Six years ago today, I was asleep in my small, upper west side apartment unaware of the tragedy that would soon befall New York City. I had only arrived three days previous on September 8th, excited to live in a place I had dreamed of living since I was a little girl. I was wide-eyed and full of anticipation of where my adventures would lead.
Then my (not yet) husband woke me up to tell me that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. I jumped out of bed (which for those who know me, is quite a feat), to sit it in front of the television for the rest of the day and night to see the horror unfold before my eyes - as did most of the country. My husband and I watched in complete and utter shock. We called loved ones to assure them of our safety, and I remember talking to my mom before the second plane had hit. I assumed it was just an accident, even though in all my years of having lived in New Jersey I had never heard of such a thing happening. My mother hadn't either, and the conspiracy theorist in her dreaded the worst. I wish she had been wrong.
This day has brought mixed emotions ever since, and will probably do so for the rest of my life. I can still feel the shock I felt - on hearing the news, on watching that second plane come in from the side of the screen to hit the other building, on watching the towers that I had seen in that very specific New York skyline fall, on knowing that so many people had just died, on knowing I was only about five miles away from what was happening. And oddly enough I feel guilty. I feel guilty for feeling so affected by something that had actually little impact on my life compared to the victims and their families. I didn't know anyone in those towers. I didn't even really know anyone who was supposed to be in those towers. I didn't walk blocks in complete shock, covered in ash and soot. Hell, I didn't even have a plume of smoke floating over my building - couldn't even see it from my apartment. Everything went up the east side, not the west.
Nope. I just sat in my small, but luxurious Trump apartment, with its marble tiled bathroom - its twenty-four hour security - its concierge - its elevator - glued to my television set. Sure, I was afraid living in the city where this event occurred. I woke up at night when the jet fighters would fly over, fearing that another plane was going to hit another building. I woke up to turn on the radio or television to make sure something else tragic didn't happen. But, even though I was close, I was still far away. I watched everything unfold on television like the rest of the world. I was somewhat removed, even though it was happening mere miles from my doorstep. I wasn't directly affected - not in the same way lower Manhattan was or the victims or their families. So, I feel a little guilty for feeling so affected.
I know the thought is irrational. I know I have the right to feel this way. To feel sad, to feel angry, to still feel shocked by what happened. Just like any other New Yorker...or American...or hell, human being does. I know that living in the city at that time, was tragic, whether you were downtown or not. While the rest of the country moved on, we walked around our beloved city in a sort of daze, with a plume of smoke that hung over us as a constant reminder. We all walked passed the fire and police stations with the memorials for the courageous people who tried to save as many as they could. We all walked past the walls covered in photos and flyers asking - begging - for information on lost loved ones. We walked, and tried to continue on with our lives with these constant reminders all around us. We were all affected and hurt and damaged.
Still, I sometimes feel guilty.
