This essay first appeared on my Instagram account, where I occasionally post under the handle @thewritestyles. It seems like a lifetime ago, in 2020, when I decided to use that space to bring back the writer in me. It was after posting this experience on the 20th anniversary of 9/11 that I began to dig deeper and share extended captions and short stories about life growing up in New York City. The people, the places, and the experiences that molded me and my love of a city that is the true keeper of my memories. I hope you’ll allow me the space to share this story here today, an edited version, born of looking back 23 years later on the anniversary of 9/11.
My first published article was about the evacuation of daycare centers at Ground Zero.
My two-year-old son would have been at one of those daycare centers that day. I would have dropped my oldest at kindergarten, headed to the daycare that sat in the shadow of the Twin Towers and after kissing him goodbye, walked to my office on the 47th floor of a building just a few blocks away.
Instead, on the afternoon of September 10th, with no rhyme or reason, no premeditated thought, or with anyone in my family aware of what I was doing, I got up from my desk, went into my managers office, and asked for the next day off.
I'm still not sure who that woman was who pulled me out of my seat that day and changed the trajectory of my life but I remember thinking it had to be the work of divine intervention.
All these years later, I feel differently about divine intervention. It seems unfair to think some of us are chosen and others are not. Now I believe that life is determined by things we would never expect, things so mundane we can’t even bother to think about them. It’s running late and missing your bus, changing your flight at the last minute, getting somewhere early, or deciding simply, for no reason, not to go to work - those are the moments that can ultimately change your life story.
I remember telling my husband that I would throw myself a party if I got published, something so completely out of character for me, but I also never imagined my first chance at being published would be born out of a tragedy in my own backyard. When I held that newspaper in my hands, saw my name on the byline and read the words I had pieced together, there were a million things I wanted to do - throwing a party was not one of them.
I wanted to go back in time and tell my friend Lucy to drop her son off on his first day of kindergarten instead of having her husband do it. I wanted to tell her to linger at the deli counter and chat with the woman who served up her coffee. I wanted to tell her to take her time making her way in on that beautiful, picture-perfect sunny day instead of getting in early and sitting at her desk on the 104th floor.
I would have, I would have, I would have.
There were so many like Lucy that broke my heart into a million pieces that day, but Lucy broke it the hardest. She was too much like me to no longer be here.
We all have a story to tell about that day. The moment the phone rang, the exact second we flipped on the TV, the instant we saw it from our windows, or as we walked away from a downtown that seemed right out of a movie scene. It's like the generations before us that know exactly where they were when JFK was shot. It's history. It's painful. It's a harsh reality that no generation eludes tragedy, trauma, or immense heartbreak.
This year, like I do every year, I’ll get up early and in my own moment of silence, stare out the window and honor Lucy and all the names etched into the granite walls at Ground Zero that I have so often run my hands across.
I will never forget.
This is my story.
Maybe someday, you will tell me yours.
-Dina
*A few photos of today and yesterday.
*Cover photo and photo above from 911ground zero.com. All others are my own.
“This sculpture stood as a symbol of world peace through world trade at the center of Austin J. Tobin Plaza between the Twin Towers. Commonly referred to as the "Sphere." Following September 11, 2001, the "Sphere" took on additional meaning of hope and resilience when it was recovered from the rubble at Ground Zero and relocated to Battery Park.”
Your essay gives me goose bumps. I think for so many of us who lived in the NY area- or may still- we share these types of stories. Never forget.
Dearest DIna, there are no words, and the heart is a heart sending love to you today. I am so sorry for your indescribable loss and my US friends, including those I have had the privilege of meeting and making here, are so very much in my thoughts today, here in the UK. Thank you for sharing your heart and your words.