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By Dena Waxman
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While cleaning out my parents’ home after they both passed away, I found something I had no idea they had saved: a perfect-condition pennant of the twin towers at the World Trade Center, and with it, the report I had written about them in second grade. My heart stopped. Oddly, my parents didn’t save my sisters’ or my own childhood artwork or projects from any era. But this one report must’ve meant something to them. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was not a coincidence, as the 25th anniversary of the devastating events of the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks approached.
The assignment was to visit my favorite place in New York City and write about it. I remember this assignment vividly because I got to choose my favorite place and visit it with both of my parents. I was what was known in the ’70s as a latchkey kid and looked after myself after school because both of my parents worked. And this assignment meant I was able to spend time with both of my parents at a place of my choosing.
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My favorite view from Brooklyn, where I was born and raised, was the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, which overlooked the East River and showcased the lower Manhattan skyline. At that time, the prominent twin towers of the World Trade Center anchored the view. My second-grade mind knew immediately that was the place I wanted to visit. My parents probably had an interest in visiting too, since they didn’t even try to talk me out of it—something they did often when they didn’t want to go along with their 8-year-old's magical ideas.
To quote from my second-grade report, “There was an hour and a half wait to get to the elevator. There were a lot of families waiting on line.”
I honestly can’t imagine waiting that long in line now for anything. Thanks to the internet, we buy tickets in advance and minimize all inconveniences.
“…When we finally went into the elevator, it held 55 people and took us to the 107th floor observation deck nonstop. The elevator travels at 1,600 feet per minute, so it takes only 58 seconds to reach the observation deck from the concourse.”
I remember my stomach doing flip-flops. I’d never experienced going this high, this fast, in an elevator before.
“…The observation deck is 1,310 feet above sea level, more than a quarter mile in the sky.”
When I review these facts, I’m still in awe of the magnificent twin towers, just as I’d been at 8 years old. I still remember the sweeping views of the entirety of Manhattan from the observation deck. And I recall feeling a bit queasy looking out over the city. This was my first time experiencing anything this high and expansive. The twin towers were the tallest buildings in New York and maintained that status until the day they were destroyed in 2001.
“… In the center of the indoor deck, there’s a snack bar and candy shop. There is also a lovely gift shop. My parents and I had a very nice day. We think that all visitors to NYC should visit the Twin Towers.”
To this day, everyone in my family loves a gift shop. I ended up getting a “100” on the assignment. My report had been saved alongside my father’s prized Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Mets memorabilia. For my parents, both first-generation Americans who’d been born and raised in Brooklyn, I believe the towers symbolized both New York pride and the promise that hard work could make the American dream possible, which may be why they chose to save just this one assignment.
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The twin towers were part of another pivotal moment in my life: My high school senior prom was held at the Vista Hotel, 3 World Trade Center, adjacent to the towers. My prom date was my high school sweetheart and first love. We are still in touch all of these years later. I wore a metallic green dress, which he kindly still says was very trendy at the time. We went in a white stretch limousine. The prom felt decadent to 17-year-olds, even ones who hung out in Manhattan regularly on the weekends. It felt like nothing could stand in the way of our bright futures. I can still feel the innocence and excitement of that moment in time.
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As a young adult, I moved to Los Angeles. I will never forget getting a wake-up call from a friend asking me if I’d heard from another New York friend of ours. She was frantic. I was completely disoriented. She told me to turn on my TV. I did, and the first image I saw was a replay of American Airlines Flight 11 hitting the north tower of the World Trade Center. All I remember is feeling sick to my stomach and telling her I had to go. I hung up and began dialing. I called my mom, my dad, my sister, my cousins, my aunts, my uncles—every call was met with a busy signal. None went through. It was like that for most of the day.
I called out sick from work and went to my neighbor’s to watch the news. She was from New Jersey, and she had been able to reach her family and confirm that they were safe. As the day progressed, I learned my mom had been in Manhattan that morning for work and walked home across the Brooklyn Bridge all the way to the Midwood section in Brooklyn, while ashes and debris fell from the sky. The rest of my family was accounted for, one by one, except for my sister, who worked for Morgan Stanley. I remember a news banner repeating throughout the day that Morgan Stanley was the largest tenant of the twin towers. Finally, that night, my phone rang. It was my sister. She was calling from her co-worker’s home. They were safe. They just couldn’t get their phones to work. Even today, as I remember this moment, I’m choked up and crying. The relief of knowing my sister was alive was as overwhelming then as it is now. I don’t think any amount of time will dull these emotions.
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Ten weeks later, I flew to visit family and friends in New York for the first time since the terror attacks. I remember the pilot announcing something like: “Introduce yourselves to your neighbors. These are the people you will be working with to make sure this plane arrives safely in New York. If someone isn’t being friendly, tell the flight attendants, and we will remove them from the plane. We have to be our own security now.” I met my seat neighbor, and we talked the entire flight. It did alleviate my anxiety about flying.
After hugging all of my family, I made my way down to Ground Zero. I had to see the destruction of the beloved twin towers with my own eyes. I was able to see things I hadn’t seen yet on the news. The black asphalt was completely melted for many blocks, and I could see pipes and the underground in a way I’d never seen before. When I got to the actual site, I was met with barricades. There I met two construction workers who were first going to kick me out but then offered to take my camera in. I handed them my disposable Kodak and asked them to finish the roll. I had no idea what I would get back; part of me expected a few prank photos. Instead, the images of the destruction were harrowing. I can still smell the burn in the air, and when I look at the photos now, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and it feels like yesterday.
I recently called my 23-year-old niece to congratulate her on her first apartment in New York City and asked if she could see the Freedom Tower from her window. She could see only the building next door, but picturing the new landmark confused the part of my brain that still expects the twin towers—a disorientation she cannot share, having never known the skyline, or the world, before Sept. 11.
My 8-year-old self chose to visit and report on the twin towers because of the prominence they held in the New York skyline. I remember the joy I felt while spending quality time with my parents, experiencing this epic landmark together. My 17-year-old self remembers standing at her prom and feeling that the world was her oyster. The woman I am now, 25 years after the towers were destroyed, misses the innocence of the world before 9/11. A quarter century after the attacks, I placed my 47-year-old twin towers pennant into a frame to keep it safe from harm.
Dena Waxman is a Brooklyn-born, Los Angeles-based, award-winning executive producer, director and writer in television and film.
All views expressed in this article are the author's own.
Do you have a personal essay you want to share with Newsweek? Send your story to MyTurn@newsweek.com.
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