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Four years
ago, around mid-August, I was casually putting some platters back into my
dining room buffet after a brunch we had hosted, when I was suddenly forced to
my knees by the roar of a fighter jet flying low and directly over my house.
The sound was so loud, and the plane so close, that it shook the pictures on my
walls, made my wine glasses clink together, and it was so terrifying that I
fell onto my knees, covered my head with my hands, and immediately started
sobbing. In one quick moment, I lost control of my emotions.
Minutes
later, I was still on my knees. Shaking. Sweating. Muscles tense. Heart
pounding so loud I was sure my children, who stood inches away from me, could
hear it. There I was, gasping for air, and desperately reaching out for my
husband to help me. Total loss of control.
Fifteen
minutes after that jet flew overhead, with my shirt soaked in sweat and my eyes
bloodshot from crying, I was calm enough to completely comprehend that the
fighter jet was actually just a part of the Chicago Air & Water Show. Of
course this jet was not going to crash into my house, or patrol my airspace for
days on end, or even crash into a building. At that point, I was composed enough to realize where my
reaction came from. It was not the first time a jet had gone over my head.
****
I moved to
Manhattan in 2000. It was the greatest and bravest decision I had ever made. I
had no family in New York, and only a handful of friends, but I was determined
to go to NYU, get my graduate degree, and start a life built completely on my
own. I had a successful career and amazing bosses that allowed me to pick up my
life and move 900 miles away but remain with the company and work from my own apartment.
I had parents who had faith enough in me to let me go alone to that big city
without ever blinking an eye. I had some great friends who promised to visit
the minute I was settled into my new apartment. Absolutely nothing was holding
me back from my experience of a lifetime.
My move to
Manhattan started off with just the right proverbial bang… my father crashed
the rental moving truck into a parked car as we were pulling out of Chicago.
And once we arrived in New York, and began to load my belongings into my tiny
$1700/month studio apartment, my father slipped on an ice patch while standing
on the back of the truck and fell backwards towards the street. Luckily, I was
standing there, and with catlike reflexes caught him, so he didn’t hit his
head. Unluckily, I caught him while I was holding a small knife in my hand
(used for opening boxes) and I cut him one inch above an artery in his hand. So
less than an hour into my residency I was calling 911- I did not even know what
address to give the 911 operator.
The ambulance
and the police came. They actually
asked my dad if he wanted to press charges against me, and believe me, I think
he may have hesitated with his answer. An ambulance ride across town, fifty
some odd stitches and a large sling later, and my dad was back in my apartment
in a chair writhing in pain and wondering how I had gotten him into such an
outrageous situation. He only survived that move by one tiny little inch.
****
Months later,
fully in the swing of my new life, it would be the summer of weddings. I flew
back to the Midwest for 8 weekends in a row for weddings and wedding showers
and dress fittings. One of those weddings was of my cousin, Erin, and her
husband Carl.
Even though
they lived in Boston, they had decided on a Chicago wedding. They had once
lived in Chicago and they considered it the perfect spot to tie the knot. He is
Chinese, so they had a traditional Chinese tea ceremony and Erin even wore a
beautiful red traditional Chinese dress during the reception. I remember
everything so vividly – the colors, the music, the conversations. I am, in
fact, blessed and cursed in this way. I can remember the details of events and
even conversations that have occurred in amazing detail from as early of an age
as three. In this particular case, I am so grateful that I can remember her
wedding weekend.
Before the
ceremony took place that Saturday, my cousin Kate and I stole away from the
family to have lunch at a local bagel shop. While there, we spotted our older
cousin Karleton pushing his adorable 16-month old son in a stroller on their
way to the zoo. It was hard not to
spot him- his 6’4 frame, wire-rimmed glasses, UNC hat, and goofy smile. He
stopped to chat with us about nonsense and to crack a few smartass remarks
about how handsome he was and how handsome in turn (yes handsome) we were since we were related to him. After a few minutes of sarcastic banter,
he continued on his way towards the zoo, and as he walked away, I remember
remarking to Kate how crazy it was that he had a son. Holy shit, were growing
up, and man, he was such a natural father. Both Kate and I just stared in awe
at him as he effortlessly pushed that kid down the street, and we cracked up
talking about how random that was to see him just walk by in such a big city
and how utterly hysterical his demeanor always was. She and I both remember
that lunch so well.
