My name is Lynette Martyn. The following is my personal account of the events of September 11th which occurred when I was working at Lehman Brothers,1 World Financial Center.

 

I can't remember if I felt the room shake. 

 

I am sitting at my desk dialing a client to inform him of a conference call, when the explosion occurs.  My back is to the window but there is a muffled grumbling and my coworker whose desk faces the enormous towers exclaims, “Oh my god, the World Trade Center just exploded!”  I bolt out of my seat.  I begin this peculiar pacing, walking back and forth in the five feet between my desk and the window.  Confusion sweeps over me.  My first impulse is to run to the window to witness the sight.  Something inside me urges me away from the window.  After pacing twice, I am suddenly reaching for my bag and my coat. 

 

It was just like that.  I don't remember thinking about it.  It was mechanical, “Get out now.  Get out of the building.” 

 

As I start to gather my things, I notice that others are doing the same.  Pretty soon a line of us is scrambling to evacuate.  We must look like one of those human trains people form at weddings with one person's hands on the person in front of them. That's how close we are as we move through the halls.  No one knows where the fire exit is and we begin this morbid human train dance sprinting down the hall, halting, turning at a corner, sprinting down the next hall, until the red fire exit sign finally appears.  In the hours to come, I would have a hard time removing the image of people in the World Trade Center and the human train they must have formed, the mechanical message in their head, “Get out now.  Get out of the building.”  I would wonder how many died in the minutes it took looking for their red fire exit sign.

 

The exit door opens and we surge through the opening, a wave of people somehow merging into a very narrow area.  It would be a very long trip down.  The initial adrenaline has ebbed.  There is nothing to do but keep up the pace.  Empty moments of time enable thoughts to  enter my head.  Reality starts to set in.  My mind begins to race at the same speed as my heart.  “Oh my god, what the hell just happened?”  I think to myself, as if it has just occurred to me, “People are dead.  The World Trade Center has just blown up.”  The adjacent building seems so distant to me.  “That's horrible, those people, thank god I'm not there.”  Parallel to this line of thinking and continuously in my mind, “We are all being overly dramatic.  There really is no cause for evacuation.  We're not in the World Trade Center.”  Then the forbidden questions start to creep in, “What if there are more explosions?  What if we're next?”  The pace in the cement stairway starts to pick up, as if all of the other evacuees are in the same exact thought pattern as myself. 

 

An overwhelming need to reach my family consumes me.  I reach for my cell phone. I absolutely must tell them how much I love them. I have no idea where the need to reach out to a loved one comes from, but suddenly I notice everyone gripping their cell phones trying to get out on a phone line, even if they might not get out of this building, as a backup plan for escape.  None of the cell phones work. Most wouldn't work for days.  The desperation mounts.

 

Reflecting now, I wonder where the frantic need to call came from? Was it a means of escape?  Surely it wasn't simply to say, “I love you.”  I'm certain my family knew I loved them, but yet the desire to reach them was suffocating.  Was it to let them know I was okay?  Clearly I wasn't and any call to them would have only worried them more.  Or was it merely for comfort?  Was it the need for them to tell me I was loved amid the throngs of people who were running to save their lives?  Somehow wanting to know I was special.  Wanting confirmation that everything was going to be okay.

 

People keep hitting their redial button.  No one can accept the fact that the phones will not work.  It is a personal defeat.  The monotonous beat of footsteps is now interrupted by a random voice, “Put the phones away and pick up the pace!”  The rhythm of shoes on cement picks up.  I stuff my phone in my pocket and continue the descent.  My thoughts are, once again, free to wander.  I keep picturing us blowing up.  Imagining the exit doors bursting into the stairwell with a flash of fire.  How sad it would be to die.  How sad my family would be.  “What floor are we on?  How much farther?”  I grip the phone in my pocket.  I must start to pick up my speed because the woman ahead of me steps aside, “Do you want to pass?”  I'm horrified!  I don't want to be one of those people, someone who puts their own safety above the security of others. I fumble through an apology. “No, no, not at all. I'm so sorry, please go ahead.” I want to cry.

 

Somehow we finally reach the bottom. The feeling of relief brought upon by sunlight and open space is a strange sensation. The sound of sirens fills the air. I look up at the smoking tower. I am no longer scared, but rather cognizant of the fact that I am witnessing history. I survey the area for a kiosk or store that might have an instant camera, but the fire exit has emptied us out at a remote, far corner of the building. Nothing is around. I consider for a moment going to search for a camera, then I look up at the tower again and say to myself aloud , “I don't want any pictures of this”, realizing the horror of what I'm beholding.

 

The voice in my head starts to go off again, “I should focus on how to get out of here, public transportation is probably dysfunctional right now.” I decide to walk out of the area, when amazingly an available taxi passes nearby. I feel lucky and hail the cab, figuring it is my fastest way home. I have one hand on the open door of the taxi and I am about to climb in when this incredible noise consumes the senses. The next moment will be ingrained in my mind for the rest of my life. I turn my head over my shoulder toward the noise, when what appears to be a missile crashes into the second tower. It all happens in an instant, “Oh my god, we're under attack.” I think I must have screamed, tears come to my eyes and I start to run towards the water. I never close the taxi door.

