Editor’s note: Contributor Marcia Butler shares an illuminating perspective in this personal essay, connecting us in another way as we remember September 11, 2001.


One day in the early 1970s, a friend and I played hooky from college classes and on a lark, went down to the vast construction site where the Twin Towers were being erected. Somehow we were able to slip into an elevator in the South Tower, punch a very high number and ride up to one of the top floors still under construction. A few workmen were milling about, but no one stopped us or paid any attention to our wide-eyed shenanigans. The site was surprisingly deserted, at least on the floor we happened upon.

Walking out into the yet-to-be-constructed offices, we felt simultaneously inside and outside. The wind was whipping through the open space, because the windows, all stacked up against those now famous thick interior columns, had not yet been installed. Curious and brave, we walked towards those huge gaping cavities, and for a moment we really did feel on top of the world. Hand in hand, we ventured right to the brim, without fear or hard hats. We felt giddy, as the building swayed, and we gripped each other more tightly.

The Trade Towers had been controversial, considered potential eyesores in the Wall Street area. No one wanted the towers to be built, just as years later, no one wanted the Time Warner towers to be built at Columbus Circle. But these behemoths ultimately do get built, and eventually everyone gets used to them. We forget about the resistance and drama surrounding new construction in our city and the worries of how it will impact our beloved skyline, which is always changing like cumulus clouds. The New York City skyline is imbedded in our consciousness and yet, it slowly undulates with the gradual and inevitable new construction that is the hallmark of progress.

Through the years, I began to feel a crazy personal ownership of the towers, remembering them as the enormous lumbering babies I met when I snuck into that elevator and walked to the very hilt, looking out onto my vast city. I saw a view that few had yet seen. That very special bird’s eye view: surely higher than any other building at the tip of Lower Manhattan, and even in the whole city. That view was just for my friend, the construction guys and me. As we looked out of the wide-open holes in the walls, we were inured to the height and the expanse and the potential danger of the tower’s verticality. Out and about in the city, I found myself looking southward often, and feeling comforted; there they were, just as they should be, a solid visual homing beacon. Those Twin Towers were my towers. I loved them so. They were just there, being their looming selves: over the Woolworth Building and 40 Wall Street, dwarfing those eschewed edifices of the past by dozens of floors.

On the day they fell, imploding a bit too perfectly into themselves, I hunkered down in front of the tube, feeling ghoulish, and watched the horror unfolding less than a mile away from my house in Sunnyside Gardens, Queens. And as the wind shifted into the evening, my house began to fill with the smell of smoke and perhaps minute particles of the detritus of God knows what. I went to bed that night with the windows closed up, trying to ward off that odor of death and pulverized computers, papers and ephemera of life that made up the Trade Towers and everything trapped inside. The very concrete that I may have stepped on as I emerged from the elevator that day over 40 years ago, just might have been seeping into my house in Queens, over the East River on the night of 9/11/01. As I tried to sleep that night, I inhaled my baby towers; an odor that I imagined contained my own young and ancient footsteps.

But on 9/11/01, what was really on my mind was the appointment scheduled at my radiologist’s office for 9/12/01, at 9:00 am. As the day of the 11th plodded on, with the tragedy unfolding literally minute by minute, a grim and very selfish thought began to surface at the edge of my chemo-brain. I was recovering from a grueling year of cancer treatment: post surgery; post chemo; post radiation. I had just begun running again. My skull was sprouting what would become a fantastic plume of gray hair. And I was scheduled to have my brand new baseline x-rays, which would tell the new story of my now non-cancerous breasts. What if my appointment was cancelled due to the Twin Towers collapsing?

Of course, no one was in the doctor’s office to answer my repeated calls. The phone service all over New York City was sketchy at best. I felt sheepish and embarrassed to even bother with this silly detail in my small life. My gigantic baby towers were gone and my breasts needed to be photographed. The Towers and The Breasts: like the title of a bad soap opera, just cancelled by the networks.

