Eighteen years ago, I was standing on a hilltop on the northern tip of Staten Island, looking at the smoke billowing from the World Trade Center towers some 6 miles away, when the first tower crumbled to the ground.
The small group of people I was with, looked at each other, but no one could say a word. With the hard blue, cloudless sky, it seemed that the colors were enhanced, and the impression I remember is that it seemed like watching a disaster movie, it was that cinematic and incomprehensible.
I walked back to my condo, and stowed a video camera in a backpack along with a hospital ID. I thought that this would allow me to board the ferry and volunteer in whatever capacity I could. This was my week of vacation from the surgery program at the local hospital.
The scene at the ferry terminal was chaotic, cell phone service was down and just before I went to board the mostly empty ferry, some inner voice struck me, saying "don't go." Perhaps it was more curiosity than altruism that was goading me on. I turned around, and went back, watching the day unfold along with the rest of the nation.
I remember walking out again, looking up to see fighter jets in the sky at about 2:30 in the afternoon, thinking that why was this such a late response.
I was called to return to the hospital since it was not known how many wounded would be sent there, but it turned out extra staff were not needed. I spoke with one of the surgeons who went into Manhattan, and he said there was nothing much for additional medical professionals to do there. He said he left when it came down to a group of doctors arguing about the arrangement of cots at a potential receiving facility.
In later weeks debris from the cleanup effort was transported to 48 of the 2,200-acre Fresh Kills landfill on Staten Island. The name may seem tragically ironic, but the name (from the Middle Dutch word kille, meaning "riverbed" or "water channel") comes from the landfill's location along the banks of the Fresh Kills estuary in western Staten Island. Until its closing soon after, it was the only landfill that accepted New York City's residential waste. To the dismay of the survivors it would become the final resting place for the remains of some of the victims.
When I eventually took the ferry into Manhattan, there was a noticeable difference throughout. What I was used to navigating the hurried stream of people on the sidewalk, rushing to some important meeting. Now, it was different. People looked into others faces, regarding them wordlessly. like the group I was with on that hill on the eleventh.
