One Year Later: Never Forget
By Robert Ideishi

2001 was a year that I wished had never happened. My mother-in-law, the late Sachiko Hirata, had passed away in February 2001. I missed her and her quiet, gentle ways. She was the stable influence in all of our lives. My daughters, Erin 11, and Jill 7, would miss their “ba-ba” tremendously.

2001 was also a significant year due to the events of September 11. It was a date that will forever be remembered as the date that changed the world as we know it. Unfortunately, I was there…at the wrong place at the wrong time.

My resolution for 2002 was to never forget the brave people that had died on that fateful day. I was a survivor, a fortunate survivor, and I owed my life to people who were complete strangers then and except for a few exceptions, are still complete strangers to me now. I vowed to always remember them and made a pledge to myself that I would return to New York City for the memorial ceremonies commemorating the passing of one year.

As a Japanese-American you are raised to show respect for family, friends and even friends of your family that you may barely know. As a child and adolescent I was taken to funerals for people who were friends of my grandparents but whom I had met only once. As the eldest son, I interpreted this as an obligation. It was my duty as a representative of my family to pay respects to people of families that had helped the Ideishi family.

This was no different. I might not be alive today were it not for the courage of many people that did what they were trained to do, ignoring the risk, helping all who were weaker than themselves, and who ended up making the ultimate sacrifice. I can never forget the calming voices and the determined faces of the firemen I met in the stairwell that day.

I felt compelled to go to the one-year “service” for the people that saved my life. It was a personal obligation. It was something that I had to do or I would be disrespecting their lives and what they meant to so many thousands of us that are here to tell about it today.

As the train pulled into Penn Station, I couldn’t help but feel a little apprehension and anxiety. I had returned to NYC in November of 2001, but this was different. Since 9/11 I had this fear of a terrorist attack at a public transportation site such as an airport, a train terminal or a subway station. It sounds irrational but I also would transfer that anxiety to sporting events where many people are concentrated in a small area.

While exiting the train and taking the escalator up to the main level, it struck me that everything seemed normal and that people were going on about their business. There were men and women in business suits rushing to catch the subway or a taxi to their final work destination. The escalator deposited me in the waiting area where the big electronic schedule board dominated the room with all the departure information on it.

It was as I had remembered it. People leaning on their luggage and staring at the board figuring if they stared hard enough the board would change and their train would be the next one to have track information and a call to board. I looked to my right and saw where I had waited next to track #17. There was a Washington DC-bound train leaving from that track on 9/11. That train would stop in Philadelphia where I could feel safe at the home of my brother, Roger, and his family. I don’t know why but I looked at where the Amtrak employees were standing around helping people. I tried to see if I could see the older gentleman who tapped me on the shoulder that day and told me where to stand so that I could be assured of getting on the train. It was an unusual act of kindness. But I realized that I had forgotten what he looked like and for that I felt ashamed.

I started walking to the taxi line. Near the escalators leading to ground level there was a memorial. The area for the memorial was oval in shape. Chunks of concrete were piled up to look similar to the rubble from the collapse of the towers. The rubble was stacked approximately knee high. There was a two-sided wooden board set up in the middle of this pile of debris. There were notes, pictures of victims, flags, teddy bears, pinwheels, and flowers lain about on either side of the wooden board. There were also a couple of steel beams sticking out of the pile. Standing about eight feet high, the beams looked surreal. They were twisted and bent and stuck out of the rubble like daggers. I remembered that on television the beams looked like they were made of aluminum. I went up and touched the beams and found them to be made of extremely heavy steel. The tips of the beams sticking up in the air were jagged and I felt a sharp pain as I imagined the force of 110 stories of beams like this crashing down on human bodies. My hands and fingers went limp as I felt a numbing feeling. I tried to imagine the physical terror that those people still in the building must have felt. I had to kneel down and wait for this feeling to wash over me. I got up and continued on to the taxi line. I now had an idea of what the week would be like.

When I reached the Lucerne Hotel on the Upper West Side, everything looked familiar. I had purposely come in a little early in the afternoon so that I would have time to go and visit the World Trade Center site. It was awfully hot and humid and I was already perspiring through my polo shirt.

I took the subway down to Chambers Street and walked the rest of the way. I started to feel more subdued the closer I got to the WTC site. It is difficult to explain but the mood seemed so different than the Upper West Side. Was it depressing? No. It was somber. It was quiet. The streets were crowded with people but they were not boisterous at all. I walked to the corner of Church and Liberty Street. There was a gate with three NY policemen standing by. A table was set up and a couple of people were selling posters and a CD of a song called Fire in the Sky. I gave them $10 and received one of each item.

