Everyone has their own distinct memories of that day. I have mine. Watching the first Tower silently fall from a 37th floor corner office in midtown Manhattan. 1010 WINS blaring from someone’s radio on my office floor. Finally returning to Brooklyn to find my car, and the rest of the neighborhood, covered in dust. And everything else in between.
One moment that always struck me, but now has a much more profound meaning, involved my father. On September 11th, he was working in Philadelphia, three months away from retirement. He had called me exactly two minutes after the first plane hit. I was only five miles from the World Trade Center, yet the first person to tell me about what had happened was 100 miles away. After the first Tower fell, I called him for a third time to let him know we were leaving the building. After a couple hours, I was finally able to get through to him on my cell phone. I remember the gravity of that day finally hit me as I was standing outside the Irish pub we hunkered down at. I started to cry. My dad simply said, “Bry, it’s going to be OK.” He uttered those words to me only a handful of times in my life. It worked every single time.
I moved to New York City in April of 2001. I made it a habit of carrying around my point-and-shoot camera in my bag every day. Five months later, I forgot it on that particular Tuesday.
The next day, I ventured to the promenade in Brooklyn Heights, camera in tow. These are just another man’s simple pictures documenting the events of that attack.
(All of the pictures seen here are scanned from the original prints. The negatives were unfortunately lost. The scanner is not of professional grade, so there is a lot of noise. When the chance arises, they will be rescanned and edited. Again, all of these were taken with a basic point-and-shoot camera with black and white film.)