The morning of the 12th at 6:30 am, the call came from my doctor; they would see a few patients who needed crucial scans and I was one. “Come on in, if you can.”

Walking to the subway, I sensed a tentative calm in the air, not yet to be trusted. The streets and stores were empty, save for a few stalwart Korean delis. Most people had undoubtedly been glued to the TV all night and were still watching, or were drifting off to sleep into an unwanted day off. Miraculously, the 7 trains were running and I boarded the Manhattan-bound subway with a few others, our eyes meeting, but mostly behaving as if we were going into work as usual.

I sat on the side of the train that faced north. As the elevated subway went into its big turn just after the Queensboro Plaza station, it suddenly occurred to me to turn around and look south. The gesture was an instinct. My southward view had just cleared the Citigroup Building. With this building in the foreground, the Twin Towers would have emerged. But they were gone. What appeared in their stead was the most beautifully sculpted double billow of thick smoke imaginable. They were solidly planted where the towers had been, almost as if they were new structures, and not going anywhere. Casper-like billows: ghostly. Monumental bulbous balloons of grey steely smoke, the wind unable to dissipate their sheer density. The towers had been rearranged into a softer effect; not the huge phallic-like structures that everyone griped about in the ’70s when I was a college student. No, these might be kind and gentle and forgiving towers, because they were now not only made of concrete and steel, but also of lives lost. Mixed up in the chaos of these gentle smoke stacks were countless bodies, pulverized into a massive, vertical sandy compost heap. Is that what I inhaled the night before? This thought roiled in my guts and I bent down to retch onto the floor of the train. My fellow commuters looked away.

The radiologist’s office was on Madison Avenue, a building of solid steel, concrete, granite and glass. The elevator let me out into an intact hallway. Doors to the offices were wide open; a few bald comrades sat, waiting. Angels disguised as doctors in white coats had flocked to this solid building to quell my fears and complete my treatment, taking the pictures that would become my breast’s new baby pictures, to gaze at and refer to in subsequent years. 9/12/01 was the end of my cancer journey. On that day, I began my final stage of healing. The killing of my cancer was complete, and my beloved baby Twin Towers had died too.


9/11 National Memorial & Museum, New York.


Marcia ButlerCreativity has been the driving force in Marcia Butler’s life. For 25 years she performed throughout the world as a professional oboist. She was hailed by the New York Times as “a first rate artist” and performed with such luminaries as pianist Andre Watts and jazz great Keith Jarrett. In 2002 Marcia switched careers and began her interior design firm, Marcia Butler Interior Design. The personal essay “9.12.01″ is part of a memoir Marcia is currently writing, whose working title is My Isolde. She lives in Sunnyside Gardens, Queens.

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16 Responses to 9.12.01

  1. David Arthur-Simons says:

    What an interesting story. Life is just full of surprises. Who could have thought that the fall the Twin Towers could have a positive mirror image somewhere else? The ending was just so unexpected and filled me with joy and simultaneously shame and horror – was I really feeling happy about the fall of the Twin Towers? Well, not exactly about the fall of the Towers but the old adage that every ending is also a new beginning.

    The weaving of personal details (“my towers”) with historic events was very nicely and evenly done and without sledgehammer. The way it all came together in a final unexpected punch really showed the mark of a true story-teller who is able to see the connnectedness of things but only reveals them like a magician with awe-inspiring timing and precision that makes us aware of the subtlety of the weaving of the tapestry of life which but for the writer’s story-telling ability we might not otherwise have seen.

    Thank you and congratulations on your momentous anniversary. Good to have you still here.

    • Marcia Butler says:


      Thanks so much for your thoughtful comments. And yes, every ending has a beginning that is implied. And will reveal itself over time.

      With gratitude,


  2. Gary Johnson says:

    Terrific piece, Marcia. You just keep showing shiny new talents. I always liked your writing and this was a chance to see it in a new form—-well done. I must add that you have a great vocabulary and are really good at putting the right word in the right place!

