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World Trade Center Recollection
It was my Birthday—September 11th— and I was on the number 4 train
commuting down to Trinity Church when an announcement came
over the loudspeaker that we would be bypassing Fulton Street station
due to falling debris from the World Trade Center. A chef from the
Marriott Hotel nearby had boarded the train up at Brooklyn Bridge in an
attempt to get home. He told us that a plane had hit one of the
towers. Figuring that it was a Cessna or other small craft that had
simply gone out of control, we all exited the train at Wall Street
expecting to see a couple of smashed windows.
The devastation took everyone’s breath away as one by one we climbed the
stairs to the street level. The entire upper floors we engulfed in
flames, smoke billowing out in all directions, pieces of metal and glass
falling to the ground below. A bunch of us watched horrified as a
second jet sliced through the second tower. Up until that point we
figured, or wanted to believe, that this was a commercial liner gone out
of control on its way up the Hudson to La Guardia airport. The second
explosion instantly confirmed our worst nightmare: this was the
terrorist attack which, ever since the first bombing in 1993, we half
expected but prayed would never happen.
The second plane, as I’m sure you’ve seen from the countless television
replays, didn’t simply hit the building, it exploded through it. The
image was a scene out of the movie "Die Hard," and the ensuing fireball
and smoke, and the roar of the explosion were terrifying. The
events sent many people into the church to pray and cry and just get
away from the horror. Father Stuart Hoke read psalms and lead us in
prayer; I was called into service to play a couple of hymns.
But after a while (being a city kid after all, from 105th street) I
said, "OK, we’ve praised the Lord enough; it’s time to get the hell
outta’ here!" The highjackers had aimed their "flying bombs" so as to take out
a corner and an entire side of each tower. I had a horrible feeling
that the towers could fall, and knew that Trinity would be well within
the reach of those toppling giants.
A verger, David Wright, and I heard a horrendous noise and ran to the
back door of the church to see what was happening. With a clear
view of the South Tower, we watched as the building began to collapse.
David screamed "O my God!" and it marked the first time I was
truly afraid. It really looked as if, from three blocks away—only two
football fields—we were going to be consumed. The sound of the
crushing metal, the thousands of splintering panes of glass, the
deafening explosion, people falling or jumping from the building as it
crumbled—it was a maelstrom, and I don’t think I’ve ever used that word
before in my life. I just keep seeing it and hearing it over and over.
Newtonian physics and gravity being what they are, the tower fell
straight down like a giant accordion. An earthquake shook the ground
beneath us and broke windows across the street in the Trinity Office
building but somehow the stained glass of Trinity remained intact. The
moments immediately following were terrifying—David and I no sooner
closed the door when tons of debris started to fly down the street
and blanketed the church and the graveyard next to us. Smoke and a fine
ash-like pumice came through the closed windows and the sky
turned completely black.
The fifteen or so people in the church were divided as to where the best
place to seek shelter would be. Our security guard wanted us to
move to the basement and crypt area but, being claustrophobic, I wasn’t
about to go "down" anywhere. I figured (and our Vergers agreed)
that we should stay put since we had a column of breathable air in the
nave of the church, bottled water from the choir room and towels
from the sacristy to cover our mouths and faces from the smoke.
Our Vicar, John Howard, and his wife, Marie, had already headed South to
the Ferry terminal before the first building collapsed. Fr. Hoke,
who had lead the prayers had also left the church. It was kind of
odd that there was no priest in the church, but I understand many
of them were busy across the street evacuating the pre-school.
After a short time, the second building (the North Tower) collapsed. The
sound and wreckage were the same, and again the ground shook
and the sky turned black. More debris fell on the church and still more
smoke started pouring in through the leading of the stained glass
windows. We sat tight and figured once the dust settled—literally—we
would try to make it to the East River or head South to the ferry
terminal.
In about an hour, a ray of sun was visible through the windows. The only
clear pane of glass in the church is one in my office, and we
went up to take a look. The only people on the street were fire fighters
wearing gas masks. Occasionally, you could see civilians running
for cover with rags covering their mouths. We figured it was time to
move out and David Wright bravely stayed behind to secure the church.
We opened the doors and tentatively walked into pandemonium. I was very
grateful to have the company of Julie Liston, a soprano in the
Trinity Choir. Julie had been late for work and would have been working
on one of the upper floors of the North Tower had she been on
time. But she saw the inferno caused by the first plane crash and had
the good sense to stay away. Not knowing where to turn, and feeling
the same sense of helplessness that we all shared, she walked down to
Trinity. I was so happy to see a familiar face. Needless to say, if
she’d been on time, she’d be dead.
David Jette, the Head Verger, went South to the Ferry to try to get a
boat to his home on Staten Island. Julie and I ran into Melvin Fulton
from the third floor clergy office who was trying to get home to
Brooklyn. The rest of the fifteen or so folks who had taken refuge in
the church all wished each other well and we went our separate ways.
Julie and I both needed to head North; she to Inwood and I needed to get
to Connecticut. Having run a marathon in the past, I knew that if I
could run 26.2 miles, I could certainly walk 35 to my house if I had to.
No subways or buses were running, of course. There was no
running water, no electricity. The city around us was dead. And it was
strangely quiet. The eight to ten inches of ash and debris on the
ground had the same effect as a snowstorm; all sound was deadened or
muffled.
