It has been exactly 15 years since life as we know it was forever changed. In the interim, much has transpired – joyous births as our families have grown, momentous milestones achieved and celebrated, tragedies witnessed both here and abroad, and the deaths of loved ones who mourned alongside us on 9/11.
If you have not yet visited the monument and museum, not enough can be said as to how very well it was done. The memories of those who paid the ultimate price for our country is immortalized thanks to the reverence with which the project was undertaken.
In the place of the twin towers now stands the Freedom Tower, a monument to our pride and determination to never bow to our enemies. Respectfully, the building’s height is precisely that of its twin sisters that fell before it. Consequently, the Tower itself, which beautifully represents rebirth and renewal, equally stands as a permanent reminder to Never Forget.
As for me, my story from that day remains forever etched into my mind. To alter what I wrote to pay my own respects one year ago would thus be feigned.
And so I invite you to read for the first time, or reread one year on, my sole tribute to September 11, 2001: Angels Manning Heaven’s Trading Floors.
He could have passed for Yul Brynner’s twin if it wasn’t for those eyes. He was 57 years old, 6’2” tall, tan and handsome with a shining bald head. But his eyes, those elfish eyes dared those around him to partake of anything but his infectious happiness. It was those eyes I will never forget.
It was Labor Day weekend, 2001. One of my best friend’s college buddies from UCLA was in town and his uncle had a boat. So we had the good fortune to be invited to take a cruise around Shelter Island on that long holiday weekend 15 years ago. I was 30 years old at the time and I can tell you there was no “boat” about this Yul Brynner look-a-like’s 130-foot yacht. The crystal champagne flutes, the hot tub on the deck, the full crew – none of these accoutrements faintly resembled the boats I’d been on as a middle class girl spending summers off Connecticut’s stretch of Long Island Sound. The thing is, our friend’s uncle was none other than Herman Sandler, the renowned investment banker and co-founder of Sandler O’Neill.
I wasn’t sure what to expect of Sandler and I had no idea that this chance meeting would make a soon to happen unspeakable act that much more real. Would Sandler exude that same pomposity so common among the Ivy League investment bankers who had underwritten the Internet Revolution? In a word, hardly. Sandler personified self-made man. After introducing me to his family, of whom he was immensely proud, he graciously offered me something to eat or drink. And then, he told me a story about a man who knew the value of never straying the course. It haunts me to this day.
It was a good old-fashioned American Dream story about a man and some friends who started an investment bank to banks and built their firm to the top of the world. Literally. The secret to his success, which he enjoyed from his place in the clouds, on the 104th floor of the south tower of the World Trade Center was simply hard work, he said. He prided himself, relaying to me in what I could tell was a tale he’d repeated time and again, not only on making it to the top of the tallest building in the city, but on beating the youngest and hungriest to the office in the mornings and turning off the lights at night. Never forget where you come from. Never take for granted what you have.
In 2001, I had been on Wall Street for five years and was enjoying my own success and experiencing firsthand what money could buy. Given the choices my world offered, most would not have chosen night school. But I was determined to fulfill a lifelong dream and attend Columbia where I was to earn my master’s in journalism to complement my MBA in finance from the University of Texas. I guess I was not like most others. I wanted something tangible to open the next door in my career, which I knew would involve both the markets and writing. I called it my retirement plan.
Throughout this Wall Street by day, student by night chapter of my life, the minute the stock market closed at 3 pm, I would rush to the west side subway lines to trek north to Columbia’s campus. Just before Labor Day that year, I had turned in a class project, exploring the world of the famous Cornell Burn Center at New York-Presbyterian Hospital. During my time on the project, the unit was quiet save a few occupants, which apparently was not the norm. So those brave nurses had to paint a picture for me of what it was like when the floor was bustling with victims of fire-related disasters. Many of the stories of pain and suffering were so horrific I remember being grateful for the relative calm and saying a little prayer the unit would stay that way.
I returned to work on Tuesday, September 4, after that long weekend that proved to be fateful, with a new perspective on life and work, inspired by Sandler’s humility. Little did I know we were all living on precious borrowed time. It was impossible to conceive that one short week later, Sandler’s inspirational tale and those nurses’ surreal stories would collide in a very real nightmare.
It’s the Pearl Harbor of my generation. Most Americans can tell you where they were on the morning of September 11, 2001. I had walked part of the way to work that day, so picture perfect was the blue of the blue sky. I was in my office at 277 Park Avenue in midtown watching CNBC’s Mark Haines on my left screen and pre-market activity on my right screen. As was most often the case, it was muted as live calls on economic data and company news came over the real life squawk box on my desk. My two assistants were seated outside my office going through their pre-market routine, fortified as was usually the case with oatmeal, yogurt and coffee. In retrospect, the mundaneness of the morning’s details are bittersweet.
It was almost 9 am and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that a live picture of the World Trade Center had popped up on CNBC. Haines reported, as did many initially, that a small commuter plane had hit the north tower of the World Trade Center. As distracting as the image was, I tried to go back to my own morning routine, preparing for the stock market open in what had ceased to be one-way (up) trading after the Nasdaq peaked in March 2000.
And then, at 9:02 am, time stood still. A scream pierced the floor as one of my assistants watched a second plane, a second enormous plane, fly straight into what appeared to be Morgan Stanley’s office floors in the south tower, where her father