 

I'd never felt fear like this before. I was in a state of complete shock.  The noise, the image, was like something I had only experienced in the movies, but the reality of it was unfathomable. Six months after 9/11 rarely did a day go by when I did not picture myself, hand on the open taxi door, looking up over my shoulder.  Rarely would I allow myself to remember long enough to relive the reality of it.

 

I only run about twenty feet, when I stop and turn around again to gaze at the burning towers. I still cannot accept this is really happening. Tears stream down my face. My heart is pounding. When I start to run again I almost fall over. My legs will not move. A warm feeling sinks into my stomach and I become nauseous with fear. Suddenly my legs are moving again, but it is with such a strange sensation. I feel like a puppet having its strings pulled as something within me wills my legs to work. I reach the Hudson River on the west side.

 

As I reach the water I am brought face to face with hundreds of men and women in business suits, screaming, crying, running. Everyone is moving in the same direction- south. At this point, I am in complete shock. My body is moving solely on the adrenaline being pushed through my veins. I need to move, but I cannot bring myself to run with the crowd. “Where the hell are they going? Why would they be running south? Are these people from Manhattan? Don't they know there is nothing down there? They are going to be trapped.”  I begin to envision thousands of people rushing into Battery Park until it can no longer hold the multitudes. Like a dangerous concert where everyone rushes the stage and people are trampled in the excitement; I imagine everyone straining to avoid getting pushed off the edge of the island. My daydream continues to intrude upon my nightmarish reality and I conjure up the sound of engines again, as a third plane thunders above, ever so easily wiping out the thousands of people trapped like livestock in the park with nowhere to go. An easy target for attack. I wake up from my daze. There is no way I am running south. I summon my legs to move again and start running north along the water. Dialogue starts up again in my head. “Stay against the water. Stay away from targets. Get as far away from the buildings as possible. They don't want you. They want to do the most damage. Be prepared to jump in the water. Stop looking back!” I gaze across the river. There is no way I could make it to Jersey if I had to jump. I keep moving.

 

I get no more than a few yards into my northbound flight when a woman passing me in the opposite direction grabs hold of my arm and starts pulling me. “Where are you going? You can't go that way. It's too dangerous.” I don't follow, I don't even respond. She let's go of her grip as she continues her southbound salvation. Doubt creeps in. I stop again and start to cry. I feel completely alone and afraid. I want my Daddy. I want someone to tell me what to do. I grab my cell phone again and try my father's office. This time I hear a ring, then nothing. Have I connected? Can he hear me? “Daddy?”, I start to break down on the phone. “Daddy can you hear me, it's Lynette. I don't know where to go. I don't know which way to go. What should I do? Daddy?” Silence on the other end. I hang up the phone. I wipe the tears from my face and try to pull myself together. I start talking aloud to myself, “Pull it together Lynette. You've got to get out of here. Move it!” I head north, picking up speed. There are less people now, as everyone from this area has already bolted south. There is an eerie quiet around me with horns and screams in the close distance. I move faster in my isolation; talking aloud to myself in an ongoing effort to propel my body forward.

 

The next thirty minutes is a blur. It seemed like hours, but I know by the timing of the towers' collapse that it could not have been that long. I think I saw a schoolhouse being evacuated. I probably should have offered to help the teachers. I remember lots of fighter planes and helicopters. I remember noticing the media, but I can't remember if I saw vans or helicopters.

 

Once I reach the West Side highway, it is like joining a pilgrimage. The highway is abandoned. Thousands of people like refugees march, walk, sprint, to escape north out of the flames and death. Many of the pilgrims having just barely escaped with their lives. Then there are those few who had not lived it, who had not just moments ago feared for their life. They are the ones heading south on their bicycles. Curiosity I suppose, drawing them to the scene. Fewer people are attempting use of their cell phones now. I guess we've all given up. Every pay phone I pass is lined with dozens of people waiting.  Meanwhile, rumors mix with fact and start to spread through the waves of people; “Terrorists are hijacking commercial planes. The White House has been hit. The Pentagon has been blown away. Dozens of planes are missing.” I contemplate stopping to contact my family and confirm the news, but I decide to put more distance between me and the site. I still don't feel safe.

 

I finally start to veer east, near Tribeca. As I cross the highway, I notice a couple of men entering their apartment. Suddenly, I find myself asking them to borrow their phone. “ I just came from my office downtown, my cell phone is not working. Would you mind if I use your phone? I want to call my family to let them know I'm ok.” They are happy to help me. I wonder if they will want to ask me questions or get involved, but they are solemn and quiet. Perhaps they have also been downtown.  The couple sits down in their living room, with all the drapes pulled. It is dim and the setting seems to shadow the mood. I dial my mother's 800# at work. I expect her to be in a panic, but she is surprisingly calm. I'm not sure if she is trying to keep me calm or if she just assumed I was ok.  We speak only briefly and I tell her I will call her again when I get to wherever I am going. I am back on the road.