At the
wedding, we danced the night away to disco and hip-hop and Motown and everyone
watched in amazement as my Great Uncle, who was 79 at the time, danced longer
and with better rhythm, than any of us in our twenties. If one measures the
success of a wedding by tired feet, then I would say this was a good one. I’m
not sure there was a single person who did not test out that dance floor.
****
Tuesday,
September 11, 2001. It was about 8:55am and my cell phone was ringing. While I
was usually up and working by 8am, this particular morning I was still in my
bed. The night before I had flown in very late from Hilton Head, SC, and I was
exhausted. I saw the call was coming from someone in my office, so I picked it
up, trying to sound awake and slightly embarrassed I had overslept. On the
other end was a panicked voice. “Amanda, are you in your apartment?”…Well, yes
I was. “A little plane just crashed into the World Trade Center”…So I rolled out
of bed, and turned my TV to The Today Show.
Then my call
waiting beeped in and the caller ID said it was my brother. “Amanda where are
you?”…Well, in my apartment. “OK, I guess a plane hit the Trade Center”…I knew
already. I was watching on TV. But actually no one really knew what it was. At
first it was a small plane, maybe a twin engine? The reporters did not know
anything. Speculating. Then, at 9:02, as I was watching the news and talking to
my brother, I saw another plane fly into the South Tower.
This time, no
one was speculating. It was no small plane. It was a large passenger jet. Plain
as day, it was a United plane. And then I said to my brother, “oh my God, I
gotta go.” And I hung up.
I ran down
two flights of stairs and out the front doors of my building. I do not know why
I ran outside. Panic. Often times you’ll hear people talk about the weather
that day because it was such juxtaposition of perfect and disastrous. It was 80
degrees, not a single cloud in the bluest sky you’ve ever seen. Zero humidity.
Yes, under any other circumstances, this was perfect day in New York. But today
was “9/11”.
When I ran
into my street, everything actually appeared normal. After a few moments of
deep breaths, I went back into my apartment and turned on my computer. The TV
was still on, and by now, it was not hard to figure out that we had just
experienced a terrorist attack. I sat in my office desk chair, and watched as
my email inbox was just a continuous stream of emails. Subject lines, “are you
ok?”, “what’s going on?”, “trying to call”. They kept popping up and I would
open, and reply back, “yes, I’m fine” or “thank you for asking, I’m fine.”
Finally, I sent a mass email out to everyone saying I was safe.
By 945am, it
was clear the entire country was under attack, not just New York. We could not
use our phones. “All circuits are busy.” Hmmm? You think? My voicemail box kept
flashing new messages…1, 2, 3…19, 20, 21, 22 …Just around this time was when I
figured out I had no one. No family to go to, no way to get out of the city, only
a handful of friends. My experience of a lifetime was suddenly a lonely and
terrifying mistake. Thoughts raced through my mind. What was I supposed to do?
How do I get off this “island”? What if they keep attacking, where will I run?
I was glued
to that office chair, but now under the reality check of my isolation, I was praying
for emails, any contact to the outside world was comforting. Could someone
please instant message me? Where once I was living my dream, it was so clichéd
to think that in an instant, I was living a nightmare.
Then at
10:13am another email, subject line: Very bad news. I opened it.
The email
came from my aunt in North Carolina. I began reading. It said my cousin,
Karleton, was probably on one of those planes that hit the World Trade Center.
I lost my
breath. I pushed my office chair out from under me and I fell to my knees. I
began hitting the seat of the chair and screaming, “no, no, how can this be?
No, how can this happen?” The sobs came as gasps for air. That moment is frozen
in time. I don’t know how long I sat on my knees there in front of my chair, it
was as if time stopped. I was watching those large towers fall to the ground
and I was still sitting on my floor. I could not feel my body and I began to
see everything happening as if I was watching it on TV in some action packed
unimaginable thriller. It would be days before I would be willing to live in my
body again.
