They Never Fell: 25 Septembers Later by Daniel Forrester

25 Years After 9/11

Twenty-five years ago today, we recall that my country shook violently but never broke.

On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was sitting at my desk in Cambridge, Massachusetts, working on a proposal with my colleague, John Devanney, when the news arrived. A young coworker, Kat Lam, from our company, Sapient, had called in from lower Manhattan moments after the first plane hit the first tower. She told John she would be late to the office because of the falling debris coming down on her. I heard John tell her to be safe and not to worry about getting to the office. As I listened to their brief exchange, my mind began to do what terrorists long for: race, imagine, and let fear take hold.

I turned to my web browser and hit refresh repeatedly. CNN published the first of millions of images of billowing smoke rising from the building that symbolized so much to me as a child. News soon came in that a second plane hit the second tower and then the Pentagon had been hit. America was breaking into pieces as unchecked imagination and deep uncertainty blended into toxic plumes of smoke. Hundreds of colleagues assembled in a restaurant lobby at One Memorial Drive so we could watch events on a single television near the lobby. We were told by the leaders of our company to reach out to account for all our teammates and then head home to be with our families.

John and another colleague, Meg Armstrong, who could not return to NYC that night, came home with me, so they did not have to be alone in a hotel room. As I saw my wife come out of our apartment door in Porter Square, my eyes welled with tears that would flow on and off for many weeks ahead. We huddled around the television and tried to find meaning and context. Stunned silence was punctured only by the nonhyperbolic voice of the television anchor Peter Jennings. I watched the television until the early morning hours of September 12. It was impossible to look away.

The Twin Towers were much more than buildings to me. They were and remain iconic and dreamy markers connecting me to youthful pride in my dad’s professional accomplishments and the heart stopping moment of asking a beautiful woman to spend a life together.

In the 1980s, my father was a successful real estate lawyer who occupied a corner office on the one hundredth floor of the North Tower. Commuting into NYC with your dad to spend the day in the World Trade Center was a heady experience for any kid from Long Island. We took our seats on the Port Washington train line from Manhasset and settled in for the ride to Penn Station. I thought people would talk on the way to work, but it was strangely quiet, save the loudspeaker announcements of the next station. I mostly stared out the window. When we got to Woodside, Queens, I caught a glimpse of the NY skyline. Somewhere amidst the sea of skyscrapers were two shining towers inviting us to join them. I still see them. They never fell.

Dad held my hand as we navigated up from the subway and into the lobby of the North Tower. The grandness of the concourse, with flags hanging down, framed the enormity of the building. My dad held a briefcase with important stuff inside. I thought one day I, too, would have a briefcase like his.

Moments later, the sea of humanity was reduced to narrow lines of workers queuing outside of elevator banks of the North Tower lobby. It took two rides to reach the one hundredth floor, and I was surprised that there was a man seated on a bar stool in the corner of the elevator, set to press the buttons that would bring us to the top. 

“They move really fast,” my dad told me. “And your ears will pop, so chew this stick of gum as we ride up.” Riding in the elevators felt like being inside a drafty rocket ship. And they always seemed to ride past the floor you were seeking and then reverse and slowly pulse downward until their doors flew open. My stomach would churn and then reset when the bell rang, signaling the end of the ride. During those elevator rides, I watched my dad’s energy rise. For him, it was another day at work, but I was entering a foreign yet friendly land that floated a mile up in the sky.

Once in the lobby of Dad’s law office on the 100th floor, I remember shaking hands with secretaries and partners. “This is my youngest son, Danny,” Dad would say. Looking out his massive corner office window into a clear view of Brooklyn, I could feel the building slowly sway in the wind. It was designed to sway. Clouds and fog would often bump into the glass. I would sit at Dad’s desk with my feet up and a notepad in my hand, trying to impersonate him. I would deliver packages from the mail room to partners’ offices. Some would invite me into their offices for a chat. They would recall stories my dad had told them about me and my family.

