9/11 lives inside me although I try not to think about it. This week, I had to write a statement about 9/11 for the Victim Compensation Fund. The images remain indelible. But I tried to keep my response simple.
What do you remember about being there at the time?
When you ask a question like this, I close my eyes and sigh. 9/11 was a Tuesday, election day, and I was listening to the news on the radio and putting on makeup getting ready to go vote. A low-flying plane roared over our house in Greenwich Village and the small building shook. The radio went dead. My husband Nick Taylor came in from outside, breathless, and said that a plane had crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center. I said, “You have to come with me.” I called my office and Assignment Editor Elaine Higgins agreed that I should head to the towers. I put on a black dress, sneakers and grabbed a backpack.
Outside some of our neighbors huddled in groups looking shocked and confused. Others stood at the corner of Seventh Avenue South and Bleecker Street where they could see the burning North Tower
I remember the bright blue, cloudless sky as Nick and I headed south along Seventh Avenue South, which becomes Varick Street. Hundreds of people ran north and passed us without looking at us. We walked against this sea of people toward the towers. I called my office and learned that it was terrorist attack. Another plane had flown into the South Tower, one had struck the Pentagon, and a fourth had crashed in Pennsylvania.
Where were our intelligence people? Why weren’t they paying attention? Nick and I wondered.
As we got close an acrid smell filled the air and burned in our nostrils. We saw jagged flames shooting out of the North Tower and looked up to see people, tiny images in windows waving white flags, or shirts hoping to signal rescuers. Fire trucks, EMS, and police surrounded the buildings. We stood on Vesey Street near the foot of the North Tower and two sets of plainclothes detectives appeared beside us. They said they had been in their cars on the Brooklyn Bridge and like us had come to try to do something, me to report, they to help. We stood there together for a few minutes and then a creaking sound followed by a roar told us something was happening.
One of the detectives yelled, “Run! She’s coming down.” We ran north on Greenwich Street as the South Tower collapsed. Clouds of dust and debris shot around the corners of the buildings behind us. People ran beside us screaming. A heavy-set woman wearing heels fell and pushed herself to her feet again and kept running. Nick and I stopped at the corner. The burning smoky smell filled the air. I tried to reach my office but my analog phone did not work. The assignment editor had told me they were trying to get a camera crew for me and I wanted to connect with them.
It felt like a bad dream where everything slows down and you can’t move. Dust and shreds of paper filled the air. Nick and I stood close to the curb and looked up at the North Tower and watched the flames shoot out of the middle of the building. A helicopter flew close to the corner of the north windows. It wobbled. People high up near the top appeared like little white dots. The helicopter rocked back and forth. I thought and wished that the pilot would rescue people. Then the helicopter flew away. A second or maybe a minute later someone jumped, “No. Don’t do that,” I screamed as the body tumbled out of the window. A man near us said, “Maybe they don’t have a choice.” One person tumbled into the air after another. Sometimes it was two people together, holding hands.
We stood there unable to make a difference, to help. I knew the one thing that I could do was tell the story. I had to find a phone. We walked to Chambers Street. The area seemed oddly deserted. The sky was still bright blue and cloudless but smoke floated in the air. I saw someone in the closed McDonald’s and knocked on the door. The manager was alone and let me use the handset of his fax machine to call my office. The Assistant News Director Michael St. Peter told me that the WNYW-Fox5 truck was getting into place on Avenue of the Americas a little north of where I was. They were waiting for me to do a live report.
Nick and I headed up Church Street. A crackle and roar tore through the air. We turned to see the North Tower collapsing straight down like an accordion closing. Black dust and debris chased us. I thought for a minute that the scaffolding on the front of the Department of Human Resources building would fall on us. We kept running and just north of Canal Street reached the Fox5 truck and the crew where I began to report live for the rest of the day.
Here’s an outrageous story reported by The New York Daily News about how the federal government withheld money from the funds dedicated to provide healthcare for fire fighters who responded to 9/11.
It starts like this:
“The Trump administration has secretly siphoned nearly $4 million away from a program that tracks and treats FDNY firefighters and medics suffering from 9/11 related illnesses, the Daily News has learned.
The Treasury Department mysteriously started withholding parts of payments — nearly four years ago — meant to cover medical services for firefighters, emergency medical technicians and paramedics treated by the FDNY World Trade Center Health Program, documents obtained by The News reveal.” Read More.
