Publisher’s Statement

New York: 9/11/01

 A Personal Reckoning 

By James La Rossa Jr.

There are two roadway approaches to New York City from which the awesome grandeur and sheer power of this metropolis come clearly into focus. Just prior to entering either the Midtown or the Holland Tunnels, you come to a sudden rise in the road, where the east and west sides of Manhattan, respectively, are splayed-out in a vertical panorama of humbling proportions. The breadth and size of the island is incomparable to anything in nature, because nothing in nature—Not the Andes, nor the Big Dipper—shares this scale of steel, glass, and humanity. For a split-second, sometimes, I find myself lost in the view of my own city. So, my eyes will lock-in on a landmark: the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the Twin Towers. Our office is on the SOHO/TRIBECA border, about 15 blocks from the towers.

The Twin Towers collapsed on the morning we were scheduled to ship this PTSD issue to the printer (these PTSD features were prepared originally for our sister journal TEN). It was a crisp, beautiful morning and I rode my bicycle to work—passing within two blocks of the towers. When I arrived at the office, I tuned the radio to National Public Radio (NPR) like I do every morning. When they stopped transmitting sometime after 9 AM, I thought something was wrong with my radio. While I was fiddling with the dial, one of our editors burst in to tell me the north tower took a direct hit from a commercial jet and was on fire. It took a few minutes to put two and two together: The NPR transmitter was on the north tower, and the north tower was on fire, so that’s why the radio was dead. I picked-up the phone and called a good friend who I thought might be flying that morning. By the time I hung up, the second plane hit the south tower.

From our office on Hudson Street, we had an unobstructed view of the towers.  By the time I reached the street, the sidewalks were filled with pedestrians frozen in disbelief on their way to work. As the enormity of the situation began to dawn on them, people began to reach for their cellphones looking for comforting voices, but the phones were dead. I walked to Canal Street to talk to some cops directing traffic. Emergency vehicles were flooding in from the Holland Tunnel. The cops looked terrified. Until then, I fully expected to calm everyone back in the office and get to work. An ashen cop told me all the bridges and tunnels were closed, both outbound and inbound. How could that be? If there is an evacuation, then how can outbound thoroughfares be closed? I ran back to the office and we made plans to suspend all publication and begin moving towards our respective homes on foot. Don’t bring any work, don’t take the subway, just go.

The first tower collapsed as everyone began to file out. People began to run north, and a lot of them were crying. When I got the last person out of the office, I shut down the central air and locked-up. I grabbed a bottle of Evian and started walking toward the Manhattan Bridge, which would be less affected by the collapse since it is north of the Brooklyn Bridge. I could see in the distance firemen running, and people screaming. I was far enough away from the impact not to be concerned for my own safety. I stood silent in the middle of a side street and watched the second tower melt away in a surreal avalanche that turned half the day to night. I am a third generation New Yorker, and I thought I had seen just about everything…until then.

Seven days later, we are all acutely aware of what occurred. Many of us are racked with survivor’s guilt. Emergency services personnel have the cleanup under control. We still smell the smoke from time to time. Political options being considered by our government are a convenient distraction, but give little comfort. Many of us are sleeping more than usual and are withdrawn and distracted.

Myrna Weissman, PhD, in an editorial she wrote for Primary Psychiatry’s sister journal TEN weeks before the September 11 disaster, and featured in this special edition of Primary Psychiatry, strikes a clairvoyant connection between war and PTSD. Dr. Weissman and I spoke recently, and she recounted how by mid-morning on the 11th, some of the victims began to straggle on foot to their homes on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, where Myrna lives. Many of them were men carrying briefcases, their suits covered in soot, and tears streaming down their faces; they reminded her of pictures of Jewish German bankers being led off to the camps in World War II.

I would like to dedicate this issue to our staff. I wish there was a way to take the pain of this experience from them. They have been courageous beyond words. This issue is a testament to their honest hearts. Although we may never have the Twin Towers to use as a landmark again, I am more hopeful than ever that we will always find our way home.

