I Was in NYC on 9/11: My Reflections Two Decades Later

It’s hard to fathom that two decades have passed since 9/11. That day remains vividly ingrained in my memory—a date typically associated with joyful recollections, yet this particular memory lingers with the weight of trauma. So much has shifted in both my personal life and within our nation since then. Sometimes, the memories of life before that day feel like distant echoes. If it weren’t for the media, I might question whether it truly happened.

In the summer of 2002, I found myself in the Midwest with my brother and his family. Every time someone learned I was from New York City, the first question was, “Were you there on 9/11?” I would nod and smile, attempting to answer without delving into the painful details. The wounds were still too raw to explore, and in many ways, they still are. This marks only the second time I’ve written about this topic.

Compared to many of my peers, I had a relatively mild experience of that day’s impact. Friends who attended schools closer to the World Trade Center have faced far greater challenges over the past 20 years. Some struggle with anxiety and PTSD, and one friend is currently battling breast cancer linked to her proximity to the site. Another friend’s mother had cancer a few years back due to living near the WTC.

Typically, I avoid social media on 9/11. As someone who experienced it firsthand (though not as directly as others), I find it difficult to handle the constant stream of distressing images. I prefer discussing the events of that day only with those who share a similar background, like my dad, whose experiences align closely with mine. It’s a painful topic that I don’t bring up with former classmates or friends from different schools—I find it too hard to revisit every year.

I understand the necessity for public memorials; 9/11 was a momentous occasion that reshaped our world. It’s a memory that clings to you, despite efforts to suppress it. The relentless images from that day—the planes crashing, the chaos, the ash-covered survivors—transport me back to my terrified teenage self, fearing for the city I loved.

My dad and I usually check in on each other during this time, though our conversations have become less frequent over the years. At that time, he was a reporter who immersed himself in the aftermath, gathering stories from first responders and witnesses. I remember him coming home, his clothes covered in the same dust that haunted the images I had seen. I cherish the tales he shares—like the story of a Black police sergeant, a detail that often goes unmentioned but is significant.

I was 15 when the attacks occurred, just starting my sophomore year. My day began in the second period, offering me a later start at school, which I appreciated. That morning, I left our Brooklyn apartment as usual, my mom heading to Staten Island and my dad to the UN. I took my standard route on the subway, unaware of the monumental changes that would unfold within hours.

One striking detail from that day remains with me—the sky was an incredible blue, with fluffy clouds drifting lazily as I walked to school. Upon arrival, I overheard a student mention a plane hitting the World Trade Center, which I dismissed as a minor incident. It wasn’t until three hours later that I learned the full extent of the tragedy.

I had one of the few working cell phones among my peers—a prepaid Nokia that limited my usage. I called my dad to ask if friends could use my phone to find out how they would get home, as subways to downtown were shut down. If I hadn’t been so early that day, I could have been caught on the 4 train heading toward the school.

My mom witnessed the second plane strike the towers while on the ferry. She was stuck on Staten Island for a day due to the shutdown of transportation. My dad never made it to the UN; he was at home, gathering news and keeping me informed. The concert I was supposed to attend that night was canceled, and with no cable, we had nothing but constant news coverage to watch. The radio stations played “God Bless The U.S.A.” repeatedly for what felt like an eternity.

This is why I don’t feel the need to memorialize 9/11 on social media. Those memories are accessible at any moment; I can still see that blue sky and recall the calm moments before the chaos. The silence that enveloped Manhattan was haunting. The city, usually bustling, fell eerily quiet, and I could barely hear the commotion from downtown, even from East 68th Street. Now, as I ride the Staten Island Ferry, I see the gaps left by the Twin Towers—only visible in old shows or films, if they haven’t been edited out.

While I don’t typically observe this day, I’ve watched numerous specials over the years about the children who lost a parent in the attacks. With every special, my heart breaks for those kids who never knew the love of their fathers. As a mother now, this pain resonates with me in new, profound ways. There’s a recent special on Discovery+ that I plan to watch and cry over. Those children aren’t babies anymore; they’re in their early twenties, likely navigating college and life without the parents they lost. I think of them and those in my life who have only known a world shadowed by darkness and conflict.

The impact of September 11, 2001, has reshaped many aspects of life. Air travel is forever altered, and I miss being able to pick someone up at the gate. We’ve engaged in a seemingly endless war for almost 20 years, and areas of New York City are filled with police, some armed with military-grade weapons. This reality hasn’t eased over the years, even as I’ve moved away from New York.

I’m not here to dictate how anyone should remember 9/11. If you want to share that familiar image of the lights shining where the Twin Towers once stood, that’s your choice. But be aware that it may be difficult for some to see. Everyone processes grief in their own way. Some friends post cute animal pictures to distract from the day’s triggers. For me, I spend the day with my child, reflecting on how much my life has evolved in the last 20 years. One day, he may learn about that day in school, and I can share how the New York I cherished changed forever when the towers fell.

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I Was in NYC on 9/11: My Reflections Two Decades Later

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