09/11/2026
When the plane hit the first tower on 9/11 roughly ten blocks away, I heard a loud boom and felt the reverberations through the building. Naively, I assumed a garbage truck was emptying the dumpsters on the street one floor below. We all assumed it was an accidental Cessna collision. Even the NYPD officers I was working with were unfazed, though I have no recollection of their faces or names, or whatever happened to them. When the second boom rebounded through the building, we knew something was amiss even if we had no concept of the horror just down the street.
Outside 100 Centre, hundreds of people, likely more, contorted and twisted their necks backwards and towards the sky as debris, mostly full sheets of paper and documents from the Towers, cascaded down in a not so ticker-tape parade. Yes, full sheets of paper, some of which were likely written by the hand of people whose lives were measured not in years filled with smiles and love, but terror engorged minutes. Sirens wailed as disbelief prevailed. Silence befell everyone other than the gasps and cries that drifted throughout the crowd.
Amongst the subdued chaos, a man on a bike screamed “they” were coming for the federal courts and buildings next. Firefighters, along with police and court officers, selflessly sprang into action.
I started walking downton toward the Towers to see if I could help, along with a colleague who, only recently, retired from the FBI. As we navigated the human tide walking against us, the ground below vibrated and rumbled. Aloud or to myself, I asked why the subways were running. It was not the subways, however. One of the towers was cascading down upon itself. In the mere minute it took us to walk around a building, what was there was now gone. One of the towers had vanished and with it so much more.
As we walked past Foley Square toward what was now one or no buildings, zombies shrouded in gray and white debris shuffled to the park’s fountain to clean themselves. My colleague received calls from a panicked girlfriend of another colleague stuck in a nearby building as smoke filled her office, and another looking for her boyfriend. I don’t think we finished our conversations before the phones went dark. We continued toward the Towers foolishly thinking we could help. As we did, we saw a black cloud of cancer erupting from behind buildings a few blocks away before it ravenously consumed the street. Though I have felt like a coward since that day, we turned back. We knew we would become a liability and didn’t know what poisons lurked in the thick toxic smog. Ultimately, with the masses, we meandered shell shocked uptown.
In the days that followed, access to lower Manhattan was blocked. I volunteered to process arrestees stuck in the system so I was able to get past the military blockade. Other than first responders and workers sacrificing themselves a few blocks away in the hope of finding survivors, I was alone. A putrid, cutting, acrid stench was my company and for the following weeks on end.
In that moment, it seemed nobody lived in the world’s greatest city anymore. Not. A. Soul. The city was vacant. Dark. Devoid of life. Silent. Except, it wasn’t. Leaving the office around 2 am, I’d see hundreds of rats displaced by the turmoil that decimated their subterranean home, overwhelming the sidewalks and undulating together like one serpent before disappearing into the grates. Before I could even recoil, they disappeared as if they never existed, just like the towers themselves. But despite vanishing, it was clear: the rats, like all of us, were determined chose life on the precipice of death.
I was not at Ground Zero or in the Towers on 9/11. My few blocks away was vastly different. I cannot pretend to understand the terror of those who were or the agony of those left behind waiting for loved ones who never returned. I cannot truly contemplate the strength and courage of those who selflessly helped others. But my memory of the fear, sadness, and horror will never be forgotten just as I will always remember the unity, courage, and compassion of strangers and first responders - people like detectives Chris Strucker and Tony Gray.
Chris, a detective I worked on numerous search warrants with and an incredibly large man I would often joke came from far stronger Lithuanian stock than I, and Tony, a detective who would “practice” his martial arts on me and with whom I sped out to Pittsburgh in the dark of night in pursuit of a target, were the real Heroes of 9/11. Heroes who paid the ultimate price for their leadership and courage in the moment or years later after imploding Towers or the cancerous pile robbed them of their lives.
Yet, despite the pain many like the families of Chris, Tony, and all who perished have endured, I am reminded of life’s joys even on 9/11. Not only do I wish my boy a Happy Birthday every September 11th but I think of the man I met in the elevator after my son’s birth: the excited new father who welcomed twins into the world six years to the day he escaped the attack on the Twin Towers.
Even in the face of the unparalleled fear, turmoil, and the unknown, we rose up and found paths forward through the rubble 9/11 left in our souls. Though some are not with us, we must honor and never forget people like Chris and Tony, their first responder brothers and sisters, and every day people who helped others surmount a Never Again moment.
Ignore the woke revisionist ignorance of our most foolish and the sickness of those who preach hatred, for they have wandered far from humanity and decency. Instead, embrace and empower the unity of that day and those that followed. A unity that this nation seems to have lost but will undoubtedly find once again and white knuckle once in our grasp. Never question or forget that love and unity will find a way to triumph and move us forward even in our darkest days. It always has and will continue to do so, even from the ashes.
Happy birthday, Lucas. Happy birthday, 9/11 twins. Thank you Chris, Tony, and all of you who put and continue to put others first.
