Escape from the World Trade Center

by Leslie Haskin

  The real war.

  I covered my face and was trying not to see anything more. I heard a voice. It told me to stand quietly and not to move. It whispered that my family would mourn me and pay dearly for all of the painful, lonely years that I had suffered. They would be sorry for the judgments I had endured at their hands. “They deserve your death.” It spoke to me in an ominous but pitiful voice, so I responded. I stood motionless . . . readying myself for death . . . and . . . I listened.

  Intense thoughts and emotions overcame me. My head was spinning. A tiny almost miniscule fiber connected my own will to my self-awareness. I couldn’t separate visions from life occurrences, the dead from the dying, or the victims from the survivors.

  Tiny rat-like shadows moved quickly around me. I watched myself vomit from the taste of someone else’s blood. The uniqueness of soured death was on my lips and his voice was in my ear. I smelled him and inhaled him. I touched him, and in passing, he touched me.

  Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand. (Ephesians 6:13 kjv)

  I read somewhere that in our human capacity it is difficult for our minds to remain alert to subtle things when there are so many macro events occurring around us. Too often we fail to see big lessons in small things because we are so preoccupied with the big things of little to no significance. This was, for me, such an occasion.

  This is where I ended.

  I heard weeping as death erased all color lines and blinded eyes to cultural distinction. I saw hope forgotten as blade joined with flesh and left behind scattered traces of a single soul. Unidentifiable bloodless limbs and white bone fragments lay erratically scattered about once shining floors like uncollected trash.

  With my head between my arms and my hands clasped behind my head, I started walking . . . with no certain course—just walking—slowly at first, scoping every inch of what I could see and getting more confused by what I didn’t see—my enemy.

  I saw fire so hot that in minutes concrete was ash; so arrogant that it dissolved thousands of years of segregation into one history. Indiscriminate, as still burning human torsos and unrecognizable charred human remains lay close enough to mounds of melting metal that they seemed to be one object. Glowing metal fused into concrete. It was incomprehensible.

  With blatant dull thuds and pops of exploding flesh, persons once known as, became another of the unknown bodies twisted in midair and liberated from business attire, with legs pointed upward, arms spread eagle, and faces looking into the wind. Friends who once were, became vicious, newly created weapons of war and crashed into cement, mangled.

  Shoes, hats, notes, pens, phone messages, cell phones, purses, combs, and all kinds of personal items lay about—abandoned in the escape or lost in the air. I gave in to despair.

  Still-breathing masses leaped over terrors, disassociated, disoriented, and torn apart. There were trails of urine, blood, and other human waste evacuated in fear; spilled sporadically throughout the concourse. Both women and men curled up in corners too afraid or too given to shock to move. I felt my tower, as its steel bones began to break from the enormous burden, erupt in black vomit, with no pretense of dignity.

  And yet, for me, the concourse gave witness to the spirit and compassionate presence of God. It was here that the most significant displays of courage and heroism took place.

  I watched ordinary men and women clad in suits and dresses transform into heroes and carry others to safety. Some removed their jackets and used them to smother fire from the bloody, peeling bodies of strangers while others comforted those lost in shock. Ordinary people, who minutes before the first plane left Logan Airport in Boston sat typing, reading e-mails, and drinking coffee, were now desperately fighting for the heroic embrace of life.

  I witnessed the tears of port authority and city police officers, now vulnerable, crying out to God as they bravely tried to maintain a hasty and orderly evacuation, despite the circumstances and no matter the severity. In those moments, there seemed to be no justice.

  For a while I just stood there, very still and very quiet. My brain was unable to wrap itself around what was happening—still listening to the voices. I think somehow I believed that if I avoided movement, I would also avoid the inevitable. I would be invisible to death’s grip. As I continued to watch, my eyes captured every devastating minute, and my heart stopped.

  10 Seconds to Fall

  “10”—I close my eyes and kiss the skies

  To dream of a place where I can fly

  “9”—I spread my wings until it seems . . .

  that I’m a child again

  “8”—I believed in angels and life was good

  When

  they laid me down to sleep

  I prayed for promises

  and streets of gold

  If alas they came to keep my soul

  “7”—I wonder now . . . so high on life that death intoxicates me . . .

  And as I dance . . .

  entranced

  on eyelids of twins

  and sing . . .

  of wings

  and heavenly places

  I know

  I’m still

  “6”—100 stories above the earth . . . and my own is just a whisper

  Ashes to the same ashes that once birthed me

  I see,

  my return

  so near to God that I feel His breath

  so far from Him,

  I pray He sees

  Me . . .

  and the truth

  “5”—I stretch out my hand and reach for it . . .

