Guest Editorial: Sept. 11: A day that will be remembered, despite my best efforts

 Thirteen years ago I awoke in my apartment on Staten Island on Tuesday morning to pack for a flight to Egypt leaving that afternoon. 

My mother was to fly from Kansas City to the JFK airport where we would meet and travel together for a two-week vacation. 

My aunt called telling me to be careful on our trip as somebody had just crashed a plane into a building in New York.

I turned on the news and saw a plane had indeed crashed into the World Trade Center. I ran to my kitchen window, still in my robe, and looked across the harbor to see smoke pouring out. I ran back to the television in the living room. And thus began this weird cycle of running from the couch in front of the TV to the window to see if this was really happening. It was both cool and scary to see things on TV and in real life at the same time. 

Details were sketchy as no one knew what kind of plane had crashed. People would occasionally fly personal planes between the buildings as a dare. Just a couple of weeks prior, some nut job got his paraglider stuck on the arm of the Statue of Liberty. The fire department had to get him down. 

When it was determined it was an airline plane and an attack, someone on the news suggested planes were being used as missiles. I remembered my mother about to fly to NYC.

I called her on her cellular but there was no answer. I called the airport in Kansas City to try to reach her but was unsuccessful. I continued frantically trying to reach her. Finally, while chatting online describing what I was seeing, an old friend’s chat window popped open. I told her what was going on and asked how far from the airport she was. “About 20-30 minutes,” she said. With that I begged her to drive to the airport to stop my mom from getting on a plane to New York.

She dropped everything and headed to the airport, arriving in record time. Without knowing the gate she ran through the airport until she found my mom waiting to board. She handed my mom her cellular phone. With tremendous relief I told my mother not to get on the plane and described what was going on in New York. By that time, the other plane had crashed and both buildings were smoking heavily. While I was talking to her I heard a rumble from outside my kitchen window. 

I arrived in time to see the first building crumble in place.

They closed the airspace to all air traffic a few minutes later so my mom’s plane never would have left the ground. 

Meanwhile, I continued my cycle between the television and my window but added the apartment building rooftop. It was such a beautiful and clear day. The air was only slight crisp with the cooling winds announcing fall’s arrival. I remember the contrast of the mountains of black and gray smoke against a royal-blue sky.

Eventually afternoon, evening, and then finally night had fallen. My eyes were still glued to the television as I watched images of people walking across the Brooklyn Bridge, lined up at the tunnels, trapped in their vehicles on the Goethals and Outer Bridge crossings as they closed the entrances to the city. 

After a while I noticed my butt felt numb and my legs were falling asleep. I didn’t realize until then I was still wearing my robe. I hadn’t gotten dressed. I had spent the entire day in my bathrobe. I was hungry because I hadn’t eaten. I simply forgot to do these simple things. 

The following weeks are written in the history books. I tried to give blood but the line was around the block. After waiting over an hour, we were told to go home. They couldn’t take anymore. Their blood stocks were full because no victims had made it to the hospitals. When I asked how else I could help I was told to donate socks and bottled water. “Socks?” I asked. “Yeah,” they said. “It’s for the dogs searching for the victims. The ground’s still too hot because of the fires.”

I was certain they would find a pocket of people under the Towers or in the subway tunnels. Every day and night they searched and dug. I know because I watched them from my window every day and night. I held onto this hope for more than two months after the attacks. 

I was wrong. They never found anybody.

So, when it comes to Sept. 11 and the whole “Never Forget” thing, I just kind of wish people would stop saying “Never Forget! Never Forget!” I really kind of wish I could forget. 

I wish I could forget that feeling of helplessness. I wish I could forget that feeling of insecurity. I wish I could forget the uneasy feeling I got whenever I went into the city and smelled the odor of burning electrical cable that remained in the city for weeks to come. 

However, that’s never going to happen. Even without their reminders.

Anthony Cooperwood is a musician and instructor who currently lives in Montreal, Canada.