There was a green tarp strung along the first ten yards of the chain link fence that encircled the site. I walked along the fence and saw many tourists gathered in bunches. There were two groups of people from a couple of Midwest states who could be identified by their shirts and hats. I stopped in an opening between them and took my first look. I was shocked.

I hadn’t seen the site since that day one year before. When I returned in November of 2001 the closest you could get was about four or five blocks away. I was expecting something dramatic. I suppose that I thought I would see imprints of the towers’ foundations in the dirt. There was nothing. Just a large hole in the ground with concrete walls defining the boundaries of the devastated area. I kept trying to imagine where the north tower was. I looked up into the sky and tried to imagine a line of people switch-backing their way down from floor to floor. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t see it, I couldn’t imagine it in my mind.

Then I looked across to the opposite side of the entire area and I saw the domed structure on top of the World Financial Center. I remembered that whenever we had a break from our seminars I would walk around and take in the view from all sides of the building. From the west side of the building I could look right down on top of the dome and see the ferry to New Jersey that operated right at the waterfront.

I could also see the south tower to my left as I looked down on the Financial Center. I recall always trying to peer into the windows of the south tower to see if I could see any people. I never could. I thought to myself that it was a good thing that I was not looking out of the windows at 8:45 AM on the morning of 9/11. I must have stood in the same place for at least five minutes going through this thought process, oblivious to everything going on around me.

The Midwesterners were taking pictures of each other with the WTC site as the background. I was offended. I had no right to be but I was. I looked upon this site as hallowed, sacred ground. The remains of the people that perished were still down there somewhere and I thought it was disrespectful to take pictures as if on a vacation. I knew that those thoughts were selfish but I couldn’t help it.

I had intentionally not brought along a camera. I would never take a camera to a funeral or memorial service and this was no different. I bit my tongue and proceeded to the end of the viewing walkway. There were a couple of people reading from a large book. They would read off the name of one of the victims and then recite their biography, including what they liked to do in their spare time, what community activities they were involved in. I found myself mesmerized as I listened. Who wrote this book and how did they get such personal information? After hearing about two or three people, I felt a lump in my throat as I imagined these people were reading about me as one of the victims…so I decided I better leave. I walked across a covered portion of the walkway and into a building on the Hudson River side of West Street.

I had arranged to meet Gwen Muranaka from the Rafu Shimpo for dinner that evening at Roy’s Restaurant in the Financial Center Marriott Hotel. I made my way down to Albany Street and crossed the street to the hotel. The street parking was filled with news trucks and vans. I waited at the bar for Ms. Muranaka to arrive. I had never met Gwen before but our conversation at dinner uncovered the fact that we had mutual family friends, the Ken and Yuki Kato family of San Pedro. Gwen was coordinating the submittal of her stories with a Rafu Shimpo writer back in Los Angeles. This young lady was named Audrey Shiomi. Audrey was the flower girl at my wedding nineteen years ago. The world and especially the Japanese-American community were even smaller than we had imagined. The subject of golf came up and we talked about how we were both hacks that loved to play the game. Gwen told me that she was doing a story about a Japanese-American man who owned a golf shop that specialized in making custom-built clubs. She was having a driver custom-built by this specialty shop. Then she mentioned the name of the store, Culver City Golf. I realized that she was talking about my cousin, Brian Nakagiri. This was making the week too surreal to be believed.

We made arrangements to meet the next morning, September 11, at the WTC site. I told her that I would be getting up real early so that I could get as close as I could, probably around 5:00 to 6:00 AM. Gwen just said that she would call me on my cell phone when she got there to find out where I was.

I had trouble sleeping that night and only got two hours of sleep before waking up at 4:00 AM. I turned on the news and there was coverage of the procession of bagpipe players that would wind through all five boroughs before reaching the site at around 8:00 AM.

I took the subway and reached St. Paul’s Cathedral on Fulton and Broadway. There was a wrought iron fence all around the church that had been turned into a memorial with everything imaginable on display on and around the fence. I made my way down Fulton Street and headed one more block to Church Street and then walked over to Liberty Street. Small gatherings of people were congregating around the barricades set up on Church Street. Many people were dressed in red, white and blue…. so was I.

