9/11: Honored to Make a Contribution, However Small

By Veronica L. Yankowski 

My memories of 9/11 begin like so many others’. I woke up early on that gorgeous Tuesday morning and headed down the Parkway to my job as a photographer in North Brunswick. Usually I don’t turn on the radio in my car but for some reason that morning, I did. In horror, I listened as one tower was struck, then the other.  I listened as disaster unfolded.

Rather than running away, I felt desperate to get as close to NYC as possible. But of course that was futile, as all of the roads leading into the city were closed. Instead, I drove around frantically until I reached a commuter parking lot in Elizabeth where I could see the towers burning with a virtually unobstructed view. I climbed on top of my car, took out my camera and just started shooting -- wide shots, tight shots, everything I could. I went to switch my lens, and just as my camera was raised to my face, the unthinkable happened: the first tower collapsed. There was no sound -- just dust, smoke and shock.

What happened the rest of the day is a bit of a blur. I went to the newsroom at The Star Ledger where I worked as a freelance photo journalist. I offered them my photos; I called NJ 101.5 radio station, giving my first-hand account of the Towers collapse; I headed back to my newsroom to see every reporter glued to the TV.

That day was like an ache that won’t go away.  I was a journalist, meaning, I had to relive it, I absolutely had to go to Ground Zero and document the destruction as I saw it. That was no easy task. Only emergency personnel was allowed to go anywhere near there. No one knew whether it was safe. My editor would not give me the green light. 

I had to wait until my first day off. 

Finally, on the 9th day, I was Manhattan bound. I took the train to Penn Station and a cab as far downtown as it would go. I then walked in the pouring rain to City Hall where I waited in line for a press pass that proved to be meaningless; I could not penetrate the perimeter.  I walked for hours, talking to journalists and tourists, officers and firefighters, to no avail. Determined not to leave without the photographs I came to get, I did what I had to do -- I lied. 

At Manhattan College I approached a Port Authority officer and pleaded my (fictitious) case. I told him a tale of a horrible editor that would fire me if I didn’t produce one shot from the site. I assuaged myself of guilt knowing that my intentions were good – to document this world-changing disaster.

Miraculously, the officer offered me an escort to the site with two other police officers, Eddie and Diane, who had not yet been to the site themselves. I found myself seat belted in an official Port Authority van, bounding down the street to Ground Zero, all three of us not knowing what to think or feel.

And there it was. I have no words to describe the enormity of the destruction. In order for me to do my job, I went into autopilot and tried to turn off my emotions for a brief time. I brought a mask to wear to protect myself from toxins and smell, but due to the rain, the first rainfall since the attack, I opted not to use it.  It was loud and chaotic, yet eerily silent at the same time.

I shot quickly, not spending time trying to compose the best photograph.  My goal was to document everything I saw as quickly as possible before they ripped me out of there.  One hour was all I was allotted, but those 60 minutes have haunted my spirit, my dreams, and my life for 10 years. I saw things I shouldn’t have. 

Walking around I remember Eddie saying "watch your step" every few feet. As I looked down trying to avoid puddles of water and mud, I also was cautious of metal and wires. Business cards and letterhead were stuck to everything and littered the ground. And the faces. The exhausted rescue workers who were heroically working nonstop. Those blank stares are etched into my memory forever. 

After we left, the reality of what had happened, what I’d just seen, finally hit an emotional chord. I dropped to the ground on Broadway and sobbed. I called my dad. I knew he’d understand what it was like being in a war zone since he was a Vietnam vet; he lovingly scolded me, knowing those images would change my life. He was right.

Ten years later I still have a difficult time on the anniversary of 9/11.  I do, though, feel blessed that I was able to capture the images I did.  I am honored to have made a contribution, however small, to a lasting memorial for the victims, the heroes, the survivors and so that we, as Americans, never forget.