I didn't quite know what to expect or how I would actually feel as I made my way to the 9/11 Memorial this evening. I've never really been down to the site since that tragic day. I never had a desire to go back; not that I didn't want to pay my respects. Every now and again I think of my neighbor, Rob Peraza, who perished that day.
NYC and the architects did a beautiful job. These hallowed grounds now house two massive pools with cascading waterfalls cased in charcoal marble where both the North and South towers of the Twin Towers stood. They are lined with the names of the 2,983 people that perished in the blasts and on the hijacked planes.
Indeed, it is a day like JFK's assassination, in that everyone in the City and around the country can recall where we were and what we were doing at that moment. I remember it well. I was at the Institutional Investor offices on 52nd and Madison; my very first gig as a journalist. I chased down a position with them, not having any financial reporting experience (or reporting--outside of college) whatsoever. But, their ad in the New York Times said you could move to London or Hong Kong after a year--that was enough for me. Tom Lamont, our ornery, hotheaded editor in chief was patrolling the aisles, telling people not to be alarmed, that there has been an accident - a plane flying into the Twin Towers. After the second plane hit, it was obvious this was no accident. And after both towers collapsed, we all sat stunned. There were TV screens in an office, and many of us crammed together to watch the coverage. I remember moving out to the balcony and looking down the avenue--at smoke billowing through the air where the Twin Towers stood; now a gaping black hole--or gaping wounds as they remained for 10 years. I'll never forget trudging home, only about 20 blocks a few avenues over for me, along with the rest of the New Yorkers that had been told to go home that late morning. There was a collective sadness and shock. I was so glad for the Blackout in the summer of 2003. This was the second time I had experienced a long trek home by foot with other New Yorkers, only there seemed to be a fun, sort of joyous feeling--parties in the streets--as we city folk dealt with the power outage together. I choose this memory over the other one whenever I can.
After amlessly searching for Rob's name, I finally asked a police officer at the site for directions. He showed me how I could search for it on computers that have been set up for that purpose.
Rob and I were never great friends, but friendly enough that learning of his death deeply affected me. After working through the tragedy--literally, as I covered the space and had to write about it from a Wall-Street's-loss perspective, I was ready to shut the world out and rest at the weekend. I can't remember how I learned about it, but I remember crying for several days. In fact, there was a candlelight vigil for all of the people that died in my neighborhood soon after. My sister and I sat down for a coffee afterwards at Cafe Mozart and the lovely waiter (Goran, whom I now know as he works at the restaurant below my apartment) kindly and patiently waited for me to state my order through uncontrollable sobs - I smile when I see Goran now.
Rob and I met on our stoop on a beautiful summer day. I sat down next to him to pet his dog, Otis and we bonded after that day. He was always so bright and cheerful. He told me he had plans to move to Colorado in the near future because he wanted to give Otis a better life, which I thought was incredibly sweet. We'd known each other a few years when he told me he had decided to stay. He'd met a girl and things were getting serious. He had only been working at the World Trade Center for two weeks when the terrorist attacks took his life. Since the memorial opened, the world, I am happy to say, has learned more about his life. His dad, Robert Peraza, had been photographed at the spot where Rob's name lies, grieving. It's become an iconic image--spread virally around the Internet--of family members and friends paying their respects at the site. Rob's story has been told in many news outlets, like ABC, The New York Post and even some UK papers. I never knew he spent a semester in South Africa during college--the year Nelson Mandela was freed--and when I run the NYC Marathon next year, a part of me will do it for him as well as he had planned to run it in 2001. I read in these reports in the last few days that Rob had written a four-page letter to his family a month before the attacks, expressing how happy he was. This wound is open again on the 10th anniversary of 9/11, but I feel happier feeling a bit closer to Rob.
I felt calm at the site, which can only be a good thing. Though, admittedly, I shuddered a bit as a helicopter hung over our heads for a good while. I lived through the July 7 bombings in London, as well (I was based there as a journalist for four years). I was trying to get on the Tube that day, as it was all transpiring and was not in a protected environment at all--at one point a helicopter, an ambulance, the words flying through someone's mouth of "a bomb!" and then seeing a MI-5 looking man with dark sunglasses walking quickly and purposefully down the street remain etched in my memory. Helicopters hanging low seem very ominous to me now.
But, I was glad I had the opportunity to visit the memorial. No one is forgotten and still much loved. There are some names that add things like: "and her unborn child" which is enough to break anyone's heart. Pictures of firemen next to their names. Teddy bears. Flowers. Notes of prayers among the endless sea of names.
Emotions can run the gamut there, but I felt a sense of peace. I hope all visitors to the site who lost a loved one feel the same.
