September 11, 2001: A Year Ago On This Page

The Day They Canceled 
The Primary

(Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001)

I’m not good at this.

Is anyone?

We just witnessed the greatest tragedy in our nation’s history.

It’s a little after noon as I sit down to try to put my thoughts and the morning’s experiences in perspective.

I arrived at the office at 8:35 a.m. and chatted with Tamara. We reviewed Primary Day coverage and she shared with me her experiences and choices while voting earlier in the morning.

We continued our morning ritual as she gave me the campaign literature that arrived at her house the previous day.

At 8:50 a.m. Lianne, our art director, called us from the Verrazano Bridge. Hers was the first eerie description of something gone wrong. She explained that she could see smoke coming out of the top of one of the towers of the World Trade Center. TV and radios went on as I prepared to pack up for my 10 a.m. meeting in midtown Manhattan.

The photo from our column a year ago, taken by Bruce Eisenberg.

You all heard the early news accounts — nothing was clear — an airplane hit one of the Towers of the Trade Center. And terrorism wasn’t clear back at 9 in the morning.

And as I left the office for my Manhattan meeting and the staff was in the parking lot surrounding the coffee truck, someone mentioned a second plane crashing into the other Tower. I shrugged in disbelief and headed west.

And as I got onto the L.I.E., I put on the radio and the chaos became clearer. There were two planes and both towers were hit and although the radio had not said it yet, terrorism was clearly responsible. Our City, our country, was under attack.

And the reports continued of hijacked planes elsewhere — the number wasn’t clear — from several airports and at some point on my trip came the then unconfirmed report of a third plane hitting the Pentagon in D.C.

Perhaps at this point, my timetable becomes uncertain...I wasn’t reporting on a story; I was trying to get to a meeting.

As I came through Forest Hills on the L.I.E., I saw it. There was the World Trade Center, the dominant force on our skyline, billowing out a trail of smoke all the way to Queens and Brooklyn. The sky was filled with a solid cloud across Manhattan. That view, at that moment, moved it for me out of the arena of film, tape and news into real cold hard shivers. It was awful and awesome. The effect of the impact and the flames and damage were clear all the way to Forest Hills.

I was immediately hit with thoughts of turning around and canceling my meeting. There were emergency vehicles dominating the left hand lane of the expressway and traffic was moving very slowly. I tried to use my cell phone — couldn’t get service.

I was back at the office before 10 a.m. and was briefed by Tamara concerning staff assignments in the field. We reviewed story ideas and silently attempted to comfort each other.

Lil called. My niece Debbie works at Goldman Sachs near the World Trade Center and Lil couldn’t get in touch with her.

Moments after hanging up with Lil, Debbie called. She was fine. I told her to keep in touch.

The TV was on and my office filled with concerned watchers.

The first tower collapsed.

Other staff members were on the phone trying to track down loved ones.

I called and canceled — no surprise.

Gary, our sales manager, left to be with his wife. Their son, who was in the Trade Center, had called from the hospital. He was given oxygen, but appeared to be fine.

Story after story of friend or family member at the building was shared.

People were coming and going from my office. Reporters were going out on assignment while photographers were downloading their digital images before going back out.

Debbie called again to reassure me, after the second tower collapsed, that she was still okay.

I tracked down her dad and called my mom to inform the family that Deb was safe. I imagined the thousands of other families engaged in similar activities. Remembering the figure of 20,000 people per tower — I don’t know from where — I envisioned the mass communication nightmare made more frightening by the lack of cell phone service.

Then there were the thousands who could not locate their loved ones.

My office was our small command center. The TV was being watched by a constantly changing group of staff members. Images reminiscent of “Independence Day” and “Godzilla” were run and rerun, continuously. Those with loved ones missing or, better yet, found, came to give us updates. Tamara and I continued to review story options.

Time seems to get hazy. Lil, who never calls, called again — perhaps for the third time. I stopped writing my column; I guess I took some more calls, ate lunch and found myself still in my office watching TV and reviewing the story.

The historical references flew around the office: Was this the greatest number of Americans killed in a day?

The quest for information continued: Define Arab? How can we comfortably, easily get into a Queens mosque to talk?

