As a rule I don’t post about that terrible morning when our country was attacked. September 11, 2001 is a day Americans, especially those of us from New York, will not forget.

I was living in Knoxville, Tennessee that day. Housed at the Department of Human Services, we were a contract provider from the University of Tennessee. I was a recent hire, just learning what I was supposed to do. A stack of files was next to the big computer monitor on my desk in the small cubicle I’d been assigned.

That day my fiancé, Neil, was still living and working in New York City. His office was located in lower Manhattan, about a block from the World Trade Center. He was scheduled to move to Knoxville at the end of October, a little more than a month away. My father was living in Queens with his girlfriend.

As I was checking a file and comparing it to what was recorded in the system. DHS was not a quiet building. I could always catch bits of conversations in the cubicles around me. I vaguely heard one of my co-workers saying something about an idiot flying into the World Trade Center. For some reason I thought she’d heard about an event from 1945 when a B-25 flew into the Empire State Building in a thick fog. As the near-by voices continued I realized they were talking about something happening now.

Bolting to my feet, I rushed into the hall. Maybe they were talking about a movie or some television show. My co-worker turned as I approached. The smile on her face froze when she made the connection. Everyone knew I was waiting for my fiancé to move to town. Her voice was tense. “Where does he work?”

Trying to explain the locations in lower Manhattan is like trying to talk someone through a maze. I left it by saying, “Near by.”

We hurried to the break room where a small television was showing scenes of horror. I didn’t collapse onto the couch, but I didn’t sit gracefully either. At that moment the first tower began to collapse. It was unreal, like something from a dystopian movie about aliens taking over the earth. A rolling wave of dirty white debris began to spread across the crowded downtown streets. People fled in front of it. Some were enveloped in the cloud until not even the outline of their bodies were visible. Others rushed into doorways, shops, office buildings to escape the onslaught. Tornados of computer printouts spun crazily in the a day that was no longer bright and sunny. Sirens blared and the red flashing lights of emergency vehicles were barely visible.

The room was silent; that heavy silence that feels like the entire room inhaled and held its breath. I found myself scanning the crowds, trying to see anyone I recognized. I needed to try to call my fiancé and my father. I could feel my co-workers watching me leave the room and knew some of them would whisper about me. As the only recent New Yorker in the building, it was unsurprising. I don’t remember the walk back to my cubicle. Visions of the destruction I’d just viewed bounced around in my head. I remembered when the Towers were built in the late sixties to early seventies. I remembered the first time I went inside. And I kept asking, how?

My old black flip phone was on my desk. I realized I couldn’t call Neil. He didn’t have a mobile phone. I did have his office number; I punched the number into my phone. “All circuits are busy. Please try your call later.” Not one to give up easily, I tried twice more.

Thinking I might reach my father since he lived in Queens, I dialed his number. His girlfriend answered on the first ring. Her first words to me were, “Liz, please help us.” I heard my father say something in the background. Before I could ask to speak to him, he took the phone. “Don’t listen to her. We’re fine.” We spoke for several minutes. Dad was perfectly calm as he told me what was happening near-by and what emergency services was advising.

Meanwhile, my son called me from his high school to ask if I’d heard the news. Then he tentatively asked about Neil. We reassured one another and he returned to class. I later learned many parents chose to pick their children up early. A few minutes later my sister called. She was at the grocery store when the news broke. She also asked about Neil before informing me she was stocking up on food, primarily canned goods and bottled water. Like me, Kathy is from New York. But her response was pure Tennessee. I told I didn’t believe we were in any danger. Then she said something I would hear from others during the day. “We’re right next to Oak Ridge.” She whispered as though saying it louder would cause a mushroom cloud to spread over Knoxville and Oak Ridge.

A short time later the director of our program stopped at every cubicle with a small American flag. Soon the office was filled with red, white and blue. And the office buzz began again. The stunned silence gave way to conversations, speculations, and questions. Who? Why? Is it over?

It was hours before my mobile rang. It was my fiancé, Neil. They had sent everyone home when the second tower was hit. A friend had begged him to take the subway. He was afraid to go alone. So, my fiancé, being a kind man and against his better judgement, he joined him. His retelling of the forty-five minutes or so, trapped in a subway car, with the city above in turmoil, is still harrowing. He used it at the beginning of his book, The Railroad. In a phone call later that evening Neil told me he walked to Chinatown and ate at a Chinese restaurant. I still wonder what the people in the restaurant thought of a dust covered man going in for a meal. In many ways this was almost typical for a New Yorker. Especially one who loves Asian food as much as Neil.

Then President George W. Bush was visiting a school in Florida, reading to a group of second grade students when disaster struck. His Chief of Staff, Andrew Card, stepped up to the President and whispered in his ear. Despite the crisis unfolding, President Bush finished his session with the children before leaving for an update. Three days later he went to Ground Zero. Standing atop the rubble, bullhorn in hand, arm around retired firefighter, Bob Beckwith, Bush said, “I can hear you, the rest of the world hears you, and the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon!” 

In the days and weeks that followed New York pulled together as it always does. Signs went up all over the city with pictures of people who were missing. Neil got a phone call the week after the Towers were destroyed. Someone was looking for a friend who was missing. What do you say to a stranger when a friend may be dead?

New York wasn’t the only target that day. The Pentagon in Washington, DC was hit by American Airlines Flight 77 killing one hundred and eighty-four people. In Shanksville, Pennsylvania, United Flight 93 crashed into a field killing forty-four people; thirty-three passengers, seven crew members, and four hijackers. When the passengers on the flight became aware of what was happening they voted to fight back. Their action may have prevented another strike on Washington, DC. , most likely the Capitol.

Neil did make the move south just days before his birthday at the end of October. He was forty-one years old. The following June 1st we were married. We’ve been married for twenty-four years.

In 2014 the Freedom Tower opened where the Twin Towers once stood. At 1,776 feet the Tower represents the year the Declaration of Independence was approved as well as the resilience of America, especially of New York City.

Neither of will ever forget that day or the thousands of people in New York, Washington DC, or Pennsylvania or the families worldwide who lost loved ones. May their memories be a blessing. May we never forget the courageous behavior of those who fought back on United 93, the emergency crews who combed buildings searching for survivors, and so many who lost their lives in the months and years after.