Back To The Bricks: A Reflection on 9/11

On a warm and sunny September morning in 2001, my main concern was not being late for work. This was my daily routine, and nothing about that morning felt different from any other. As I sat at the back of a crowded 25 bus en route to Newark Penn Station, I never predicted I’d witness and be affected by one of the most shocking and devastating events in American history.

I remember the sun shining through the exposed roof structure of Penn Station onto the platforms below, which was filled with commuters trying to get into position for the next PATH train to New York City. Figuring I could stand to get to work more quickly, I decided to ride the New Jersey Transit express line from Trenton, which had just arrived on the opposite track and wasn’t uncomfortably full yet.

I gazed out of the window as the train departed the station after a brief boarding period. We navigated steadily along the Passaic River, a swampy landscape surrounded by debilitated factory-like structures that were in the process of either being demolished or renovated. For some reason, I focused on what appeared to be a refinery chimney in the distance that was spilling black smoke into the clear morning sky. But as we inched along, I and a few other commuters realized that this was, in fact, one of many high rises that decorated the New York City sky line. And it was on fire.

Oblivious to how tragic the situation was, I noticed that the mood on the train began to shift from curiosity to concern, as we could clearly observe the damage to the building’s upper floors, and saw on the face of the building a big burned out black hole with chucks of debris still falling from it.

At some point, rumors began to circulate through the train cars that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. As the train approached its destination at New York Penn Station, local radio stations began airing reports about the incident. Feeling more astonished than alarmed, I figured this was just an unfortunate accident.

Then a passenger in the same car I was riding in began making accusations that this was a terrorist attack stemming from the ongoing conflicts in the Middle East. The comments seemed to personally affect passengers who looked to either be from or descended from the region, their growing impatience with the speculation clearly showing on their faces.

But I remained silent, undistracted by the gossip. I was just hoping to arrive at Penn Station so that I could hurry to the office and share with my co-workers what I just witnessed. Upon arriving at the station, it was clear that the incident had taken a toll. The morning’s event had changed what was usually a freeway of zombie robots making their way to work into a traffic jam of lost and bewildered faces. Coffee shop televisions divulged breaking news reports, distracting many as they tried to continue to their destinations.

I noticed that the police presence was stronger than normal, and that many officers openly brandished automatic weapons with extended clips. Some even wore body armor. They were trying to redirect traffic with hopes of securing the station for a temporary lockdown. After reaching street level, I was informed by a fellow commuter that the train we arrived on was the last line in and out of New York City. The streets were full of frantic pedestrians wandering around in shock as sirens blared throughout the city. Low flying fighter jets droned overhead, only multiplying the ominous din.

My office was within walking distance of the train station. After clearing security at the employee entrance, I was again reminded of the seriousness of the situation by the near-carbon copy of the scene at Penn Station now playing out right in my office lobby: the elevators were my new train; the building security seemed as foreboding as the station’s heavily armed police.

I managed to squeeze into one of the few overly packed elevators, listening as morning greetings slowly turned from rumor to concern to panic, particularly amongst those whose relatives frequented the city’s downtown area. Eventually, I realized I wasn’t the only person with details about the morning commute. I felt myself gradually being absorbed into the confused and anxious vibe in the office.

An urgent need to contact home soon became my overriding objective. At first I couldn’t get through to New Jersey due to the high volume of calls being made, but I connected eventually. A bit overwhelmed by the news reports, my wife asked whether I was safe. Everyone knew that I worked in New York, and the phones rang continuously as family and friends tried to connect out of concern for me. I reassured her that I was alright, that a citywide shutdown would detour my commute home, and not to worry.

“I always make it back to the Bricks,” I told her.

Feeling a little bit of relief after contacting home, I headed to the building’s rooftop to clear my mind and look out over the city — it was something of a morning ritual. But when I arrived, I noticed an unusual security presence and a number of other executive employees. I guess we all had the same idea. It was there that we witnessed the second plane fly directly into the tower next to the one that was already on fire. Reports of the second tower’s fate promptly began broadcasting through the various radio news stations being listened to in the office.

I immediately located my supervisor, and she informed me of the evacuation plans for the office. She said a ferry to New Jersey might be boarding from nearby Pier 7. Fortunately for me, it was within walking distance. I decided to leave the office and try to make my way home. I walked the few blocks to the pier, where I witnessed one of the biggest crowds I’d ever seen in my life.

After what seemed like forever waiting to board the ferry (in actuality, it was three or four hours), we started our journey back to Jersey. The smell of fear and panic was still in the air as the ferry crew tried to calm anxious passengers. They passed out free refreshments (saltine crackers, bread, and water) and even tried to render medical assistance to one of the passengers, who seemed to be a victim of the incident downtown. He was bleeding from somewhere on his head, his clothes were bloody, and his skin was covered in black soot. I guessed that he was probably in shock, and that he’d reasoned he would have an easier time getting medical attention once he arrived in New Jersey. He’d left the scene trying to find his way home.

We arrived on the other side of the Hudson River in Weehawken, where a caravan of buses waited to accommodate the many concerned and still alarmed commuters. The buses transported us to the nearest operating train station, which was in Hoboken.

Once there, I waited for another three or four hours for the train to depart, occasionally nodding off, and trying to take my mind off of the morning’s events. As the train rolled into Newark’s Broad Street Station, a feeling of relief consumed my soul.

Thank you God for getting me back to the Bricks safely.

As I walked to the nearest bus stop, I noticed how abandoned the city’s downtown and adjacent areas were. Everything was closed — even the gas stations. But that didn’t bother me. I was just happy to be back home in the Bricks.

As I rode the bus back up the hill I thought to myself, “Simmy, you gotta get out of New York and focus on your own business affairs. It’s time. You ain’t getting any younger.”

From that day forward, I knew my life would never be the same.

Simuel Gordon - BrickMediaWorks LLC - Newark, NJ - SimuelGordon@gmail.com