A young Japanese college student was sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, his hands pressed together and his eyes closed. He was either chanting or just saying, “Namu Amida Butsu,” over and over again. I did not want to disturb him but I stared at him for a little while.

A bearded man lecturing to all the passersby distracted me. I walked over to hear what he was saying. He was standing over a motorcycle with a carriage attached to it. The carriage had been converted into a coffin. Inside the coffin was a mannequin in military fatigues. It was a replica of Osama Bin Laden. There was a bullet hole in its forehead with blood coming out of it. The man talked of justice and revenge and American military might. I was disgusted and just shook my head. I did not need a reminder of who was responsible for what happened one year ago. I did not need to have my anger stoked or the rage inside me brought to a boil. In my mind, this was a day of reflection and remembrance, for the many gallant heroes and innocent victims that were lost that fateful day. Every person must eventually reap what he or she has sown. This was not that day.

I walked away and made my way along the sidewalk on Church Street facing the site. There was a father with his son. The young boy couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old. The father was quietly talking to his son. I am sure it will be something that the young boy will never forget. I imagined that the dad was probably giving a history lesson to his young son about what had happened here, what it meant to the world and what he wanted his son to remember about this day. I thought of my daughters Erin and Jill, and wondered if maybe I should have brought them with me. No, I did not have the luxury that this father did. I am sure that he wasn’t a survivor as I was. This was something that I had to experience on my own. I was here by myself that day so I had to return by myself. I needed to be here and in a selfish way, I couldn’t be here with someone else that close to me, especially a member of my own family. I was afraid that I might act in a way that was uncharacteristic of me. I was afraid that they might see me in a way that they had never seen me before.

I went back to the wrought iron fence surrounding St. Paul’s cathedral and found an unoccupied spot to sit down on the concrete. I heard many different languages being spoken as people from all over the world were gathered there. Surprising to me was the fact that there were many Japanese people. I heard German, French, and other languages I didn’t even know being spoken. The crowd started to grow and I watched as many television crews were setting up interviews with people on the street. They wanted to know why people felt compelled to be there. They asked one person what their connection was to 9/11. I silently watched as the radio and television reporters did on-site reports. Some of the radio people were doing their reports via cell phone. I thought about what I might say if asked and decided that there were just too many things tumbling around in my head and it would be best to not say anything for fear that my words might not convey what I truly meant.

I turned and was reading a flag with a message on it when it hit me…. This was where I ran when I first left the building on September 11! I remember the wrought iron fence especially because as I ran away, I looked to my left and saw people walking toward the building with the wrought iron fence behind them. I remembered thinking how incredulous it was that people were rushing to get closer to see what was happening. I could only shake my head in wonderment that day while letting my adrenaline push me forward. I walked around the corner then turned up Fulton Street and tried to remember the feeling of chaos and the sights and smells that made me think that this had to be a movie and could not be real. I was getting that numb feeling again as I relived those moments. After a few minutes I returned to Church Street and found my spot still unoccupied.

Groups of firemen and policemen in full uniform were now making their way through the crowd. They were from every part of the country and the world. The El Segundo Fire Department was represented. The Ventura County Sheriffs were also there. Then about forty or fifty British Bobbies with their signature tall hats came down the street in formation as if they were in a parade. There was an older gentleman leaning over the barricades that kept telling them, “Thanks for sticking with us, guys.” I was glad that the people in the crowd were showing their respect and appreciation for them.

As it got closer to 7:30 AM, the family members of the victims started to make their way to the entrance ramp that went down to the center of the site. Only immediate family members were allowed to actually go down to the ground zero area. I wished that I could have gone down there myself, but it was appropriate that only family was allowed. I did not feel slighted at all. The days’ ceremonies were dedicated to the victims and their families. They suffered so much. They lost so much. What I may have undergone was nothing compared to what these families have had to endure for the last year.

The crowd grew a little quieter and you could feel the emotion building. The family members were wearing suits and dresses. Many of them had cardboard placards dangling from string hung around their necks. Pictures of loved ones that perished one year ago were prominently displayed on the front of the placards. Some of them had phrases written above or below the pictures. “We miss you, Mommy.” “We’ll always love you Grandpa.” “We will never forget you, Daddy.” Despite their best efforts, some could not hold back and began sobbing and weeping. I pictured my own girls; Erin and Jill, having to make that walk with a pendant that had a picture of me in it. I know my girls and I figured that is what they would have done…put my picture in a pendant that they could wear. Ten more minutes in the stairwell and it would have been a reality.