    • Marcia Butler says:


      I am so glad you like the piece – it’s a bit different putting my words out there, then, say, playing a piece on the oboe. In performance, the moment is gone. With words it is there forever, to be reread. So I am mindful of this and it is a new feeling to get used to!

      Warmly, Marcia

  3. Terril Gagnier says:

    What a beautifully written tribute to loss, perseverance and
    recovery. This essay makes the poignancy and terror of a world
    shattering event personal and heartbreakingly immediate.

  4. Suzie LoGrasso says:

    This was beautifully written, Marcia. What a bittersweet moment that must’ve been for you. Thanks for sharing!

    • Marcia Butler says:


      I still think of the Twin Towers with love, and almost longing, now. To me they will always be the babies that lived just over 30 years – and never got to grow up. Thank you for reading my story.


  5. Marcia,
    You have written a beautiful, moving and evocative memoir. Your twin themes of surviving cancer and surviving a terrorist attack are like the twin towers themselves, forever looming large and menacingly over so many of our lives.
    Thank you for your courage.

    • Marcia Butler says:


      Thank you for this lovely comment. I still look up for them occaisionally, and now see the new Freedom Tower, which has not quite landed in my conciousness yet. That will take time.

      Warmly, Marcia

  6. Julia says:

    Beautifully written. Really touching. I love how Marcia portrays the intimate intertwining of the personal life and the life of the larger community. Isn’t it always like that? Events that millions experience refract so uniquely and idiosyncratically in the millions of mirrors that form are individual consciousnesses. Thanks Marcia. I can see a young you standing at the edge of the sky, looking at New York through a vast open window. I love that image.

    • Marcia Butler says:


      Your words are so wise. Consciousness connects us and binds our souls no matter around an enormous event or with an individual’s life. Thank you.

      Warmly, Marcia

  7. Janine Sarna-Jones says:

    I used those towers to orient myself whenever I came out of the subway. Thank you for sharing this story, Marcia. You reminded me that every one of us has a story to tell.

    • Marcia Butler says:


      I think everyone used them as homing devices at one point or another, and even New Yorkers get disoriented from time to time! I am so honored that you read the story.

      Warmly, Marcia

  8. Neil Eisenberg says:

    As a client of Marcia Butler Interior Design, I literally wake up each day and climb into bed each night surrounded by her boundless creativity. Unaware of Marcia’s obvious penchant for writing, at first I was pleasantly surprised to come upon this piece…and then quite moved for its reading.
    Marcia’s skill to place just the right word in just the right place along her gently winding sentences is punctuated by the way she brought me along to the surprising ending of connectedness.
    As a New Yorker now living in Boston for many years, I felt immediately back at home…drawn in by Marcia’s eloquent descriptions of chunks of life in The City.

    There is great warmth in this small piece of what will no doubt prove to be a special and poignant memoir…just as there is a beautifully glowing warmth throughout the interior of my home. There is a beautiful flow and connectedness…a story if you will…between each and every room Marcia created in my apartment; one I will enjoy even more (if possible) than ever now that I’ve discovered just what it is that makes me love my home so much. It is that Marcia Butler is a warm-hearted, extremely talented and creative story teller.
    I so look forward to reading more from Marcia.

    • Marcia Butler says:

      Dear Neil,

      One of the greatest gifts of being an interior designer is that I can, in a sense, continue to be with my clients even after the project is completed. And you write so eloquently just how I do that. There are the clients who continue to bring a smile to my face, and you are one. Which is why I am so very touched by your kind words about my writing. The home is a place where we can truly be ourselves. I see writing, now, the same way. The words, poured over and rewritten endlessly, finally land for others to see and re-read if desired. And I find comfort when others can find depth or meaning in my story. So here’s to home and story! They both are vessels for comfort and growth.

      Warmly, Marcia

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