Today, on the 20th anniversary of 9/11, as I look at the various memorials and remember those who were lost, those who heroically searched for days and weeks, and those who still grieve, I cannot help but think of my own 9/11 story.
As an American citizen traveling that morning to Newark Airport—so close to New York City—it still feels like a surreal movie, even 20 years later.
For a long time, I thought my story wasn’t important compared to what the people at Ground Zero experienced or what the families of this tragedy lost. But now, twenty years later, with all that is happening in our world and our country, I think my story is essential to share. As a matter of history and observance of a person who was witness to certain events, it needs to be told and recorded. We seem to forget things so quickly.
So here is my story. You may value it or not. In the long tradition of American free speech, that is completely fine.
I was 23 years old and married for almost two years. I had traveled home to Minneapolis, MN, to visit my family. On the early morning of September 11, 2001, I checked in at the airport and went through security to my concourse. pre-9/11, Many families and groups of people said their goodbyes to one another right at the gate. Seeing someone off or greeting them at the door was normal practice. I was eager to get home to my young husband as I watched a couple kissing their hello’s, flowers in hand wrapped tightly around one another's waist.
I boarded as usual and was seated near the front of the plane’s business class. Noting the time, I decided I had enough time for a nap. But too soon, I awoke to an announcement that we could not land in Newark and were being rerouted to Clevland, OH.
As I came fully awake, I asked my seatmate what was going on. They shrugged and said, “ I don’t know, something about Hurricane Erin.” I sat there confused for a moment.
My husband was a professional surfer, and if you know surfing, you also know almost any pro surfer could also be a meteorologist. Last night before bed, I spoke to my husband, and he assured me it was well off the coast and heading fast on a northeasterly track. Something was wrong.
I called the flight attendant over and explained what I knew about the storm, asking why we were rerouting. She looked me in the eye and said, “I don’t know, ma’am. This is what we were told. Maybe the storm turned back?” Then she walked away.
Forty minutes later, we were on the ground, taxiing to our new gate. As we waited, the pilot came on the intercom again. This time, it was very different, and I will never be able to forget it.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. This is not a joke or a drill. The United States of America is under attack. New York City is under attack, and we were unable to get near the city. This airport is being evacuated. You are to head to the closest exit directly and without stopping. Do not use the bathroom, do not use a payphone. After you deplane, do not run but do exit the airport as quickly as possible. There will be no connections or rescheduling of flights. Do not pick up your luggage! Leave the airport and its property.”
The cabin was silent, everyone stunned. As we gathered our carry-ons and prepared to leave, no one knew what to think.
Twenty years ago, I had a cell phone, but it was a little Nokia brick, and I only used it for emergencies. Here I was in an emergency, but I had forgotten to charge it, and my battery was dead. Everyone who had a phone was on it immediately.
I exited the airplane in a daze and was swept along with the massive crowd of people, all of us strangely moving in the same direction toward the exit.
My thoughts were spinning: Stay calm, stay calm! You screwed up and didn’t charge your phone. You are alone, but you’ve traveled a lot. You’re going to be fine; just stay calm.
As I passed an empty sports bar, I saw employees gathered around a TV. I looked up at the screen and froze.
That's when I saw it. The Twin Towers.
The first tower was already engulfed in flames, with giant plumes of smoke billowing into the sky. As I watched, a plane flew low through the New York City skyline and slammed into the second tower.
Screams erupted from the bar.
I stood there, paralyzed, tears streaming down my face as the crowd rushed past me, pushing me along with its current. The pilot’s words echoed in my head: “The United States of America is under attack!”
Terrified, I tried to figure out how to contact my family. They had to think I was dead. Police and SWAT teams shouted instructions to the crowd: “Keep moving! Do not stop! Exit the building!” As the mob piled up at the bottleneck of the exits, I spotted a bank of payphones. I waited for an opportunity when the police weren’t looking and ducked behind them, hoping to sneak a call.
After a couple of attempts, I managed to make a collect call to a family friend. “I’m okay,” I blurted out. “I’m in Cleveland, and they’ve evacuated the airport. My cell is dead. I’ll call again when I can.” I hung up apologetically as a screaming officer came towards me, scolding and sending me back toward the exit.
As I passed through the exit doors, a very strange atmosphere greeted me. There were no shuttles, no taxis, no cars picking up loved ones. Only people and their carry-on looking around, not knowing where to go or what to do. We all stood there stunned and confused.
As the airport emptied, more and more people kept pilling onto the sidewalk, and soon, there was no room to stand.
I was frozen. What do I do?
A young man tapped my shoulder and asked, “Have you made contact with your family yet?”
Tears gathering, I shake my head, “My cell is dead.”
“Here, use my phone, call your family.” I am stunned by his kindness.