My cell phone rang. It was Gwen. The police wouldn’t let her get past a barricade that had been erected one block back at Broadway. People were bunching up to get a closer look and it was getting very crowded. I told her I would come back to where she was. I couldn’t make my way through the crowd very easily though and it took me longer than expected but I finally found her.

I was glad to have an excuse to be out of audio range of the sniffling and sobbing. I am not sure that I could have kept my composure had I been able to hear them. I would have pictured the faces of my wife and daughters and it would have been too much for me. I also remembered thinking how cold and windy this day was compared to the heat and humidity of the day before. The weather reinforced what a cold and somber date this would always be for the rest of our lives.

The crowd one block away was different. These people were obviously just observers who were not intimately involved in the events from a year ago. Perhaps I should have stayed one block closer. Oh well, it was too late now. Besides, I really did not deserve to be amongst the victims’ friends and families. The pain and loss they experienced far outweighed anything that I had endured. I got the scare of my life…They lost their lives. I live with the memories of that day…These people will never see their loved ones again. I just found my own space and got lost in my own thoughts.

After the second tolling of the bells at 9:03 signifying the second plane hitting the south tower, I asked Gwen if we could go. I told Gwen that my plan was to stay for the second bells. The planes hitting the WTC towers was the most surreal and terrible thing that I had ever been involved in, and I needed to stay at least until the bells were rung.

I then told Gwen that she would not believe this, but seeing the wrought iron fence of the St. Paul’s cathedral brought back my memory of the route that I took away from the WTC site that day. I couldn’t remember my route when I first came back in November of 2001. I couldn’t “see” it. The wrought iron fence was the catalyst that opened my memory and now it was very clear exactly where I went and what I saw, felt and thought.

I started pointing out the direction that I went when Gwen suggested that we try to retrace those steps at least to Chinatown. I agreed and was very eager to show her. We went up Fulton to Broadway and then veered right at City Hall to go down Park Row towards the Brooklyn Bridge. We were right in front of City Hall when I saw the subway stairwell that I ran down in order to try to catch a subway car heading “north”. The one instruction that the policemen and FBI were screaming in our ears was to, “Go north! Go north!”

I recalled that I was fortunate enough to have traveled to New York several times and had an idea of which direction “north” was. I then remembered the split second of terror that I felt when the power went out and we all ran up the stairwell and headed back up Centre Street. I pointed out to her that the stairs were twice as wide as a normal subway stairway and this enabled the crowd to escape the underground twice as fast.

There was a waist-high wall between Centre Street and the street leading to the Brooklyn Bridge. I recalled all the people sitting on the wall just watching what was going on and I remembered thinking that I did not want to go from the island of Manhattan to the island of Long Island. It was the wrong direction. I was going to head west if anything, not east where I would run out of real estate eventually at the end of Long Island. I could “see” the people running in the streets and headed up Lafayette Street.

But this did not look familiar. I must have stayed on Centre Street as I entered Chinatown. To remember the route was a revelation that was exciting and sad at the same time. I was pleased that my memory came back but also sad because the things I felt and thought were tinged with fear and uncertainty. I did not know where I was going nor why. I did not even know what was going on but had heard the rumors in the street of more impending air attacks and bombs going off in the city. It made you question every move you made. Was I running into or away from trouble? What was going to happen next?

Gwen and I parted ways in Chinatown as I had plans to meet a young man named Wayne Takeda for dinner that evening. I was Wayne’s basketball coach in the NAU prep leagues and he was now living in Greenwich Village and forging a new life there. It was great to see Wayne again as I had not seen him in about a year. He was doing great and really loved living in New York. Listening to Wayne talk about his experiences in New York and how much he liked working in the restaurant business at a Brazilian-Japanese restaurant brought more than a smile to my face. Even though I was not his parent, I was really proud of where he was personally and how he got there. More importantly, I was proud of the type of person that he had become. He was obviously not afraid to be independent and strike out on his own in pursuit of what he wanted. We had a nice visit and dinner and I returned to my hotel.

On Thursday, September 12, I had planned to go visit the staff of the World Trade Institute. We had stayed in touch by email and I knew that everyone from the Institute had survived. I looked forward to seeing them but I also knew that there was the potential for our meeting to stir up some long-buried emotions.