The first
thing I did after regaining some composure was try to use my cell phone to call
my home in Chicago. I knew my mom was at work and if she received this news
about her nephew, she would need my father to give it to her, not an email. She
was the type of person who needed family to brace her. I dialed the home number over and over.
All circuits are busy. Then a miracle- my father answered. “Did you see the
email from Barb?” He hadn’t. “It’s bad Dad, Karleton was on that plane.” My
normally stoic and close-to-the-vest with his emotions father emitted a sound
that I’ve only heard twice in his life, one of utter shock and sadness all
rolled into one. I had delivered the worst kind of news. “Dad, you have to go
get mom. You have to go to her work and tell her.”
I sat in my
office chair again, hoping for a sign of what to do. My instant messaging on my
computer was in full swing. A good friend, who worked in the Newscorp building
on 6th Ave. said, “it had to be Bin Laden.” And as I was responding
he said, “they are evacuating us. Call me if you need anything.” I didn’t even
have a chance to tell him about my cousin.
Karleton was
the kind of guy that everyone wanted to know. He picked up friends everywhere
he went, and everyone who was his friend consistently said the same things
about him. He was kind, he was generous, he loved his wife Haven “unequivocally”,
he couldn’t get enough of his new son Jackson, he was too smart for his own
good, he was tall, he was hilarious, he was always awesome, he was handsome,
and ok, he was fancy…he once jokingly described himself as ubiquitous, and hot
damn, I think he was. Karleton, or
KDBF as our family referred to him, was the kind of person that everyone
thought was their very best friend. He made everyone feel special. Months after
he died, we’d get emails from people about how they considered him their best
friend and they’d tell a story about how they were lucky enough to spend time
with him and Haven having dinner, or how KDBF would take them out for a cup of
joe just to spend some time and catch up.
I had just
emailed back and forth with KDBF the day before 9/11 about his son, 18-month
old Jackson. He had sent out pictures from his trip to the Cape where he was
holding Jackson’s hand on the beach. The pictures of this extremely tall man
and his baby walking down the beach towards the water warmed your heart, and I told
him so in my reply email. He replied to me, “thanks Cuz. You’re too kind. Love,
KDBF” One day later, those same pictures broke my heart and I printed the email
and hugged it close.
By mid-day, I
began to see the people walking by my windows. I decided to brave the outside
and I went out to my front stairs. People were walking in one direction- North.
Most of these people had their briefcases and work bags. Women were wearing
high heels, some were barefoot, but these people were all trying to make their
way home. There was no bus service, no subway service, and no commuter trains.
They closed the bridges & tunnels to all civilian cars. In a city that
counted on public transportation, there was none. Anyone who wanted to go home
had to walk across the bridges to get there. What I saw, was the beginning of
the mid-town crowd. It would be hours before I would see the soot covered
people making their way from downtown.
I directed myself to the nearest ATM thinking it might be practical to have extra cash on hand.
Apparently I was not the only one thinking in this way. The line was at least two
blocks long to use the typically unused machines in the vestibule of the bank on the
corner. My wait in the line was long. I was standing there when I first heard
the fighter jet boom overhead. It shook my body to the core and I stood there
alone, tears running down my face. The woman behind me rubbed my back as she
tightly held her young daughter’s hand. No one said a word, the silence was eerie,
horrible, suffocating. My city that was always buzzing, was now at a loss for
words.
Another jet.
Another gasp for breath. This would go one for hours, until my brain was able
to block out the noise.
For at least 45
minutes I stood in that line for money, and miraculously, I was able to get
$200 of emergency cash when it was my turn. Relieved that I had money, I walked over to the Duane Reade on the next block to
buy bottled water. In the chaos of the day, some of the news outlets were
telling people to buy water. No one knew if the attacks were over and we had to
be somewhat prepared for anything because at this point, not a single person
could have seen this beautiful day turning out so ugly, and no one wanted to
speculate on what was to come next.