As we walked across Broadway in front of the church and looked uptown,
you could see nothing but blackness in the sky, debris
everywhere. We stepped over a sea of wallets and brief cases, single
shoes and smoldering faxes—all "floating" within a dull white
foot-high ocean of vaporized wallboard and glass. If anyone was outside
and within a block or two of those buildings as they fell, I felt
certain they would have suffocated; we had trouble breathing inside the
church.
So, with wet towels around our necks and over our mouths, we started
walking. We ran into a fireman who was obviously dazed and
injured. He told us that he had been blown half a block down the street
and managed, somehow, to grab hold of a fence which saved his
life. He said that five of his fellow firefighters—five of his
buddies—had been blown away and turned into "charcoal."
We headed East. All I wanted to do is get to the East River where we
could breath. Julie and I made it to the river and looked back in
disbelief. A cloud, hundreds of feet tall and wide had engulfed the
financial district and was not moving. We had been there. We had been
at "ground zero" and survived—we’d be OK.
We walked up to Grand Central where Julie and I parted company. She
braved the hoards of people trying to get home to Westchester and
Connecticut. Since I had not been able to get word to anyone—phone
service, land or cell, was impossible—I felt I needed to walk up to
St. Thomas Choir School to see my son John and let him know I was
alright.
As I entered the school and saw the kids in his class, they began to
laugh; I was, after all, covered in white ash, my pants and shirt were
soiled with debris, and my hair was white with ash. The laughter quickly
stopped as they realized where I had been. My son rushed to hug
me, and I lost it. It finally hit me: I was alive!
I made a couple of phone calls and then walked to New York Hospital to
try to give blood or help volunteer. As I’m sure you’ve seen on the news
coverage, they turned everyone away. Aside from the earliest burn
victims and cuts and abrasion victims who were, for the most part, taken
to St. Vincent’s trauma center, there were no patients. Today, 72 hours
later, there are still none. Doctors from all over the country are
waiting around emergency rooms shooting paper clips at each other, going
stir crazy. There is nothing to do. There are as yet no survivors.
I finally made my way to Grand Central which, by 7:00 PM, was a ghost
town. I caught a train and was glad to be home. I woke up in my
clothes; ash still covered my shoes.
September 11th is my birthday. I have decided in the future, rather than
celebrating on 9-11, to celebrate on 11-9, November 9th—I’m
now a Scorpio! Seriously, I can’t begin to express the gratitude I feel
for the real birthday present I received: your e-mail, your concern,
and the concern of so many friends.
The ninety-plus calls and emails I have received from all over the world
have been the most moving and powerful outpouring of love I have
ever felt.
The folks who know about such things have posted eleven symptoms of
"Post Traumatic Stress Disorder" or some such name. I must
admit to demonstrating 10 out of 11. The worst is the recurring visions
of that building coming down.
Please pray for the victims and their families. Please know also that
I’m fine, and stir crazy myself at not being able to do anything: we
can’t get near the church. They’re turning volunteers away, figuring
that if you don’t know what you’re doing, you could pull a brick and
fifty more could come tumbling down. But I feel like I can’t wait to get
back and help clean up the mess.
God's blessings on us all.
Postscript----
Ten days after the attack, Trinity employees were moved to temporary
quarters on the eleventh floor of 100 Sixth Avenue, just above Canal
Street. We were very lucky to have the space available. Within a matter
of days, everyone at Trinity, including 120 pre-schoolers, 165
employees— and Fr. Williams—were all accounted for.
Everyone made it; there were no casualties except the organs. All four
organs—three at Trinity, and one at St. Paul’s Chapel—suffered the
effects of two separate 2.6 earthquakes which were recorded 600 miles
away as each building collapsed. Now a matter for the insurance
companies and the Vestry, we don’t yet know whether the organs will be
cleaned and rebuilt or replaced entirely.
The ministry to the firefighters, police, construction, and rescue
workers at St. Paul’s Chapel has been and continues to be nothing short
of phenomenal. St. Paul’s, Trinity Church’s only remaining chapel, is
located four blocks north of Trinity on Broadway and only 200 feet from
"ground zero." Miraculously, the 235-year-old building (New York City’s
oldest continuously used public edifice) was unscathed and remains
structurally sound.
Given "Six Degrees of Separation" however, there probably isn’t a single
member of AAM that hasn’t been personally touched by the events of
September 11th. Many of your parishes have sent both lay and clergy
volunteers to St. Paul’s to help in the aftermath, and we are all deeply
grateful for their invaluable assistance.
Eight weeks later, with 500,000 tons of wreckage removed, the 16 acre
site continues to look like a nuclear holocaust. The core temperature of
the "pile" is still reported to be well over 800 degrees. Firefighters
and construction workers must replace their melted boots when they come
to St. Paul’s for food breaks. Some days, when the wind kicks up, the
smell of the burning debris is overwhelming, and there are still seven
stories of collapsed sub-basements to be excavated.
But Trinity has been cleared by the FBI and the city authorities to open
its doors this All Saints’ Sunday. The ministry at St. Paul’s will
continue. The organs will sound again. The faithful will continue to
worship in the beauty of holiness, and the holiness of the beauty of
Trinity Church as they have for over 300 years. "And all will be well.
And all will be well. And all manner of thing shall be well." | 
