How quickly the world turned upside down that day.
For me, September 11, 2001 started at a breakfast meeting with an NIH employee in Bethesda, Maryland. A colleague and I then headed toward Dulles airport for our next appointment. Running late, we tried repeatedly to call ahead, but the lines were jammed. When we finally got through, the voice on the other end said “The appointment is cancelled. Turn on your radio.”
We did so, and heard the stunning news. In addition to the total shock that came over me as an American, it felt very personal very quickly. I had worked three blocks from the World Trade Center for a number of years and had gone in and out of those magnificent buildings many times. I still vividly recall the amazement of relatives from Italy when they had walked around the observation deck several years before, and saw the incredible view below.
Now it was all obliterated in a brazen act of terrorism.
My sister’s brother-in-law, Mike was an Assistant Secretary of the Airforce, based at the Pentagon, and had not been heard from. Our friends from New Jersey waited for word from their husband and father who worked in the towers.
At the end of the day, Mike was ok, thank heavens. The family from New Jersey was not so lucky.
The burning blend of feelings — loss, rage, sorrow and disbelief — are painful to remember and impossible to describe. I was glued to the television and on the phone with friends and family in Santa Barbara and around the country.
I had to get to New England to stay with family. Airports were closed, so I rented a car and drove up I-95. When I got to the New Jersey Turnpike, I looked to the right, and in place of the twin towers that I knew and loved, there was still a huge plume of smoke and debris in the sky. I called my wife, then left a voice message for all of my colleagues in California.
Then I hung up and wept.
On the way back down a day or two later, I called ahead to a volunteer phone line I found on the internet. This led me to stop at the supply depot for Ground Zero that had been set up for rescue workers on a vacant lot south of the Javits center. They needed someone in the clothing section, so I began helping out there, ensuring workers could get socks, underwear, etc.
The volunteers came from all walks of life, and the spirit of resolve and cooperation was unparalleled, and frankly inspiring. Cars and trucks arrived from all over (one came in from Texas, if I recall correctly) loaded with supplies, food, water and medicines. Workers came up from Ground Zero and we gave them what they needed. In the early afternoon, the head person yelled, “Hey Bruce, are you going to be here for a while?”
“As long as you need me,” I replied.
“Here, put on this jacket. You’re in charge of the boots department.”
We needed a whole section for boots because workers at Ground Zero were walking on some surfaces that were still so hot it caused their soles to melt and deform. They came to us to get fresh footwear so they could keep working. I had a fantastic crew working with me, including two sisters from Argentina who were unstoppable.
A senior officer from the NYPD came around to shake everyone’s hand and to express appreciation for our efforts. He and I talked for a while, and he said he could give me a pass if I wanted to go down to Ground Zero to see what was going on. I thanked him but decided to stay and keep working at my post.
I still have the shirt I was wearing that day hanging in a special corner of my closet. I know it has soot and possibly human particles on it. I’ll never wash it, out of respect and remembrance for the 2,977 innocent lives lost that day.
When Dulles airport reopened and I was finally on my way home, I stopped to buy a newspaper at one of the stands. The young man there had an Arab name, and the look on his face was heartbreaking. I did the only thing I could think of in the moment. I looked him in the eye and said “Don’t worry, it’s going to be alright.” The tension on his face relaxed a little, his eyes came to life a bit and he nodded his head, I’m sure moreto acknowledge my words than to indicate he believed them.
Once returned to Santa Barbara and my much-relieved family, I found out that civic leaders were organizing a gathering of support at La Playa Stadium. Attendees were asked to come with red, white or blue shirts, so we could form the American flag. My wife and I agreed that our whole family should attend and be part of this community display.
I recall my feelings that day: profound pride that so many Santa Barbarans (6,000) were manifesting solidarity, mixed with an uneasy feeling that our community, being so far away from the attacks, felt in some way immune from the danger that had taken so many lives on the East Coast. There was no security to get into the stadium and at various points the crowd cheered when a helicopter and speedboat seemed to pop up out of nowhere, aiming straight at us. I didn’t cheer. I felt extremely vulnerable and exposed — sensations I then kept to myself but will admit to here.
It’s been a tough quarter century in many ways. However, I remain an optimist. We are going to be alright so long as we continue to work at it — and listen to our better angels.
Bruce Belfiore
Santa Barbara