I checked out of my hotel and had arranged to meet Gwen Muranaka at her hotel in Chinatown where we would then take the subway up to the 44th Street offices of the WTI. On the way, Gwen and I estimated that we would arrive around 10:30 AM and figured we would stay about one hour at most. Little did we know that we would end up staying for almost three hours. We took the elevator up to the 6th floor and rang the doorbell.

Sandra Nunez, the program director, answered the door and led us into the small lobby. A security briefing was going on in an adjacent room so Sandra excused herself and asked us to wait. As we waited behind a long counter that served as a barrier to the offices, I couldn’t help but feel anxious and also noticed how small the office space was compared to their WTC offices. The Institute occupied the whole 55th floor of the North Tower in the pre-9/11 days and afforded each of them quite a bit of personal space. The hallways were wide and each office area was separated by large open spaces where either a circular conference room surrounded by glass or just open space served as a transition area.

The security briefing broke up and Sandra turned to greet us. She gave me a big hug and expressed how glad she was that I could make it back to New York, especially for this one year anniversary. I too was happy to see her. I then introduced my friend Gwen as a reporter for a Los Angeles based Japanese-American newspaper. Sandra apologized for the cramped office space but there was no need to apologize. I just wanted to see them all and get a chance to catch up on how everyone had been doing since we last saw each other. Sandra was the “mother” of the group and was always a calming, mature presence. She was not in the building at the time of the attack on that day. Sandra had taken her daughter to school that morning and was coming in a little late. We would later find out that she had just parked her car and was about to enter the building when the first plane hit. Her escape to safety was swift, but knowing her, she was probably worried sick about her staff and her clients all day.

Jane Valetta, the company registrar, greeted us next. Jane was the one who I probably had the most long distance correspondence with, as she was the person I would call to register for seminars and also to get general information such as the impending weather. Very personable, Jane always took the time to make sure things were okay and sent schedules of coming seminars and conferences to me on a regular basis.

Hepsy Caban, a Customer Service Specialist, was the most outgoing and gregarious of the group. Always quick to crack a joke, I enjoyed talking to her as she always reminded me to “bring a friend” to the next seminar or conference. She was always trying to drum up more business for the WTI. I figured that Hepsy was from the Caribbean and she was the one person who was not afraid to speak her mind in any situation. I really liked that about her. Hepsy always had a smile and a hug for you whenever you saw her.

Carmen Medina seemed to be the youngest of the group. She was tall and spoke with a hint of a Latin accent. Carmen was from Spain originally and I got to know her as the one who knew where everyone and everything was in the office. She was a little quieter and more reserved than the others, and always seemed to try to be conscious of what you might be feeling before she spoke. I always appreciated her thoughtfulness.

All four ladies greeted both Gwen and I enthusiastically and Sandra pointed us toward a small conference room. On our way down the hall we passed the desk of Hands-ly Guerre. She was a quiet lady and when I returned back in November of 2001 we talked a bit. For some unexplained reason Hands-ly did not want to join us when asked by Sandra. Hands-ly was very quiet and kind of shy but I always got along with her and she was always very friendly. I wanted to personally ask her to join us but figured I better not. I had no idea what perhaps she had been going through both personally and professionally. I recalled how I had felt when even my best friends would try to get me to talk about 9/11 when I just did not want to. I had experienced that feeling of frustration when you just wanted to tell someone to leave you alone. This was an event that affected each of us in many different ways. I had to respect those feelings and if Hands-ly did not want to talk about it I was not about to insist. That would be extremely inconsiderate and I would hope that people would treat me the same way. I could only speak for myself, but ever since 9/11 I have gone through many moods and feelings and as a result, alienated people with my behavior at times. So I completely understood if she did not want to participate.

We all sat around the table in the small room that seemed to barely have enough room for all of us. Sandra began by speaking for all of them and saying how happy they were to see me and to see that I appeared to “be well.” “Be well” was a phrase that was repeated to me more than a few times during the next three hours and I started to wonder if that had become their standard phrase to replace “take care” or “good luck” since I had never heard it before.

We talked of our families a little bit and we were all satisfied that our families were okay. Then we moved on to things a lot more personal. Someone asked me, probably Hepsy, how I was coping with everything since 9/11. I replied honestly that I was doing okay. There would be times when things would just seem to overwhelm me when I thought of the magnitude of what we had been through. Sandra, probably because she was not actually in the building that day, expressed how she could understand how deeply this would have affected me because, “My God, you could have died that day!” I got that numb-feeling again when she said those words and it seemed to stimulate thoughts in all the other ladies.

