Catharsis for a 9/11 survivor.

Biden, 9/11 and being "together" alone.

Last night, I watched Biden’s address on Unity and the Soul of Our Nation. 

It drew me back to the spirit of patriotism in the US post 9/11 days. The red canned lights glowing behind Biden evoked a sense of urgency. With Marines at his side, the orchestra pumped just the right amount of nationalist propaganda to pull in the “moderate” American without extremist vibes. 

Sitting at home alone with my dog, I watched this speech with the natural skepticism of a New Yorker. How we’ve come so far in 20 years from 9/11 to fascism, (as I murmur “f-ing patriot act…”)  I could feel Biden trying his best to amplify his message of  safety and security in the United States. As New Yorker and survivor of 9/11 in SoCal. I have a unique perspective on Covid-19, mass death, and the feeling of being “alone together,” compared to others who live in San Diego.

My first day of junior year was 9/11/2001. My sister, Ariana, and I went to an alternative school on Christopher Street. At approximately 8:55, our subway train stopped at Chambers Street beneath the Twin Towers, as they were colloquially referred to then. Our trip was interrupted due to a “police emergency” and we were transferred to a local route.

 A man in a business suit on the platform told us there was a small plane crash; not to worry  it was likely accidental and to hurry to school.  A subway ride to school would never be the same. From then on it smelt like burnt Barbie dolls. As an adult, it makes me sick remembering what the smell truly was – death. The train stunk of it for months. 

Ari and I came above ground from the subway staircase to a panorama postcard view of Lower Manhattan just as the second plane hit. We held each other’s hand for a second. It was no small plane. And it was no accident. Numbly, the two of us walked to our high school to find out classes were canceled. 

At this time dad was on a subway ride home from work. My mom worked in FiDi. Luckily, she hadn’t left for work yet. But my dad, poor dude. His train was on the Manhattan Bridge when the explosion blew the towers. He said he could feel the blast.  

Families were like frightened archipelagos throughout the city. City-dwellers together in our aloneness; trying to find our loved ones who were scattered throughout the boroughs. Adults were of no help to us. They were scared, too. We were unable to contact our dad because cell phones weren’t really a thing yet. My mom couldn’t reach us because local lines were fugazi, only able to watch the disaster on television; which had just announced that subways were now closed. We didn’t know what would happen next or if we were even safe in Lower Manhattan.

My 10-month-older sister decided we should try to walk home via the Brooklyn Bridge. We started on our trek, stopping at the triangle on Varick Street, to watch the second tower fall. 

I won’t ever forget the people falling from windows, floating like black angels downward from the smoky heavens. They chose an alternative to burning. I realized that at 16. I grabbed my sister’s hand again, dragging us forth. I don’t think we exchanged words. We were again alone in our togetherness. Ari squeezed my hand. 

My sister and I were displaced in several ways. Not only was our mode of transportation from the Isle of Manhattan FUBAR, but we were displaced from our peer group in so many ways. Our Brooklyn friends at home did not see what we saw. Our parents had their own experiences. We were so alone, but we had each other.

Ariana and I witnessed something together that would change our perspective on life altogether. Our childhood was now gone. We didn’t have a normal high school experience after that. We rode a train that smelt of death with the same sad commuters for 3 months. Those commuters knew what the smell was. My sister and I knew. We smelled it in our classrooms. I swear I could smell it waft over the bay in Brooklyn sometimes. We both dropped out of high school in January.  

We survived that day without outside communication or knowledge of what was actually happening. It was our liminal moment in adolescence. I don’t know that the dislocation my sister and I experienced was a gift then, but it’s certainly made me thankful for my life and how far I’ve come from a scared high school dropout. I know that I am a far stronger woman because of that day. I can navigate through a crisis easily. I am empathetic in a traumatic situation. I am thoughtful of others because no one knows what trauma others have seen. 

I could see empathy, crisis navigation, and hurt on Biden’s face. I could hear the strength in his voice as his message was disrupted with the heckler’s interference. I was proud when Biden told the heckler it was his right to protest. I was alone watching Biden last night. A lot of people were. I hope they felt the glimmer of hope Biden shared, because this former New Yorker did in SoCal.