9-11 Conversations, 10 years of memories

Edward's cousin worked at Cantor Fitzgerald. I would hear about his cousin's death when Edward came into Barnes & Noble in Westport, where I began working in October, 2001 after my job in New York came to an end that August.

Edward was very depressed. He just wanted something of his brother's, wanted to go back, touch the site. I believe he got a sweater of the cousin's.

Then there was the time I was wrapping a child's gift. I smiled, "Who's it for?"

The patron, stonefaced, told me "her father died in the attacks."

***
Moving to New York in 2001, I had a choice of either living in the city or moving farther out into the 'burbs. I chose the latter, but commuted into Midtown Manhattan, where I worked as a real estate writer for Rubenstein Associates. This PR firm happened to have represented, and still does, Larry Silverstein Properties.

I had no idea who Silverstein was, but I knew this was all pretty fancy. I also knew that New York was a mystery, from its east side to its west side, Chelsea to lower Manhattan and the buzz of Midtown.

When I left that job, just a few weeks shy of 9-11, I didn't realize how lucky I was. I remember jumping into a cab and heading out to Battery Park and staring out at the Statue of Liberty across the river. I'll succeed here, I thought, even though it was not yet clear to me how. I knew PR was not really for me.

***
After 9-11, I felt compelled to head back to the city and connect. I went to Cornelia St. to read poems. That was the first night at Cornelia, the first of many nights where I'd share my poems. There, the Wall Street Poet shared his beautiful and eloquent prose -- so sharply contrasted to the wandering, bohemian offerings of us. Eugene Schlanger, a.k.a. the WSP, knew intimately the streets around the New York Stock Exchange, Battery, Wall, Front.

That Friday night in September, 2001 a collection of women got together in the Village to support one another, share phone numbers we'd never call, and then stumble out into the still grey night of New York. The ashes still deep in the air just a few blocks south of us, I remember one woman telling me about a coworker she'd lost that day. It was an everyday commment in those early days after the attack.

I went to board my train home from Grand Central, passing the hundreds of faces of the "missing" tacked to makeshift placards as I walked. I took a couple pictures of people looking at the names. Instinctively I knew none of these people was actually missing.

***
At Bridges, a mental health facility in Milford, Conn. I temped for a couple weeks right after 9-11.

While there, I was tasked with filing, making appointments and greeting visitors. I noticed that one particular counselor, Mary Fetchett, wasn't taking appointments. "Why isn't Mary booking?" I asked.

A voice told me then about her son, Bradley.

Mary Fetchett later became a very vocal and nationally-known activist, a beacon for the 9-11 families as they took those precarious steps toward the new reality. For although we were all grieving the loss of our innocence, the loss of a world without 27 security checks and bomb-sniffing dogs at airports, people like Mary Fetchett, my patron Edward McManus, and later, families of my coworkers from Incisive Media in SoHo, who lost 10 workers at Windows on the World would be knowing something deeper.

And for them, for David Rivers of Incisive Media, Bradley Fetchett, Edward's cousin, the poet's coworker and all the hundreds more I shed a tear.

No, it didn't change the world that day. And other countries have experienced even more abominable horrors, but this will always stand uniquely as a great American tragedy. And today, more than ever, I am very proud to be an American.