We started to relay to each other the details of what we saw, heard, smelled and felt during that seemingly endless trek down the stairwell. Carmen asked a question that really brought a big surprise. She asked where I was when I first saw the firemen in the stairwell. I told her I was on about the 40th or 41st floor. I asked her where she was and she said the 10th or 11th floor! I was stunned! I knew that I was one of the last ones that got off the floor because I packed up my bag and zipped up my planner and tried to fit the seminar notebook in my bag before deciding that it was too bulky…. But 30 floors difference? Carmen then said that she and Hands-ly ran as soon they felt the impact of the plane hit the building. Of course we had no idea it was a plane at the time, but it shocked me that a matter of probably 30 seconds could make such a difference in your position in the stairwell. It made sense that with people streaming out of all the floors at one time that the stairwell would get flooded with people very quickly. If you did not hesitate you could have been far ahead of others like myself who did not recognize the urgency until almost too late.

Carmen and Hands-ly would have their own unfortunate circumstances though. They had gotten out of the building much earlier than many of us, therefore the emergency rescue team had not mapped out the safest route out of the building and onto the street. The rescue workers would later form a path for everyone to follow out of the building. That path would lead us to a different exit from the building than where Carmen and Hands-ly ran.

Carmen told us that when they exited the building, they looked to their left and saw bodies and body parts strewn about the plaza area. It was a horrifying sight and I am sure they will forever have nightmares recalling those moments. I feel fortunate that when I ran out of the building I did not notice anything like that.

I also found out that not everyone went down the stairwell that I did. Hepsy said that she went down a stairwell that was filled with smoke and did not have any light on some of the floors. Again, I could only imagine what I would have felt had I been in her shoes that day and I felt so sorry for her. Then again, I am sure she was thinking the same thing about me when I told the group how I saw the badly burnt and bleeding people walking past me in a catatonic state on the stairwell.
Jane was fairly quiet throughout this part of the conversation and chose to focus on how it was affecting her relationships with other people, in particular her family members. No one pushed her to describe what she saw and felt in the stairwell that day. However Jane’s thoughts led us into a whole different direction.

In general it seemed that we all had the same thoughts and feelings as expressed by Jane. “People that were not there just do not understand,” she said. I agreed. Either people dismissed it as if it was something that we should just get over and was not that big a deal or people over sympathized and went way beyond feeling sorry for us and that was hard to listen to as well. It is unfair for us to feel that way but it was a real feeling nonetheless.

Jane also pointed out something that we all felt. We all had friends and family members who would start questioning us about what happened without regard for our feelings and actually showed no concern for our psyches at all. They seemed intent on trying to find out as many gory details as possible so that they could then relay to other people what it was like that day. We all agreed that it was very aggravating and of course it was Sandra who made the observation that maybe that was their way of sympathizing with us by trying to understand what we had felt that day. I don’t think any of us were buying into that theory though.

I asked if anyone had trouble sleeping immediately after that date and whether it was still affecting their sleep now. I know that I could not sleep through the night for the first two months after the incident and it was worrying me that I would have to live with this condition. I thought that maybe I was the only one to have this reaction. Carmen and Hepsy both raised their hands and said that they still have trouble sleeping at times. Carmen said that when she gets that way, she has to go to the gym and exercise until she is totally exhausted and then she is able to sleep. Hepsy just looked at me and said, “Tylenol PM and a Heineken, baby!” Leave it to Hepsy to give a simple, honest solution to the problem. I said I would have to try that. Jane and Sandra were noticeably silent throughout this whole topic and it worried me a little bit that they did not want to say anything. Hopefully they were not experiencing difficulties in getting restful sleep.

We talked on and on about a variety of topics related to that day and our feelings. Hepsy asked if I thought of my two daughters at any time during that ordeal. I replied that it was the one thing that I couldn’t get out of my head in the stairwell. I thought that I wasn’t going to get to see what they would be like when they grew up. I would never get to meet my son-in-laws or be at their weddings to walk them down the aisle. I started to say that I tried to imagine what they would look like as adults when my voice started to crack a little. Hepsy put her hand on my right forearm. Sandra touched my left shoulder. I recovered but not without their help. Throughout the three-hour “therapy session,” we seemed able to do that for each other. When someone needed a light “touch” of reassurance that everything was okay, it was there. When someone did not want to talk about a subject, like that of sleepless nights, someone would bring up another topic real quick to change the subject and to alter the mood of the person that was being affected. It was extraordinary that a connection had developed between us that no one else could be part of. Afterwards, Gwen made the observation that it was obvious that we seemed to know how to react to each other in a way that was comforting and reassuring.

