When I initially wrote this post, I hadn’t written a word about my experiences on 9/11 and hardly ever spoke of it. I couldn’t watch reports on TV — and still can’t. I’ve tweaked and re-posted this piece every year since I wrote it. The photo of my sister above was shot mere days before 9/11. It’s hard to believe that it’s been 23 years.

I have a very dear friend who sheltered me when I couldn’t leave Manhattan and all the bridges and tunnels were closed. She was pregnant at the time and her daughter graduated from college this past spring. She and I are in constant contact and very close; she and her daughter are my “chosen family.” And, on the anniversary of this day, there’s always a special moment, a special memory with a call or text telling one another that we love each other.

Every year I am struck with sadness and fear. I suffered no direct personal tragedy on 9/11 — I had no loved ones killed or maimed. And yet, I was caught in the mess of it all and will never forget I was in New York on 9/11. 

My day in NYC on 9/11

I remember that morning very plainly. It was a crisp, clear September morning. I was living in Jersey City and would take the PATH train into the city for work. Our street was clean and tidy, but the walk along the main street was cluttered and trashy. We didn’t live in a bad neighborhood; it was simply urban living. 

I walked that morning, not looking at the cotton-white clouds strewn across the brilliant cerulean blue sky, but at the litter on the sidewalk, the empty, dented cans and bottles, the plastic bags whirling in the wind across the cement, the crumpled, greasy sacks of fast food, and the oily, iridescent psychedelic rainbows in the jagged potholes at every corner and crosswalk.

At that point 9/11 was just another day. I walked this walk every day —  most often amazed, looking skyward at those tall twin towers across the river directly in my sight. We lived nearly exactly parallel to the WTC on the west side of the Hudson River and they were a compass point. 

The papers, the news, and the sources on the internet proclaimed the timing second by second, minute by minute of the deadly attack in the days and weeks to come. It turns out that my disgust and irritation at the debris saved me from watching the first plane hit the first tower. 

Running Late and Fate 

Often I would take the PATH from Jersey City to the WTC and then change on the subway to go uptown, but even though I was running late, I waited for the train to take me to 33rd street so I’d only have to make one change.

I’ve thought about that quite a bit in these past years, not taking the train to the WTC. I could have been right in the middle of it. By the time I changed to the subway and exited the station on 40th Street, the streets were buzzing with rumors, that a plane had hit the tower. I assumed it was a small plane, maybe a private jet.

Once in the office, it was clear something was wrong. Cell phones weren’t working and internet access was spotty. Someone said the mall was under attack in DC, then it was declared the Pentagon was hit, then the White House. The host of my series, Epicurious TV on the Discovery Channel, Michael Lomonaco was the Executive Chef at Windows on the World. His phone wasn’t answering. We didn’t know where he was. 

Evacuating Time Square

From the office, I called my now-frantic family to let them know I was okay. But, the offices were located in Times Square. If the US and NYC were under attack, Times Square might be next.

So, we walked down 25 floors of the winding dimly lit stairwell, it wasn’t far and it wasn’t because we were in imminent danger. It simply seemed like the sensible thing to do. I had no desire to be caught in an elevator.

Manhattan on Lockdown

The bridges and tunnels were closed. The subway wasn’t running. I called my friend and she said to meet her at her apartment on the Lower East Side. Manhattan was under lockdown. I couldn’t get back across the river. I couldn’t go home.

I  started walking southeast from Midtown. People were huddled at cars with doors and windows open at street corners listening to the radio. The sound of sirens and the gnawing pull of fear were omnipresent. I saw one act of vandalism, someone breaking into a pay phone. It gave me chills. The concept of being in a lawless New York City was terrifying. 

At one point I could see the towers smoldering and smoking against the blue sky, and then at the next corner, when they would have been in sight again, they were gone. Just gone.

As I walked South, people flooded North, escaping the bedlam. I kept walking further south, then east. It was only three miles, but it felt like 100. I finally arrived at my friend’s apartment on 5th Street on the Lower East Side. She wasn’t home, yet, so I took my shoes off and waited on the stoop. Seems like I remember now that my shoes were new and my feet were blistered. At the time it seemed unimportant and now, I am not certain.

My cell couldn’t call out, it was silent, but somehow a friend and colleague Faye was able to call me. She was my mouthpiece. She called my Mama to tell her I was okay. She called home for me. 

My friend arrived and we quietly walked up the stairs. We then watched the news, silently weeping, watching the horror, the live images, the flying shreds of paper, the dust, the people — the absence of survivors, of people — trying, all the while, to keep the children occupied in the other room.

We were in shock and disbelief.

Leaving New York

Finally, at the end of the very long day, the news reported the PATH was reopened at the 14th. I didn’t care about what might happen to me. I wanted to go home, I wanted to feel safe. My friend didn’t want me to leave. I wanted to go home. We kissed, we cried, and my cell phone died, I started walking. I walked alone. The lack of sound was astonishing. It was like a cavernous movie set. New York City, but without the people.

No more noise. No radios. No one is driving. No one honking. No one on the streets. No people. The avenues were wide, empty, and desolate. An occasional car would pass armed with a bullhorn encouraging people to go give blood. I could hear sirens in the distance. It was dreamlike and surreal.

Union Square

I walked North through Union Square where two candles flickered, the very beginning of the massive combination of shrine and wall of missing person posters that eventually established itself on that spot. The 14th station was closed, so I walked further to the 23rd, which also closed, so onward to the 33rd. Finally, success. The station was packed. People were elbow to elbow, shoulder to shoulder, but you could have heard a pin drop. Everyone was muted and paralyzed in fear and shock.

We crossed under the river to Hoboken because my regular stop, the Grove Street Station was closed. As we pulled into the station evacuees from lower Manhattan stood mute draped in black plastic garbage bags. There was no white, black, or brown. I couldn’t tell the difference between anyone. Each person was covered in ash and grey soot, their eyes open wide with fear. 

I don’t remember how I got home from the station. It’s completely blank. I do remember in the days and weeks following, how the city and entire nation pulled together. Chefs fed hungry first responders, firefighters and police from across the nation traveled to Ground Zero to help with the search first for survivors, then for casualties.

Just for a moment on this day, please consider what “Us vs Them” means to you. Is your “Them” determined by their politics? Red state vs blue state? Their faith? The color of their skin? Their country of origin? Who they love? There are a lot of fine and decent people in this world with goodness in their hearts and we don’t all look, sound, or even think alike.

I’d like to end this war of terror, the one that splits and divides us.

Peace be with you. Tell someone you love them.

Virginia Willis