My father has a vivid memory of watching the North Tower burn from the 100th floor. He thought, “How could they possibly put this out?”
I grew up in Rockland County, New York. My dad, an “architectural carpenter” in his own words, made a living working with his hands—installing cabinetry, laying wood flooring, and fitting those beautifully polished oak doors that grace the posh offices throughout Manhattan. He did this alongside his fellow union members in the NYC District Council of Carpenters Union Local 157. The physical labor took a toll on him, but now he enjoys retirement in Pennsylvania.
Fifteen years ago, on September 11, 2001, at 8:46 a.m., American Airlines Flight 11 crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center.
On that fateful morning, my dad was on the 20th floor of the Ritz-Carlton, three blocks away from the Towers, utterly stunned by the scene unfolding before him.
“We had a clear view of debris and smoke pouring out of the North Tower. Then we heard this awful noise—a terrifying vibration, like an engine screaming right over us.”
That noise was the second plane, United Airlines Flight 175, which struck the South Tower at 9:03 a.m.
“My immediate thought was, terrorism.” My father recalls going into “survival mode,” weighing the tools in his belt, tossing out some to lighten his load, while keeping a few within reach, just in case. He and his colleagues made their way out of the building.
“We rushed down 20 flights of stairs to the street. It was pure chaos. All the people who had fled the Towers—tourists, workers, parents with babies—were outside, in shock, crying, and terrified.”
He remembers feeling frantic because they couldn’t call for help or reach anyone.
“All the cell phones were down. We couldn’t contact our families. I felt relieved that we had managed to get out of the building.”
Meanwhile, I was in third grade at George W. Miller Elementary School in Nanuet, NY. I can still picture our teacher, Mrs. Brown, gathering us on the rug for story time, her eyes filled with tears as she broke the news: “Something terrible has happened.”
That day, we were sent home early. My dad didn’t return that night.
On the streets of Manhattan, whispers filled the air. What had just happened? Were the planes, perhaps, hijacked? Were more targets at risk? What about my father—and the people around him?
As he stood there watching, my dad horrified when he began to see “large objects” falling from the Towers. People were jumping to escape the searing flames. There are videos of such moments, if you can handle them.
“I will never forget two people holding hands as they jumped. That image still makes me feel sick,” he recalled.
The crowd watched, anguished, gasping each time someone leapt. USA Today estimated that at least 200 people jumped that day.
Powerless—that’s how my father felt. He was unable to help those in danger while the crowd loomed uncertainly on the street.
Shock gave way to panic.
“The South Tower started collapsing, pancaking down, creating a massive cloud of dust and debris that engulfed everything, and I thought, there’s no escaping this.”
Fortunately, my father’s crew had dust masks on hand for working in sawdust. They shared those masks with parents holding infants.
In desperate need of a filter, my dad tore his T-shirt and soaked it in a koi pond nearby, wrapping it around his face. New Yorkers scrambled to flee the impending haze of ash and smoke.
“I could feel the hot, choking dust through my damp shirt, and it was burning my lungs.” For a moment, he thought about ducking into some bushes for protection, but then other thoughts raced through his mind.
“I truly believed I was going to die. I started to pray.”
My father was thankfully rescued by two co-workers. They decided to head for the Brooklyn Bridge, seeking a way to escape the city. They zigzagged through the choking smoke that obscured their surroundings, only able to see a few feet ahead. Eventually, the sun broke through, and visibility returned.
Thousands also made their way toward the Brooklyn Bridge, hoping to cross on foot and leave the horror behind. The noise was overwhelming—cries from the crowd, the sirens, the chaos. Some were eerily silent.
First responders rushed toward the mess, confronting devastation while 411 emergency workers ultimately lost their lives that day: 343 firefighters, 37 Port Authority police officers, 23 NYPD officers, and eight EMTs. Their bravery saved many.
My father and his crew had to reach the bridge, but the ramp lay behind them, nearer to the Towers. They forged ahead, passing various bridges and the United Nations building, worried that a plane might crash there too.
Worn out and frightened, they decided to use the next bridge. They climbed through a scaffold on the Williamsburg Bridge. It turned out that my father’s tool belt came in handy; workers had abandoned their gear, leaving it behind in their haste to escape.
“We hurried across, thinking, ‘the bridge could be a target too.’ At the end of the bridge were hoses spraying water over the concrete, blocking our path. I used my utility knife from my tool belt to cut through the netting that separated us from the other side and managed to make it to Metropolitan Avenue in Brooklyn.”
After a long night filled with anxiety at a co-worker’s place on Long Island, he learned the Twin Towers were no more. The tragedy claimed 2,996 lives, with over 6,000 people injured.
I tell this story because my father returned home to my mother and their three boys (plus a girl later). Other children weren’t as lucky. So many lives were lost to those driven by evil intentions that day. An evil ideology, which, as President George W. Bush said, targeted America “because we’re the brightest beacon for freedom and opportunity in the world.”
Today, September 11, marks a moment for all Americans to unite in their pledge for justice and peace. America has faced adversaries before and will do so again. We will never forget this day, yet we must press on to safeguard freedom and decency in our world.
We haven’t forgotten the horrors of that day—but in these divisive times, I sometimes wonder if some of us have lost sight of what truly came under attack.
I share my father’s story because, regardless of who controls the presidency or Congress, it’s essential that we, as Americans, continue our unwavering fight for freedom and justice for everybody.
There’s this cloud of fear and anger that seems to be splitting us apart these days. Discussions have drowned in bickering and name-calling. It feels like people care more about forcing others to submit than promoting ideas that truly defend freedom and justice.
Trust me, I’m not innocent in this—I’ve engaged in such behavior and realize when I’m wrong.
What is good and just about America is under siege from those who hate us, just as fiercely as the hijackers did on that day. Ignoring the imperative of defending the rights of all Americans, including those we disagree with, dishonors both the living and the fallen.
The aim of American conservatism should be to uphold freedom and justice for everyone’s well-being. We need to remember this, particularly today, on September 11. We must never forget.
And my father won’t forget.
