Pbenjay's Blog

There’s no question or denying that nine years later, we have NOT forgotten but the raw wounds have healed into white scars.  I’m sure every blogger planned on writing a post about 9-11 and many started with the question; Where were you on 9-11? I know where I was; walking back from the primary polls with  my husband in the Upper East Side when a car stopped to speak to our Assemblyman and shouted out, “Did you hear? A plane hit Grand Central”.  We looked at each other and said, well that’s seems pretty crazy-how could  a plane hit a building that is much lower than the ones  surrounding  it.  When we reached the corner, I got on the bus to go to work and then I heard people talking on their cell phones-it wasn’t GCT, it was WTC!

From that point on, I’m sure my story is similar to thousands of New Yorkers who were on their way to work; what to do? how to get there? I was afraid to go into the subway.  The buses were mobbed.  Two other women (strangers) and I shared a taxi to midtown.  My cell phone wouldn’t work.  From my office I called Peter, the horror unfolding.  We couldn’t get internet access to a TV station….I walked home from 55th Street along with thousands of scared, worried New Yorkers.  The Avenues were thronged with people heading north, the smell of smoke was in the air, the fear was palpable.  I had the presence of mind to get some cash out of an ATM machine before that too was impossible and I walked on.  I stopped at pay phone to tell Peter I was on my way.

That afternoon, my friend Helen and I walked to Lenox Hill Hospital to give blood – they didn’t need any;  because blood is ONLY needed for survivors!

That night, my friend Gail, and my cousin Christine stayed at our house, there were TV’s on in every room and like zombies we watched the towers fall over and over and over again, as if perhaps the next time they wouldn’t crumble.

The rest of September was spent in mourning, anxiety and fear.  The only comfort I remember was the sound of the fighter jets as they zoomed around Manhattan for several days after 9-11.  I thought, ‘we are an island, they are protecting us’.  October was worse as the New York Times began to publish a brief bio for each of the thousands of victims.  Each day there was a full-page of death; the Portraits of Grief – I remember crying on the bus on my way to work.  I was so depressed, I thought maybe I needed to go to therapy.

I purchased some photos taken by amateur photographers that horrific day and those that followed as new revelations of the wreckage became known and were recorded for posterity.  I framed the pictures, hung them in my office and gave one to each of the kids because we should never forget!

Nine years are a very long time and I have not forgotten.  However,  I am at peace with my memories and I keep one special victim in my heart and mind every day; Captain Timothy Stackpole, Division 11, father of 4 children, husband and hero.  He died that day along with hundreds of other  members of New York’s Bravest and New York’s Finest.  With very few exceptions (two weddings), I have worn his name and rank on my wrist for nine years.

September 11th 2010: I ‘m working at a Flea Market in New Jersey, the bells toll, we are all silent for several moments while the memories of that sunny day in September flood back into our collective minds.  We have not forgotten.

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