I remember. On September 11, 2001, I was in the lobby of CUNY’s York College, likely taking courses during that fall semester as a major in computer science. I didn’t have a clear direction in mind regarding a career. I hadn’t yet decided on what I wanted to do as my life’s work. Computer science seemed like a good idea because it was promoted as a degree that could provide a lucrative career. It was also the field of study chosen by someone I admired.
I remember it clearly. I walked into the lobby of the Academic Core building through the Guy R. Brewer main entrance. I may have had a 9 a.m. class. York College was a convenient, as a $1 cab ride straight down Jamaica Avenue from 204th Street, just two blocks from Francis Lewis Boulevard, made it accessible after getting off Guy R. Brewer. Living in Queens since 1990, a cab ride down to the 165th Street shopping area for urban wear was routine. The Jamaican Flavors on that corner seems like it’s been there forever, offering what we natives regarded as the best beef patties available. As familiar as everything was that morning, there was something different about that day. But I was not aware.
I remember walking into the lobby of the building. It was relatively empty. I don’t recall if that was typical at the time. But as I passed the security desk, I was informed that classes were canceled. At the same time, I saw people gathering in front of a hanging TV, watching footage of a tall building with smoke billowing from it. That’s where my memory becomes hazy. I don’t remember whether the building fell or what the commentators were saying. It’s all a blur. Like a cloud of smoke, it all seemed to vanish.
I remember leaving, obviously. But I don’t remember the journey home. I don’t remember what I was wearing or who I talked to that day. It’s all a blur. Everything has vanished except that small part of the morning. I don’t even recall my thoughts about what I saw or the emotions it triggered. It was as though the entire experience was swallowed up in smoke.
I don’t remember what I ate that day. It must not have been noteworthy, as the connection to such a significant day didn’t leave a lasting impression. You’d think I’d remember more. Perhaps there’s something in me that distances itself from moments of major shock. It may be my own unique way of coping. After all, I considered myself a New Yorker, and though I may have visited one of the towers once, they were iconic, representing what we knew as the New York skyline. They stood as part of our collective identity, our logo.
My memory also fails to recall the sermons of that weekend and the months that followed. It would be interesting to revisit those sermons, to hear what clergy were saying about the sepulcherization1 of the tallest buildings. For we witnessed not only the brutal destruction of the skyline, as steel shriveled and descended, tearing through reality as it fell, but also the funeral of many hard-working New Yorkers who set out that day to provide for their families.
While memory affirms that brutality has long existed in the metropole—whether through state-sponsored enforcers or the lawlessness of its vagabonds2—the magnitude of the loss, resulting from the actions of a few in such rapid and unexpected violence, remains inexpressible. The brutality of the act was meant to announce an era of suffocation, of fear. What happened continues to remind us of the unthinkable.
The fragmented, jumbled memories of that day are reignited in the communal space where remembrance resides. Each year, the air grows thick with recollections—not just of the scenes themselves, but for those closest to the site, the trauma of witnessing vocalized sorrow, despair, and the rush of humanity as an encapsulated apocalyptic moment unfolded, one that seemed, in that instance, like the end of the world for those present.
Every year since, survivors and witnesses are forced to reprocess. The city remembers the victims. The participants remember the layers of dust, covering them from head to toe—their temporary, uniform attire. The streets of the golden city were recast with debris. The nation remembers Osama Bin Laden, an adversary elevated to the status of singular evil in western consciousness.
Bin Laden, a realized threat, personified doomsday. Deliberately forged by the American war machine, without regard for future consequences3, he was a non-state actor whose geopolitical influence rivaled that of sovereign entities. We remember that it wasn’t a nation that attacked the U.S. homeland, but a conglomeration of disparate forces united by the desire to dismantle Western hegemony, led by a Saudi-born scion of wealth turned mujahideen veteran of the Soviet-Afghan war.
We have yet to remember to breathe. While we may have adjusted over the years, the fear still lingers, always present in our subways, malls, and schools. This is despite the reality that the next threat would most likely come from someone homegrown.
Our lives are different now. We are not the same. We don’t want to forget, but we wish we could go back, erase the dust from our storefronts and banks, and lift it off the multitude. We long to unearth the dead and perform a resurrection of sorts, reviving the countless souls lost on that day and in its aftermath. We want to be life-givers, to reinvigorate and renew—but we are not.
And yet, we continue to remember, to replay. This is what comes to mind. But where is the saving grace, you might ask? Perhaps it lies in the fact that we continue to find ways to embrace our humanity, to wrestle with what it means to coexist in a global society, even while living in a metropole embedded in a state that serves as a harbinger of doom for other worlds.
It’s difficult to say. Perhaps the most profound way to memorialize this event is through what has been shared here: a public reflection, where we begin by recalling where and what we were in that moment and end in a sudden deafening silence.
For a theological take, see The War on Terror (2009).
Image credit: Jerry Jacques via Midjourney
Footnotes
- I have yet to run across this usage of sepulcher. In this instance, I’m referring to the Twin Towers being made into temporary tomb. ↩︎
- In Haitian Kreyòl, the term vagabon tends to have a negative connotation. More recent usage refers to someone who is seen as unruly, lacking respect, or engaging in delinquent behavior. ↩︎
- See Fisher, M. (2021, August 20). The history of US intervention in Afghanistan, from the Cold War to 9/11. Vox. https://www.vox.com/world/22634008/us-troops-afghanistan-cold-war-bush-bin-laden ↩︎