  The truth that is—I’ll grab it,

  The way that is—I’ll hold it,

  The light that shines—now grows,

  Bold

  And oh . . .

  so

  strong

  Till it becomes

  my faith

  And it . . . faith . . .

  will save me. . . .

  “Yes”

  “4”—From the angry fire behind me . . . that spits when he laughs

  The heat inside me . . . that burns when I cry

  The pain around me . . . that smothers my soul . . .

  and then

  me

  Until I no longer breathe

  “3”—I close my eyes and kiss the skies and an angel meets me here

  Already at . . .

  “2”—

  He holds my hand and hums the song my mama sang to the crib

  Not long enough ago

  When dreams

  were smiles and peaceful grins,

  and twins

  were people

  I close my eyes and kiss the skies and gravity gives way

  I spread my wings until it seems I am born again

  “1”—and then,

  Sin

  Is erased

  and I hear a name

  Sweet Jesus . . .

  It’s mine

  sung with “hal—le—lu-jah”

  and blended with cold cement . . .

  Amen.

  Amen.

  Chapter 10

  The Birth of Inspiration

  The End of Me

  I wandered around that concourse for the rest of my life. I stumbled in circles for what seemed an eternity—walking from one corner to the next trying to figure my way out. Distracted by people lost to themselves in the fetal position on the floor, I lost my way a few times.

  Even more confusing was the sea of bloodied blue shirts as I tried to make my way out. Looking back, I believe it was in those moments that I collected the pieces of who I would later become.

  This is hard to write. My stomach aches now as it did then.

  I remember being struck by something so hard that it knocked the wind from me. I was later told that it was an exploded torso that had projected a few feet and hit me. I was told that I just looked down and then just stepped over it.

 
; I don’t remember clearly the exact details of this incident, but I do remember feeling responsible. I felt that it was only a matter of time before I too was lying on the floor somewhere—gone. I stood very still and waited . . . for death . . . even if it meant being gutted by one of those jagged edges that rained from the sky. I’m ashamed to say it now, but I wanted the agony of living to stop and to be immediately relieved of this burden too deep for words. I stared down, trying to avoid looking at those cold blank faces without names. My heart was in a frantic search for God. How can I find you in the midst of all this?

  I walked away in sacrificial indifference.

  Dear Mom,

  I sorry for the way I acted today, But I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that last time I fell asleep watching this boring show and I almost threw up. I want to spend time with you but I also want to spend time with my friends and this “puberty” thing is really messing me up. So please forgive me for being mean.

  Love Eliot

  I gave birth to my only child when I was twenty-six years old. I experienced all the joys and pains of pregnancy largely on my own, and for the most part, I was alone when I gave birth.

  There was no “love of my life” standing by my side and holding my hand. I had good friends there who stood with me all night and prayed with me before, and after, my son was born.

  After seventy-two hours of waiting and praying and pushing, Eliot Cameron was born. He was 7 pounds, 14 1/2 ounces of miracle! I read to him from the womb to the cradle and still now. I sang him to sleep and stroked his little face while he slept. I delighted in just the smell of his milky breath and bright morning eyes.

  As Eliot learned to speak, we took turns telling bedtime stories about angels and toys. Toys were his favorite. He is the only good thing I have ever done, and unlike most teenagers, I like him. I liked who he was when he was three and talked to me about Jesus. I liked who he was at nine when he wrote the letter about being mean to me, I liked who he was at thirteen when this nightmare began, and I really like him now, at seventeen.

  I watch him becoming a man. It is an amazing thing to see my little boy building a personal relationship with God—making our faith his own. He is a caring, secure, intelligent, and silly Allen Iverson wannabe, and he is NOT ashamed to be called a child of God.

  Single parenting has not been easy, but it has been worth every minute of joy, pain, sickness, good grades, night fears, fevers, ear infections, birthday parties, and bellyaches. For years being Eliot’s mom defined me. Seeing him smile was my motivation—what drove me. So it makes perfect sense that my first thought beyond the World Trade Center that morning was of my son and eleven years of Friday nights with pizza and a Blockbuster movie.

  I was not ready to give that up. I was not willing to go “quietly into the night” and say good-bye to Eliot. I wanted to go home!

  As for you, you were dead in your transgressions and sins, in which you used to live when you followed the ways of this world and of the ruler of the kingdom of the air. . . . But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved. (Ephesians 2:1–2, 4–5)

  I saw small crowds hurrying toward the sky bridge that connected the World Trade Center to the Financial Towers, a complex of buildings behind the WTC. “This way, this way,” someone called.