The TV drones on.

The calls, the tears, the worried faces invaded my life as it did yours.

And this column, which had been previously written, was to change.

And so will our lives from this moment forward.

Covering A Tragedy

(Wednesday night Sept. 12, 2001)

The Tribune just went to press.

The exhilaration of covering the news of the City’s and Nation’s tragedy has given way to the stark reality of that news.

Since Tuesday morning, the staff has been humming full speed to provide the Queens angle to this horrendous attack of terrorism. Our fallen rescue workers, our devoted medical personnel, our courageous police and firefighters, and friends and family of the missing and slain – all from Queens – were the subject of our devoted attention. The Queens stories were our focus: the long and weary walk across the Queensborough Bridge for many on Tuesday as the only egress from Manhattan; the fear that permeated the Islamic community in Astoria; the brave offers of aid and assistance by professionals and ordinary people from our borough; the stories of loss, suffering, sorrow and fear; the airports, our borough’s largest employers; the streets and roads through Queens which provided us access to our jobs and routes to touch friends and family.

I was at the center of our coverage, sharing command with Trib Editor Tamara Hartman. My office also houses our only television set and therefore I played gatekeeper to the visuals that are worth thousands of words. We dealt with the changing paper: advertisers uncertain of their weekly message and an ever-changing and growing news story demanding more and more space.

As we reshaped the weekly edition and I rewrote my column, we were cognizant of our responsibility made oh so much more awesome due to the terrorist acts of Tuesday and the fears and hate that are likely to be inflamed as opinions differ and losses become known.

I wanted to make sure the Tribune viewed and told the story not as a declaration of hate and war but as a chapter for humanity — a tragic and sorrowful chapter for humanity, but filled with page after page of heroism and compassion by our neighbors. We wanted to make sure that out of the rubble piled high, our suffering readers could find some pebbles upon which they could build for tomorrow. We wanted to offer consolation, we wanted to write with compassion, we wanted to find in the devasted City a reason to spread hope and love. We wanted to guide our news operation to look for life before counting the dead. We wanted to be part of the journalistic battle for hope and not join the battle for retribution.

The cries of war and revenge were being written all around us. Emotions other than anger were calling out deep from within us. We don’t deny the need to deal with terrorism swiftly, forcefully and decisively. We just would be happier to offer to our readers coverage of the soul of our City as everywhere around them they dealt with the ugliest of realities.

We knew we could find no real meaningful message of peace. My personal encounters with religion, for the first time, saddened me, since it presented an obstacle to me invoking solutions and comfort involving the Almighty.

Heaven help us.

God bless America!

By the grace of God.

Pray for humanity.

Phrases, never a part of my vocabulary naturally seemed to fit and belong in my words.

Things were changing and may never be the same.

And as my small role in the coverage of this larger-than-life-and-death story was coming to a close — at least for its first week — the sorrow and depression seemed to take hold. I felt sullen and not exhilarated. I was sad, not inquisitive. I wasn’t me. But the world wasn’t the same. And that stark, cold reality was quietly hitting me.

My daughter is afraid. I understand.

Tamara wants to foolishly go to downtown Manhattan tonight. I understand.

Mike wants to vent his anger at Palenstinian leaders. I understand.

Toddy wants to call for American flags. I understand.

Email after email expressing hate. I guess I understand.

For the moment, there are an awful lot of things I understand, but an awful lot more that I don’t.

Why?

What makes them hate so much?

How and why are young Palestinian children taught to celebrate such awful destruction of humanity?

What type of religious movement can call for or tolerate suicide and killing?

Why haven’t I cried?

There is no comfort in understanding.

There is no comfort in not understanding.

There is comfort in taking your neighbor’s hand and holding it.

There is comfort in putting your arm around your neighbor and saying together we shall be okay.

There is comfort in community.

There is comfort in people.

There is comfort in love.

There is comfort in the stories of heroism and compassion of our great City.

There is comfort in our neighbors.

And as I went to kiss my 12-year-old daughter good night, I saw that she had boldly written on her marker board, “God Bless America!”

Not4Publication.com by Dom Nunziato

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Michael Schenkler can be reached at: MSchenkler@queenspress.com