World Trade Center - by Bob Crow

The following is my account of the WTC tragedy, in response to a psychiatrist friend who was worried about my wellbeing:

“Michael, I am sorry to be so late getting back to you.  Having basically lost two weeks of work and blowing two important deadlines, I have been dealing with my e-mail on a triage basis.  My story is not so dramatic, and I was never in danger.  Here is what happened.

I was at a meeting of the National Association for Business Economics at the World Trade Center Marriott, between the two towers.  We were on the first floor at breakfast, listening to a speech by the Chief Operating Officer of Morgan Stanley, when the first plane hit the North Tower.  First, there was a small shaking, like a small earthquake, and then there was a huge boom, and the room shook.  We left.  The hotel staff directed us out a side entrance, and then we crossed West Street.  Debris was falling as we crossed -- mostly paper, but also glittering shards of glass and pieces of sheet metal.  The dangerous stuff was falling close to the building and not endangering us.  I did, however, see one man walk past whose head was covered with blood -- probably a spectacular scalp wound, as he was walking very strongly.

When we got to a safe distance across the street, we gathered in groups and tried to figure out what had happened.  A stray commuter plane seemed like the most likely guess.  At that point, we had no idea of the inferno inside.  Then the fire grew and spread, along with the smoke. There was a thin line of flames, spreading along one floor. I remember thinking that it looked rather like a necklace, belying the pain and horror I knew must be behind it.  I heard a nearby group of people scream and moan.  Without looking, I knew what was happening: people were jumping.  I could not help but watch for several minutes. Some of the jumpers looked controlled, like sky divers.  Some looked as though they had second thoughts and were trying to swim to safety.  One pair jumped simultaneously, as if they had made a pact. Through all of this, I was hoping against hope that the building’s internal fire suppression system would put out the flames or that they would simply die out on their own. I had no idea at the time that there was so much fuel or that it could burn for so long and with such intensity. Gradually, however, I knew that no one above the point of impact would survive.

While transfixed by this scene, I heard for an instant the roar of a large jet plane.  I looked up in time to see the fireball emerge from both sides of the South Tower.  (Not the TV view, since apparently no one had any cameras from the west side.  That is why there were few jumpers on TV, I guess.) Oddly enough, although I remember hearing the jet engine, and the explosion must have been deafening, I have no recollection of hearing it.  I guess my circuits must have been overwhelmed by the sight of the fireball.  

My first thought when the second plane hit was, "Osama bin Laden."  That was the first time that it had occurred to me that the first plane was deliberate.  I probably did not linger more than a minute or two before leaving.  I had to phone Carolyn before she turned on the TV, and I had seen enough history for one day.  I was vaguely nauseated and did not want to watch a new round of jumpers from the South Tower.

I walked to the Battery and saw one of my senior colleagues and his wife (The Heebners).  They were quite composed, sitting on a bench -- except that he had no shoes and socks!  They skipped the breakfast meeting and had fled from their room.  She looked quite chic, but I later learned that her raincoat covered only her nightgown.  I heard later that a Good Samaritan, visiting from the West Coast and by pure luck not with his colleagues in the upper floors of the North Tower when the plane hit, gave Gil shoes and socks from his luggage.

I finally found my way to the foot of Wall Street in search of a pay phone.  (All had long lines.)  I walked by Trinity Church and found nearby a little Chinese restaurant in a food court.  They let me use the business phone.  When I offered to pay them, they refused, saying "Just buy a cup of coffee."  I could not have possibly downed a cup of coffee at that time, so I left a fiver in the tip jar.

Now what?  I cannot remember thinking about my computer, clothes, etc. in the hotel room.  If I did, I probably thought I could go back and get them later.  Anyway, at total loose ends, I decided to go back to Trinity Church and think things over. There was a scheduled service going on, one part of which was First Corinthians, Verse 13, on the power of love and caring. I commend it to all, because it is only when we begin to heed such mandates that we will ever break the cycle of wrath and hatred that is at the root of such evil as manifested on September 11. 

While I was in Trinity Church, the towers collapsed.  Even though we were still pretty close to the WTC and the church shook, it was not damaged as far as I could tell -- not even the lovely stained glass windows. However, it did begin to fill with dust and smoke, and many became anxious. I found the smoke annoying but tolerable but wondered if it would end or become worse. Outside, there was a solid wall of light gray, not unlike an unimaginably dense fog. I probably could not have seen my hand in front of my face, had I tried to leave. After about two hours, the smoke and dust had cleared sufficiently outside for us to see where we were going. The street was about two inches deep in ash, with charred documents everywhere. I wondered how many important transactions, how many people’s financial lives, were scattered or burned and how they would be reconstructed. .

