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September 11 A large part of my job as a graphics editor at The New York Times is reporting. Getting the visual information for diagrams and maps often means going to the scene. On the morning of Sept. 11, I was closest to the World Trade Center. I volunteered to go. The following is an account of what happened: It is 9:40 and I have just ducked my first police line. One block east of the tower complex I stop and draw on my map, underlining Cedar Street. This will be the first boundary for my graphic. I scribble notes about the sidewalk: glass, woman's shoe, office paper, fiberglass. There are few people behind this line, only cops on the sidewalks guarding yellow tape barricades and firefighters on the streets hustling toward the scene. How close should I get? Closer. I head west, walking my I-belong-here walk, and stop near a fire truck. Both towers are on fire. I mark my map locating where the planes hit the sides of the buildings, but I am spotted. A cop yells at me -- go back where I came from. I shuttle sideways instead and duck my second line. More notes, some disposable camera pictures:
Burning tower on left. Burning tower on right. Shoot the street sign
for reference. Church and Cortlandt. On the plaza steps near me is an
NYPD photographer, loaded with equipment. At my third police line, another cop. He's good for information though, the parameters of street closings. He is also good for a facemask, and I beg one from the pristine bunch hanging from his belt. He is insistent that I move back. Dey Street toward Broadway, for me this
is the wrong direction. And then there is a rumble and a crack
-- the sound of a huge falling tree. I look up. The tower is imploding,
falling in on itself. I hear rain, realize it is debris. Run. Everyone
starts to run. Around the corner under scaffolding
are glass doors, shelter, a record shop. Two Spanish guys tear inside
through the bins and I am right behind them. Crouching, we watch through
the doors as gray smoke covers the street. I hear women screaming and
crying. I think the cloud will pass now, but it doesn't. It pours in
like it wants a closer look, backing us against the wall. Now I am yelling.
Is there a back door? I yank open a shallow closet, only circuit breakers. The cloud settles. It is impossible not to breathe it in. What I know about chemical weapons rises to my consciousness. An old graphic for the foreign desk: VX. How it gets into the bloodstream. Through the eyes. Through the nose. Through cuts in the skin. I need help. There is a huge cop, 6-5, barrel-chested,
in street clothes with a badge hanging on a chain. He yells for a cell
phone. This is good he is here, I give up mine. I jump for the store
phone to call my husband, but it rings as I lift the receiver and an
employee named Steve gets a call from his wife instead. We've got to get out. I put on the mask
and stick by the cop. On the other side of glass doors everything is dark gray. There is a thick layer of fine soot at my feet. It is like being inside a full vacuum cleaner bag. There is no air, no light, only ash. People move past, everything and everyone the same color, they look like ghosts. My cop is making a call, loud, about
how he can't breath, coughing and swearing. I walk bent low and hold
his hand. I try not to inhale deeply and then I just try to inhale. We cross the street. In a doorway huddle
two women covered in soot, shaking. I make them walk. Weve got to get
out of here. I ask the name of the one clutching her lapel over her
mouth. She is Danielle. She has asthma. She is so scared. Though I am
reassuring her, I am hoping that she won't slow me down. One block, two blocks, there are no
edges here, no way to know. All time is compressed inside my need to
get out. And then at the top of the dust there is light. We know where
to head and I can see across the street now. My cop is there, still
talking. Officer, my I have my phone back please? I follow him. He turns
right. The light disappears. I think he is failing me, he is in shock, he must not be concentrating. We can't get lost. This cannot become a maze. Down the block is a man who looks like he knows where he is going. I ask for permission to follow him and apologize that I don't know this neighborhood. We turn a corner. The light comes back.
It is brighter. There is less dust and I Paramedics jog by pushing a single stretcher,
they look stricken. We keep walking out, dozens of us, then hundreds.
I am stunned. I shuffle forward with the crowd. A photographer with
press credentials takes our picture.
As Always |