My dear friend Eric Kispert once asked me what it was like to have a father who literally worked in an office in the clouds. To that unexpected question, I could only pause and eventually reply: intimidating and joyful.

During the one hundredth anniversary celebrations of the Brooklyn Bridge in 1983, dozens of people packed into my father’s office for a perfect view of the celebrations as the sun began to set. I remember seeing fire boats shooting red, white, and blue water streams high into the sky. The river was packed with dozens of boats making the pass underneath the bridge. All dressed up for the big party, my sister, Lynn, and I sipped Shirley Temples with extra cherries as the fireworks display began at nightfall. A radio was tuned to an FM station because they had set the fireworks to music for the first time. We pressed up against the glass window for a front row view. The room was loud with the many voices of adults holding cocktails firmly in their hands. The room quieted when white light reflected in our eyes. Sparks streamed down like a waterfall from the bridge into the river. It was magnificent. One of the partners commented that this would likely be the only time in our lives that we experienced fireworks from above. It was a heavenly and hopeful night.

A few times, my dad and I ate lunch at the Windows on the World restaurant. During father and son events with our beloved New York Mets, I once sat next to pitcher Ron Darling and across from first baseman Keith Hernandez. These were heady encounters for a young boy who thought he was meeting New York royalty. Somehow, my dad always made sure I was sitting at or near the head table. Thank you for that, Dad.

My father never lived to see the towers fall.

Thinking about where to propose to your future wife is not an easy task. I knew it would be in New York City, and I thought I would pick a spot that would stand the test of time. And given that the Twin Towers were such a part of my childhood, I thought how cool it would be to propose to Nancy Harvier on one knee and in between two extraordinary buildings.

On a snowy Saturday afternoon in the winter of 2000, I walked with Nancy between the Twin Towers and through what was called Tobin Plaza. Nancy said “yes.” Moments later, we jumped into the same elevators I rode with my dad and landed at Windows on the World to drink some champagne. We sat at the bar next to two British tourists who were the first to hear the news that we would be married. We stared out at the night sky across an illuminated Manhattan with full hearts.

Our children will never see the spot where I proposed to their mother. That ground is now sacred and carries the stories of thousands of lives.

The founding fathers could never have imagined a day like 9/11, but they knew a lot about courage. They knew what it meant to stand up for something much larger than themselves. 250 years ago, they foreshadowed the resolve within Americans that would be summoned on that September morning in 2001. They set in motion something that generations to come would one day see as precious and fragile and amazing, all at the same time. They gave us the DNA for what it means to be an American in the words of the Declaration of Independence.

Jefferson wrote, “we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.”

“Pledge to each other Our Lives”: On 9/11, thousands of first responders and ordinary citizens went into chaos, risking their own lives for others. Millions of ordinary citizens donated blood.

“Our Fortunes”: Tens of millions of Americans donated billions of dollars in relief money.

And “Our Sacred Honor”: Hundreds of thousands of young men and women joined our military in response to the attacks, and tens of thousands became local first responders across communities in every state.

For over fifteen years, I have edited and updated this essay on each 9/11 anniversary. It was a combination of therapy and keeping a living memory. I have reflected on each change, and I am thankful to all who have read it and shared feedback. This will be the last time I re-edit and publish it.

I asked Iain Dale to publish this final version on the 25th anniversary, as he was the one who asked me to write the initial essay. Iain is like a brother to me. He was also my last phone call on the evening of 9/11 as he had frantically attempted to reach me throughout that fateful day. Hearing his voice that night made me well up with tears. We just sat on the line, quiet and stunned. Given how much I travelled for business at the time of the attacks, I thought how lucky am I to have a friend from another country so concerned about my safety? Thank you, Iain, for decades of friendship, asking me to write these words and for comforting me on that terrible day.

The memories of the Twin Towers will never fade for me.

The madness of that day reminds us all how precious, fleeting, and short this amazing life is.

The towers are still there when I see the skyline.

They never fell.

May God bless all those who lost their lives on 9/11.

Daniel Patrick Forrester

Madison, New Jersey