I couldn’t believe that we had been talking for three hours but when I looked at my watch it was 1:30 PM. We said our goodbyes and I promised to see them in December when I would be returning to New York City for one of their seminars. Gwen wanted to take a picture for the Rafu Shimpo so we decided to pose in the lobby. As we walked by Hands-ly’s desk, Sandra asked her if she would like to join us. She declined. We took a couple of pictures and it was really sad to say goodbye to these wonderful ladies.

I have now seen the WTI staff twice since 9/11 and each time I have come away feeling better. I suppose it was mostly due to the fact that I was reassured that I was not alone. These were people that had similar feelings and experiences as I had. It has become a requirement for me to correspond with Sandra, Jane, Carmen and Hepsy every so often. Besides, they are truly caring people. The six of us, including Hands-ly, are all such different people with distinct personalities and characteristics, but the events of 9/11 will always separate us from everyone else, and only we can be privy to some of the feelings that each of us continues to experience. I feel very grateful to be able to include these ladies as my friends.

The initial motivation for writing the journal of my 9/11experience and the subsequent one-year return was to make sure that I would never forget. A second reason was so that it could be captured for my daughters and their children as I know this will definitely be part of Ideishi family history. Last, but certainly not least, I feel an obligation to my own Japanese-American community to share an account written by someone that hopefully the community can relate to. We have all grown up with similar values impressed upon us by our parents and our grandparents. Many of us grew up in similar communities and have had comparable experiences. Perhaps there might be a thought or a feeling that hits home. Perhaps it might make it more real and personal for others that either know me or have grown up in our community.

How has the tragedy of 9/11 and its aftermath affected me? I know that it has changed me forever. It has confirmed my belief that there is a goodness and humanity in all of us. The heroic acts that I was witness to were astonishing. The selfless acts of courage when the outcome had not been determined were inspiring. The willingness of people to work together should give us the hope that all crises are manageable.

The events of 9/11 forged a bond between the people of New York and myself that will never be broken. I will always be indebted to them. Being there one year later was the right thing to do. It was also where I needed to be. West Coast people, through no fault of their own, cannot understand what it was really like nor can they relate to what I may be feeling or thinking. New Yorkers seem to be able to know when it is time to “get back to normal” and when it is a time to reflect on everything that happened.

Maybe it is just me and my reaction to things, but I truly feel at home in New York. I feel comfortable there. If I were a lot younger and single without a family, I would probably move there. However nothing is stronger than family. My love for my wife and daughters will prevent me from ever really considering such a move, but the connection is like a magnet that I know will forever draw me back to Manhattan on occasion.

I am taken totally by surprise when certain triggers transport me back to that awful day. It could be a song on the radio or a television special or a news account of something happening in the world. It is especially strong when a special dedicated to the event is shown on television. I do not want to relive the whole event, yet I cannot tear myself away from the television. I need to know more and I want to hear of all the stories that I can.

I once said to my friends that I never believed those stories of superhuman strength when a man would lift a car up by himself in order to free a trapped loved one underneath. It was not logical or possible in my mind. Now I am sure that it is possible. I myself ran and walked at least eight or nine miles further than I had ever gone before…and my body didn’t hurt at all nor was I even breathing hard. I am not in great physical shape…okay, I am in poor physical shape. But I was able to mentally block it out until the next day, when I could not even walk to the toilet at my brother’s house and had to crawl around his house in the morning.

The firemen that hauled that heavy equipment up all those flights of stairs under extreme duress while stopping to calm the civilians…I owe them my life. The spirit and determination of all those rescue workers was so inspiring that I cannot find adequate words to describe it. It is extremely painful to think that they are all gone.

I believe more than ever that there must be something to the phenomenon of “fate.” Many people have said to me, “It just wasn’t your time.” I am sure that they must be right. At least on 9/11 it was not my time. It would have been too easy to spend another five or ten minutes in that stairwell or stop to look around when I got out of the building so that I would have been standing right next to the building when the south tower fell.