This is an era in which long-distance calls cost money, especially on a cell phone.
“Thank you!!” I called my husband again. Again, no answer! I tried my sister, and she answered with a desperate panic in her voice.
Trying to conserve minutes and battery, I blurt out, “It’s me! I’m ok! They rerouted us to Cleveland and kicked us out of the airport. I don’t know what to do! I am on a stranger’s phone; mine is dead. Noah hasn’t answered. Please keep calling him and let him know I’m ok. I’ll call as soon as I can.”
I could hear my hysterical mother in the background. My sister alleviates her fears, “She’s okay, Mom! She’s okay!” I hung up and thanked the kind young man.
He offers, “If you want to stick with me, I’ll make sure you get somewhere safe.” I trusted him.
We start walking, hundreds of people. We all walk where the cars, taxis, and shuttles should be. We walk out of the airport property toward the interstate. It's the most surreal scene: a completely abandoned airport with people walking on the road in their business suits or with their children in strollers, their carry-on toddling behind.
We finally reached the onramp to the interstate. Not knowing what else to do, we descended en mass. As the crowd reached the bottom of the onramp, the most fantastic thing started to happen! Cars began pulling over and asking us what we needed and if they could help—strangers loaded entire families into their vehicles.
A car pulled up to the young man and me, offering us a ride immediately. We climbed in. The kind man decided our best option was to rent a car to get home, so the driver took us to a car rental place nearby. When we reached the car rental place, we were not the only ones with this idea, and the lines were long.
The kind man asked me how old I was. I was 23, too young to rent a car. He put me in the one line that may rent to someone under 25 and wished me luck and blessings. I thanked him profusely and waved as he headed on to his own journey. I don’t even know if I ever got his name.
I waited for a good hour before reaching the front of the line, and just as I did, I heard the clerk say, “You just got our last vehicle.” I leaned forward, trying to hear better, praying I misheard. They called "Next!" and confirmed my fear.
There are no more cars. My heart sinks. What now?! The woman ahead of me was finishing up her rental details, eavesdropping; I heard her say she was driving to Fredricksburg, VA. That is only 4 hours from my home on the Outer Banks!
I feel a prompt in my heart, "ask her to share her vehicle."
So I excuse myself. “Did I hear you say you are going to Fredricksburg, VA?” “Uhh, yes, " she says.
I proceeded to beg her to allow me to ride with her and that I would pay for half the vehicle, telling her of my plight. Her friends were all, “She could be an ax murderer!” I looked about 16 at the time, definitely not the ax murderer type. She agreed that I looked harmless.
So another kind American and I loaded up in a small pickup truck and drove cross-country from Cleveland, OH to Fredricksburg, VA.
We headed off and began to tell our stories from the day. We shared what we knew about the attack, about which I had almost zero information. It turns out she worked at the Pentagon and was military!
We listened to the radio and heard the horrific play-by-play of the morning. We drove in stunned silence. We heard of how a plane at the Cleveland airport was suspected to be carrying terrorists and was being held on the tarmac.
As we drove by the amber waves of grain of Ohio and then Pennsylvania, we heard about Flight 93 that crashed in Somerset County, PA. We saw the emergency vehicles en route to the crash site. We saw military vehicles in mass on the same interstate as us. We saw the rising smoke plume in some distant field.
We grieved together as humans. We grieved together as Americans. We will never be strangers again. We drove to our safety, knowing so many did not.
As we hear about the plane hitting the Pentagon! Her tears were silent. We were silent. She cannot even talk to me about her role there. She cannot tell me of her fear. She was brave.
We are bonded together on this strange, unpredictable road trip. Still not fully comprehending the gravity of 9/11/2001.
Ten hours later, we reached her elderly parents' home in Fredricksburg, and she told me to take the rental and go home to my family. I thank her for her generosity. We said our goodbyes, and I settled in to drive another five hours home.
I passed DC and saw the chaos that had gripped the city. I prayed and drove and wept as I listened to accounts on the radio. Exhausted, I arrived home in Kitty Hawk, NC, at about 2 a.m.
In my living room, I crawled into the couch that held my sleeping husband. Safe, I watched with streams of tears the countless hours of footage of the day. People falling, people covered in debris, people weeping and comforting one another. Loss and confusion. That dang loop of the second plane hitting that will forever be seared into my mind. The hero’s rising. Kind strangers made family by simply helping those that they could.
I remember thinking that America was great because of its people. In a crisis, I did not see fighting or selfishness. I saw kindness, compassion, and an eagerness to help their neighbors. I experienced safety in the midst of a very scary time in one another’s care.
So this is my 9/11 story. It may be unimportant in the grand scheme of that considerable day in our history, yet it is so valuable because my observations that day are a part of what makes America great.
I love you all. We must never forget.
Good story