New York 9/11/01: A Personal Reckoning
Publisher’s Statement
New York: 9/11/01
A Personal Reckoning
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