With my face covered with a damp handkerchief, I made my way down Wall Street to South Street and then started to walk to midtown.   It was odd that except for the heavy foot traffic heading north, it seemed fairly normal.  The smoke from the towers seemed far away.  I was hungry and had a good, cheap Italian lunch. It was a beautiful day, if you looked to the north.  I was impressed that as horrendous as the attack was, only a small part of New York City was physically affected, and New York is only a small part of the U.S. I knew that as horrific as this experience was, the impact on the U.S. economy and society would be profound but limited.

I walked by a warehouse, where a bunch of rough-looking guys were watching the pedestrian traffic. As I passed, I saw that they had painted a sign, advising that they had bathrooms, water and telephones available to all. I was reminded once again of the danger of rushing to judgment simply because people looked or sounded different from myself and my friends. People were doing what they could, even if they could not do much. I saw this scene repeated a number of times.

As I walked up First Avenue, past the row of hospitals there, I was heartened by the long lines of people waiting to donate blood. But I was disheartened to see mobs of medical personnel waiting at the emergency entrances with nothing to do. It was then that it really hit me that relatively few people were injured: there were few survivors. You either got away or you were dead.

I was phoning Carolyn every few hours to tell her how I was faring. After fruitlessly trying to find a hotel, I learned from her that my daughter’s classmate (Bill) offered to put me up in his apartment on East 58th St.  Another classmate (Simon) was staying there, also.  I think having the companionship of Bill and Simon was invaluable over the next few days -- more important than having shelter.   Had I found a hotel and been alone with my own thoughts, I think that not only the next few days would have more upsetting, but the aftermath would have been longer, darker and deeper. It was important to have someone with whom I could share thoughts and experiences. That night, we went to a Brazilian restaurant in the neighborhood and had a good dinner. Not many laughs, though, in that restaurant.

I had left the WTC area with only the clothes on my back and my urban survival kit – ATM and credit cards. Thus, on Wednesday, I replaced toiletries and some clothes. More important, Bill and I walked in Central Park. We went past a pond where parents were rowing their children. It was important to see that life, love and families continued on. Perspective started to claw its way back.

The three of us had dinner out again with other classmates. It was hard to talk of anything but the attack and its tragedies, and we speculated whether anyone in the restaurant was talking of anything else. We surmised that some were, for we could see an occasional smile but heard no laughter.

On Thursday morning, as soon as the airline ticket offices were open, I booked a return flight for Saturday morning. Then Bill, Simon and I had lunch and met still more of Jennifer’s classmates. After, we walked in the park and watched the ducks. All of the time I was in New York, the weather was beautiful; and I was reminded of a wise man who once advised me in a time of personal crisis that no matter how awful my life looked, beauty and love were still there if I was willing to find them. Ducks, children, blue sky, and the friendship of strangers. Nonetheless, the reminders of what had happened were everywhere. Bill and I tried to donate blood but were turned away – the blood banks were overwhelmed with donors. We passed a small firehouse where the firemen were putting up a banner to commemorate fallen companions. Nine pictures were fastened to the wall – probably the entire watch for that station.

I spent Thursday night with old, dear friends in Princeton. It was good to talk about family, family projects and work; but the attack was never far away. On Friday morning, I learned over the web that my flight and many others had been cancelled. I could not get through to reservations by phone until I found a backdoor route. Fortunately, I managed to book a flight from Newark on Friday evening.  Despite being told that I had the last seat on that plane, it flew half-empty and was uneventful.

I am doing OK.  I had to get a new computer, get my own and Stanford software loaded on it, and reconstruct several days’ work.  Fortunately, I had backed up all of my important documents about three days before I left on the trip.

Mentally, I have been somewhat distracted, but that may be the normal onset of Old Timers' Disease.  I have been able to focus on my work and sleep normally, but in my idle moments I see the jumpers -- much bigger than they could have been in real life, faceless and gray -- and I see the fireball in the South Tower. Metaphorically, these visions are like a screen saver.  They only come on when I am not actively doing something. (As of January 2002, the screen saver seldom comes on any more.)

Also, on two occasions since the attack it is has been important for me to take my new laptop with me. On both, I forgot and left it at home. Old Timer’s Disease, or some sort of subconscious mandate to not lose another one?

Well, that is the story.  I find myself much less likely to get upset at stuff, now that I know first-hand how awful bad luck can really be.  More than ever, I am committed to ending the cycle of hatred, wrath and violence that seems to consume so many for so long and for so little gain.  I am not an activist, but I will try to do what I can with my own life.

“The world is my country, all mankind are my brethren, and to do good is my religion.”—Tom Paine.

Onward!
R the C