James M. La Rossa Jr.
Tuesday, September 18, 2001
New York, NY

NEW COPY (from a recent writing):

Jimmy (me) was standing in the large conference room with 25 employees, trying to keep everyone calm. At that time, the first plane had hit the north tower.

“Look, let’s all continue to close today’s issue of PP. We don’t know yet what’s going on. Some reports say it was a small plane, others say it was a jet. Please, EVERYONE STAY PUT while I go to Houston Street to talk to police command. I promise, I’ll be right back with a plan of action.”

EVERYONE on the street is stopped in their tracks, looking south at the burning building. Some are furiously trying to dial cellphones, but the lines are dead. Jimmy trots to Houston Street and looks for a senior cop. All the streets are closed. Fire trucks, ambulances and police cruisers are streaming south. He walks in a circle and sees a woman cop standing alone. He approaches her cautiously. She looks scared, he thinks to himself. He can see the tower burning over her head.

“Officer, I have 25 people in an office upstairs. How should we proceed?”
“Everything’s Closed.”
“You mean the bridges are closed.”
“Everything.”
“Just the inbound levels right?”
“No, everything.”
Jimmy begins to protest — well how the hell can you evacuate the City if you don’t let people out over the bridges — he’s about to say when he sees with his own two eyes a jetliner in the picture-perfect blue sky crease through the south tower, spreading a huge ball of fire and debris. A universal scream of horror erupts from every mouth on the street.

He begins to run back to the office then starts to walk. “Reserve your strength,” he says to himself, knowing he’ll have to sprint to get his children at school.

“OK,” he addresses the staff. “Everyone go the kitchen, grab ONE bottle of water — they’ll be no place to urinate — head out the door and keep going north. Stay in groups. Don’t run. Walk. We’re not in danger from here, but we have a full- blown crisis. Take ONLY those items you absolutely need.

After everyone files out, he goes to the compressor room in the loft, and throws the main breaker for the central air. The huge compressors rev down and stop. He moves to the electrical room and shuts everything down. He goes to the kitchen, grabs a large bottle of Evian water and hustles down the stairs. He’s halfway down, when he feels the rumble and hears screaming from the street. By the time he’s on the street, a massive plume of dust has replaced the south tower. Last hit, first to fall.

People are running north. He puts his hands up and yells, “STOP RUNNING, STOP RUNNING.” No matter. They continue to run.

He heads east on side streets. It’s an unseasonably warm morning, so he decides to cross the Manhattan Bridge since it is north of the Brooklyn Bridge to get Sofia, 10, and Gianni, 8, at school. As he crosses major avenues, he can see that the plume of the fallen tower is going due east, right where the kids are. Juliana, the two year old will be home with his wife. There’s no way to contact anyone. When he gets to the lower level, it is closed for emergency vehicles. Being a runner, he knows the bridges well, so traverses the metal catwalk on the upper level. When his footing is solid, he begins to trot carefully. There’s a lot of people on the bridge. When he’s at the top, he sees an obese black woman sitting on the ground vomiting. Someone, perhaps a friend, is standing over her. He hesitates, gives the sitting woman his water bottle and moves on. As he gets to the other side of the bridge, he begins to see people completely covered in dust, some hysterical, others just walking.

By the time he gets to the school in Brooklyn Heights, there are office papers everywhere. Where are the kids he says to the front door guard. “Go to the Dean’s Office.”

He sees the kids and grabs them both hard. He signs them out and they begin to walk the two miles home. He tells the kids what little he knows and keeps them moving. Jimmy is on a mission and he does little to comfort his children — something he would regret for a lifetime, as his son, Gianni, would develop over time the clear symptoms of Panic Disorder, almost certainly brought on by this day. When they are two blocks away from home, they see their mother. She is at the curb, with Juliana in her arms, crying hysterically, her Land Cruiser idling at the curb. The children run to her. They all hug.

Jimmy returns the car to the garage on Union Street and makes the short walk home. He notices for the first time the acrid smell, heavy in the air. That stink, which no one was willing to admit was the smell of flesh, along with industrial wiring and anything else that could melt, would be with them every day until the late December cold arrived.