  I turned toward the voices and saw a tall, thin man. At first, I didn’t recognize what he was doing, but I’ll never forget his eyes. They were hazel in color and full of panic. I realized he was on fire. His skin looked as if it was dissolving off his bones. Flames covered a large part of his body. He ran from the stairs and toward me. Another man was chasing him and hitting at him with his bare hands—trying to squelch the flames. I didn’t even think to try to help.

  I just stood out of the way, holding my chest in upset. Finally, somebody tackled the man with a jacket and put out the flames. He lay in front of me, motionless, smoldering. The skin on his face was burned black like toast. It looked like a bad Halloween mask.

  The wide open space where I was standing was bright by now from the sun—an ironic contrast to the pitch black of where we really were.

  There was sporadic activity here and there, but nothing that could have been called a planned evacuation. For years I have worked in office buildings that mandated fire drills. They would notify our staff twenty-four hours in advance so that we would be ready to respond. When the alarm sounded, everyone would line the walls outside their offices and wait for the “all clear”—usually no more than three minutes later.

  At this point, even though intentions were good, I question the value of such a drill. In no way did years of lining the walls on command prepare for evacuating a mammoth tower set ablaze or deciphering procedures through the controlled chaos of yelling port authority police officers and firefighters; nobody knew how to remove tens of thousands of people from the blast radius of a triggered time bomb.

  The random thumps that started shortly after the first jet hit were more frequent now. Body parts were everywhere. It was worse than watching a movie. I remember hearing myself, still outside myself, ask someone if all this was real. “Is this really happening?” I asked.

  That’s when he fell . . . or jumped.

  I was standing closer to the sky bridge. The glass was morbidly stained by what is now my recurring nightmare. I’m not exactly sure why, but I froze there, just watching firemen watch the sky.

  Even though I was told not to, I looked up and I saw his face. I don’t know where his fall originated, but I watched him fall from probably the ninth floor until he hit the ground. I had no other choice.

  He had dark blond hair and green eyes, which by the time I saw them were draining blood from their sockets. I must have been lost again in shock because my thoughts were not of his present state but of his morning routine. I wondered how long it took him to shave his face that morning and what he could have been thinking about as he dressed for work.

  His light blue shirt and dark pants were classic office attire. I wondered what he did for a living.

  The look on his face was one of surprise. I don’t think he knew what was happening to him, at least that’s the way I prefer to remember it. When he landed he was spread flat and staring up . . . no sound came from him. He wasn’t screaming or crying at all.

  I heard that at a speed of just less than one hundred fifty miles per hour, the fall lasted ten seconds—not fast enough to cause unconsciousness when falling, but slow enough to remain aware of one’s final moments.

  Just then a man, a firefighter I think, gently pushed me forward. “You can’t stay here. It’s not safe,” he said. “Keep moving. Run.”

  Something snapped. And so I did. I ran.

  I ran like I have never run before.

  Imagine being me. I ran without legs beneath me and with my heart pounding outside of my chest. I ran with no thought or question about why. I ran with no idea where I was running to, but with a crystal-clarity about the place I was running from. I ran with my arms shielding my head—through areas and scenes that I still do not recognize.

  Others were running too; like the wind, swearing and screaming unintelligible words, like banshees.

  In those few moments of flight, there might have been born . . . an epiphany. For some, death was the choice to fall or to fly. Others decidedly stood nearby for friends or for duty. In each case, death here was as affecting as life’s last hurrah. But for me, it was the beginning. . . .

  I exited Tower One and left behind the pride in my career accomplishments, my arrogance, my power suits, power lunches, swollen ego, and self-righteousness.

  This is where I was born.

  Chapter 11

  Goliath Falls

  The Beginnings of Sorrows

  And when ye shall hear of wars and rumours of wars, be ye not troubled: for such things must needs be; but the end shall not be yet. For nation shall rise against
nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be earthquakes in divers places, and there shall be famines and troubles: these are the beginnings of sorrows.

  —MARK 13:7–8 kjv

  WHAT SEPTEMBER MEANS TO ME . . .

  September . . . the first day of school and the promise of longer nights. Those were the days. How I love its eclectic smells, its sharpened pencils and chalked erasers against a blackboard eagerly waiting to record history—yeah, erasers. Those built-in chalk makers, fun makers and finders of new friends. School days, school days, those happy golden rule days—days of new clothes and school supplies—shuffling leaves—notebooks neatly divided into subjects never really discussed, and new shoes—new plans—long corridors and short bells, food fights, recess and banged up lockers—yeah. Youth . . . the fine lines of notebook paper and the smell—um yeah, new books, new friends and new bus routes. Ending summer romances, final farewells, barbeques and visiting relatives that stay too long. The beginning of the Christmas countdown and long letters that began “Dear Santa.” Yeah, barbeque, that’s September, barbeque.