Several weeks before September 11th, my office relocated from the 88th floor of the North Tower to the 62nd floor. On that fateful morning, I was in my new office when the alarms sounded to evacuate the building. I descended the staircase with thousands of others and eventually exited at the Plaza level and headed to Broadway.
As I passed St. Paul’s Church, I turned around to look at the burning tower. I was struck by the horror of what was happening and immediately understood that the unfortunate souls above the flames, including some fellow coworkers, were unlikely to survive. I turned away in anguish, clutching my head as I tried to focus on reaching my husband’s office at 61 Broadway. Looking back on this moment, I recall a vague sense of someone with a camera taking photographs.
I eventually reached my husband’s office, where we felt both towers fall and saw Lower Manhattan twice turn pitch black from the dust clouds that followed. When the dust settled, we walked to Battery Park, took a ride on a tugboat to Ellis Island, rode a bus to Jersey City, and eventually worked our way back to our home in suburban Essex County. It goes without saying that this was a bonding moment that we forever share.
Three and a half months later, we visited for the holidays my brother-in-law and his family in Greensboro, North Carolina. My husband and I attended Christmas Eve services with my in-laws at a church located on the outskirts of Greensboro. The services ended with a solemn slide presentation focused on the 9/11 attacks. As the narrator discussed the presence of God amidst the carnage and suffering, an overhead slide projector displayed images of individuals fleeing lower Manhattan.
Watching these photos, immediately brought back the horror of that morning. As I watched the photos flash by, I noticed some familiar faces. Suddenly, I saw a picture of myself clutching my head as I passed St. Paul’s Church. The picture flashed by quickly and in stunned silence my family and I tried to comprehend the moment. How did my picture taken by an anonymous photographer months earlier end up displayed at church 500 miles away? I spoke with the church’s leaders, who explained that pictures used in the presentation were gleaned from the internet and chosen for their emotional content. They kindly forwarded me a copy of “Slide 21” that was my picture.
For almost 25 years, Slide 21 sat framed in our living room. Occasionally, a visitor will inquire as to why we prominently display such a painful moment. I explain that, while painful, this a picture of survival and resilience, together with the spirituality of being delivered to my family’s church.