The aisles of
the Duane Reade were trashed. Everything was strewn on the floors. Only a few
water bottles remained and they were rolling around on the floor. The coolers
were practically empty and the store clerk, a small Filipino woman, looked
disheveled, exhausted, and scared.
I gave her one of the twenty dollar bills I had just taken out of the
ATM , got my change, and walked out of the store with my 3 gallon bottles of
water I had picked up off of the floor without ever saying a word.
Once back
home, I continued my routine of refreshing my email every few seconds. As news
spread to more family and friends that KDBF was on Flight 11, emails and
voicemails poured into my little apartment. My instant messaging was crazy-
talking to my best friend who was stranded in Las Vegas, talking to officemates
offering to help me get out of the city when it was possible, talking to a
friend who was waiting to hear from his brother that worked downtown.
My family
kept every email. We have thousands of emails from all over the world- we kept
them for the future. So we didn’t forget the kindness of the world. We kept
them for KDBF’s kids.
The friend
who was waiting for his brother, his apartment was at 28th St, and
I’d been there a few times to hang out with other friends from time to time. He
said I could come over if I needed to be somewhere with people since I was all
alone and grieving and he was gathered with friends waiting for his brother to
hopefully arrive. I had to go physically see people I knew.
I stepped out
of my apartment again. A man covered in black dust was walking barefoot down
the street. He was tightly clutching a briefcase, had a dark colored suit on,
but it was ripped on the side of the thigh and turned a lighter shade from the soot, his feet were bare and bloodied,
and he had dried blood streaks on his face. He stared straight ahead and just
walked, zombie-like, with a very quick pace. I could not take my eyes off of
him. There was a ball in my throat and the chill in my spine was like nothing
I’d felt before. It hit me again, we were under attack, iconic buildings were
gone, thousands, maybe tens of thousands, were dead. KDBF was gone. Hurry,
hurry, find a cab.
It was no
surprise that there was not a cab to be found in the city of a million cabs –
but, as if God was actually looking out for just me, out of nowhere, there was an empty cab, and I jumped in. A kind old man was driving, he looked like George
Carlin’s grandfather. His eyes were so honest, and he appeared disillusioned
and drained. I told him my destination and as he handed me a long steamed red
rose, he said, “there will be no charge today. I am trying to get everyone to
their loved ones.” God bless. I told him about KDBF. I had to tell someone. He
cried. He got me to my friend’s apartment. I tried to give him two twenty dollar
bills, but he refused. I told him it was to cover gas, he still refused.
Later that
night, after spending time with my friend and his friends (and with great
relief, his brother had arrived and was leaving for Long Island when I walked
into the apartment), I walked home. 10PM and the city was dead.
Then the jets became noticeable again. I’ve never been so shaken, defeated, lost.
At home, I
was back in my office chair. Back to reading emails, instant messaging, and
reading articles. A strange game became watching the scroll of the names of the
victims at the bottom of the TV screen. Each time they came to the listing of
KDBF’s flight, I just held my breath hoping his name was not there. It always
was.
****
On the eve of
9/11, eleven years later, I can’t believe where I am. No longer alone, I have three
perfect children, an extraordinary husband, beautiful friends, and my extended
family is so awe-inspiring.
The long,
long, way my family has come from that day is simply overwhelming. KDBF’s
gorgeous and talented sons (turns out his wife was newly pregnant when he took
that flight. She had delivered the news to him on September 9th)
are growing up happy and loved. They have a little brother and a father who has
adopted them. His sisters are raising kids he’d be so proud of- he would have
been a hilarious uncle. My aunt and uncle have grown emotionally and worked
though a parent’s worst nightmare beautifully. And my cousins, all of them, we
all have our own stories of that day. There are times when some of us will share our stories
with each other and get emotional, however, most of the time, we will simply send a quick
text or an email as a reminder of how freakin' handsome and ubiquitous Karleton
was. Doing this reminds us all, we’re never alone, and it never fails to bring a smile to my face. Handsome and ubiquitous. Damn, that he was, that he was.
