded like a construction crane had fallen or the like, something that didn’t require a city’s immediate attention. Little did I know.
With the clock ticking and the seminar about to begin, I snuffed out my cigarette under my boot’s heel and headed inside to grab a coffee.
There, I found nothing unusual. People were gabbing at each other, a few chuckles, the nibbling of bagels and donuts. The space was dark. The Bottom Line resembled a dank basement area, where the speakers were to take a small stage with metal tables and chairs sprinkled about.
Legends had played there – Bruce Springsteen, Carl Perkins, Cheap Trick. Indeed, it was a significant venue, but the real significance would only grow thicker in my mind given a few moments.
With what seemed like an anvil pulling down his face, a small, well-dressed man with thinning gray hair stepped onto the stage and sat at the table where the speakers were to speak.
He activated the mic, it let out a small squeal, and then he announced a commuter plane had just struck the north tower of the World Trade Center.
Naturally, gasps ensued and history would have its say. But dammit, so will I.
A great number of things are seared in my mind from that awful day. One, buildings crumbling like sandcastles under an imposing tide. Two, the screams of people around me on the street, all looking up. I knew they had just lost family, friends and potentially co-workers. And me, I had lost nothing. I didn’t feel worthy to be there.
However, I also remember in that moment we were all Americans. Not red or blue, black or white, indigenous or immigrant – just Americans. We cared about each other and we showed it. We propped each other up when our knees buckled. We did our utmost to mend our mortal wounds.
Tomorrow, we’ll have all the memorials and TV shows. No doubt about it. But I propose to you that we’re forgetting.
What’s more, I ask of you – is it really going to take another event like this for us to be Americans again?