 

Having contacted home and gotten out of the Financial District, I am now able to shake off the sense that I am in immediate danger. I continue to work my way north and east towards my uptown apartment, which seems an eternity away. Radios delivering news seem to echo everywhere. People on the sidewalk carry portable radios, car radios blare out of parked cars, stereo speakers are perched on apartment window sills and fire escapes. The news reverberates along the street . Everyone seems to stand still, jaws dropped, eyes wide, pupils reflecting the fire. I have not looked back since I talked myself out of the area, which seems like hours ago. I turn around to assess where I came from. The fire seems to burn higher and stronger. I begin to think again about all the people who must have died.

 

A radio near me spits out news about a plane in Pennsylvania. I start to contemplate exit strategies in my head again. “Money, I need to get money”. My wallet is empty and the ATM machines may run out. I run into the vestibule across the street and take out $400. I stick $100 in my bra and start to leave when there is a commotion outside. My heart resumes its pounding; I rush into the street expecting the worst. People are screaming, gasping, holding their hands to their mouths. Some are crying on their knees. Everyone is looking at the towers. I turn to face the towers; it occurs to me that something else has been hit. New clouds of smoke have formed. Something is different. I don't understand what has happened. A woman next to me starts to lose control of her emotions and sobs, “ It came down. It came down.” I hadn't fathomed that the tower would come down. A wave of nausea flows over me as I consider all the people who have just died. My knees start to buckle again, as I realize the intense danger I was in. I stumble forward crying. I am not headed in any direction. I'm lost in the moment. I don't know where to go or what to do.

 

A woman is headed toward me on the street. I stop in front of her as she passes. Still weeping, I reach out for comfort. She hugs me. I'm standing in the middle of the street hugging a complete stranger. The embrace rejuvenates me enough to speak. “I don't know where to go. I don't know what to do.”  She tells me to follow her, she is headed to Saint Vincent's Hospital. She heard they need volunteers. That makes so much sense. We turn the corner and approach the hospital. Ropes cordon off the people. A wall of doctors and nurses in scrubs spans the front of the hospital. Everyone stands facing the fire. There are no patients in sight. No gurneys. No ambulances. I walk up to the line of doctors. A nurse informs me that there is no need for volunteers right now. They are waiting for casualties to arrive. They are taking blood donations around the corner. I know I will pass out if I try to donate blood in my current state. I look at the doctors' faces as they gaze at the tragedy. They look scared and powerless. Many are crying. I leave the hospital feeling helpless.

 

I am now exhausted. I start eyeing stoops for possible rest places. I think of my friend who lives in the Village and start working my way toward her apartment. I am standing at the arch in  Washington Square Park when the second tower, which I can make out through the arch, begins to crumble. I am unable to avert my eyes. What was once a famous image, captured in movies and postcards, is now literally disappearing before my eyes. Now, one year later, I am incapable of standing in that spot without being transported to that moment in time. The arch for me, has become a surrogate  tombstone. A place where I reflect upon the losses and experiences of that day.

 

Shortly after the second tower comes down, I arrive at my friend's house. I am covered in sweat and tears. My clothes are soaked. I'm exhausted. I pass out there for several hours and sleep a deep sleep. As I sleep the scars begin to form, the images and memories place themselves in their permanent resting places in my mind. The first steps in a healing process that will last a lifetime.

 

 

 

Afternote:

 

Many of my closest friends and family have yet to hear my story. Conversely, on an impulse, the anonymous person sitting next to me on a plane ride has gotten to share in a cathartic rebirth of the experience. My silence is not a result of my unwillingness to share my story, but accurately reproducing the experience is not something I can bring to life on command. It is something I carry with me, which chooses to surface on its own accord. Documenting the day on paper, I needed to wait for moments when the memories and the energy would come to me together.

 

For several days after the incident, I could not even bring myself to discuss the happenings of that day. Guilt consumed me. I did not want the attention and doting of others. I did not want any spotlight. This was a solemn day, to be remembered in silent contemplation. To discuss it aloud felt like it would have been an insult to those who lost their lives. The first few days I thought I would never be able to discuss the events without an enormous amount of guilt. Over time I came to understand that this was merely a symptom of post-traumatic stress, one of many which I would encounter, lessening over the months and years.

 

September 11th is a reality that we all must live with for the rest of our lives. It is a reality that will follow us and our children's children throughout history. As a witness to this historical day I want to share everything I can with those who want to know what it was like to be there. As each anniversary of this tragic day occurs, please take some time to reflect in a way which is meaningful to you. Go out of the way to tell the people close to you that you love them, consider the ways in which our world could be kinder, reach out to a stranger with your own act of kindness today or any other moment(s) you can find this year. 

 

If you know of someone you feel would benefit from my story, feel free to forward this on. Questions or comments about my experience are welcome at lynettemartyn@gmail.com