“ Be well” was the phrase that each of the WTI ladies used as part of their goodbye to me. It struck me odd that they would not say “take care” or “good luck” instead, but I figured that this must be a New York inspired phrase. It has since been pointed out to me that, “take care” requires a proactive requirement on the part of the other person to look after themselves. It would be inconsiderate to impose an additional burden on top of what we already have to deal with.
“ Luck” was a word that was being used over and over again when it came to explaining how some of us survived. I know that I had used it many times. I thought that perhaps New Yorkers were attempting to find something besides luck to explain why some people survived and some did not. Referencing luck would have been too simple and it seemed like a casual way of dismissing what had happened that day. I had always thought of luck as the primary reason for my survival. I certainly did not deserve to live any more than those that perished. Perhaps New Yorkers were just tired of talking about luck. I will take their lead and not use that word anymore to describe what happened. I respect their feelings that much.

People often use the word “closure” as in, “so were you able to get some closure by going back to New York?” I think the word “closure” is the most overused word in the English language after any life-altering event. In my mind, there is no closure and never will be. You just find different ways to deal with what happened. You never forget and you never close that chapter of your book. It is always there. It will always affect how you react to tragic events or even everyday events. There are no absolutes and no right answers. As our little group therapy session proved, we all experience things in different ways and we all react differently. The ladies seemed to be more focused on what they could see. I was more focused on what I felt and what I heard.

The whole episode is one that will always remind me to reflect on what is important in life and what my priorities should be. It has also led me to treasure all the good things and relationships that I have been fortunate to experience in my life. My family and my friends mean so much more to me. That may sound silly but I know that I take for granted the love that exists in my family, even when we may be really upset with each other. I hope that all my relatives know this even though we may not see or talk with each other over long periods of time. I want to make sure my immediate family knows…. Just in case something unfortunate were to happen to me one day. I want to leave no doubt in their minds. My wife and two daughters will never have to guess how I feel about them.

I have been fortunate to have friends, both male and female, that are the most caring and considerate in the world. Many of them have been close friends since childhood. I had always hoped that they would be there for me when I needed them most. I know now that they have always been there and always will be there. I cannot express how grateful I am for their phone calls to my wife, Susan, offering their help and support when we were all not sure how things would turn out. I cannot express how relieved and comforting it made me feel to know that my daughters had “uncles” and “aunts” that would keep a watchful eye on their progress as they grew up. After reaching my hotel that day I spoke to a few of my close friends. Each one of them told me to just concentrate on surviving and coming home. They guaranteed that my family would be taken care of… no matter what happened to me.

I have the best friends any man could ever hope to have. Their show of friendship and genuine concern gave me an additional reason to make sure that I survived and made it home. I would not want to add to their already busy lives with an extra burden not of their own making. It has humbled me beyond belief that I have such remarkable people in my life and I will make sure that I am there for them whenever and wherever they need me.

My greatest wish is that everyone will come out of this incident with a renewed faith in their fellow man and a renewed faith in themselves. I know that I was very surprised by how I reacted that day. I remember the lady in the blue pantsuit who was one flight above me in the stairwell. A man was telling of the previous bombing in the WTC some eight years ago and she calmly, but forcefully told him to keep his stories to himself. She then smiled at winked at me and I actually felt a calmness come over me.

I do not know how to explain it given that I am usually a very nervous person, but I was surprised that I didn’t have trouble breathing and didn’t hyperventilate. I, like thousands and thousands of people in that stairwell, did not succumb to the temptation to try to save ourselves first. There were a few people that feigned knowing the injured as we stepped aside and cleared a path to let them down the stairwell. I was not the only one that wanted to express disgust for their actions. I am not a hero by any means. I did nothing but survive and not panic. So did tens of thousand of others.

I have a renewed sense of enthusiasm for what is possible when good people work together to help others without trying to gain any benefit for themselves. I hope that lesson is not lost. It is also essential that even the cynical can see a glimmer of something to invigorate them to believe in the goodness of their fellow man. I cannot find the words to describe how heartening it was to see people thinking of others in such dire life and death circumstances.

I hope that our children can learn from the events of that day. That should be the primary reason for bringing these stories to light. The next generation needs to be able to point to acts of selflessness rather than selfishness in order for them to make our world better and safer for all. I cannot think of a more appropriate place to start than with the courageous acts of that tragic day in September.

I will forever remember that on that day many people exhibited courage and performed extreme acts of bravery. They are the heroes. Some of them lived; many of them did not. I will never forget them.