I saw the second plane come in [on the TV]. And I thought, we’re at war.
We didn’t know what was going on.
Then the phone rang. It was my boss. He was like, “Oh, my God! Thank God, you’re here! I need you to write an episode!”
“What? You need me to write—”
“I need you to write an episode right now!”
“About what?”
“About anything. But it needs to prep in two days.”
See, the episode we were scheduled to start was about terrorism. So we couldn’t do it.
I was like, “Yeah, okay.” But I was like … fuck! 9/11 is happening!
I couldn’t get through to my mother [who was in New York City]. I’m like, is my family alive? What’s going on?
Then, my theater company. They’re like family to me, but I knew a lot of them were at an intensive retreat in upstate New York, at Horton Foote’s farm.107 We got in touch on 9/11. I remember it was a huge weight off my mind, because at least I knew everybody at the intensive was safe.
But the next call [I got] was from my friends at the apartment complex. And they’re like, “Oh, my God! We’re so glad we got you! We’re all here together. It’s going to be all right. We’re coming to get you.”
I said, “Marlene, I can’t.”
She said, “What do you mean?”
“I have to stay here.”
She wanted me back at our house in L.A. so we’d all be together while we watched our city burn. But I said, “I have to write this episode.”
The block I was on got cordoned off for the next two days. The studio was closed. Nobody could get in. It was just me, the security guard, and a cop. And for the next two days, I wrote this episode about a prison break. It was just as unsubstantive as it could possibly be. Like, of course, I’m trying my best. But I’m just so aware that I’m essentially writing bullshit while the world is ending. You know?
And I had a moment where I said to myself, the second I can get out of this job and get the fuck out of L.A., I’m going back to New York and I’m going to write about shit that means something to me. That hopefully means something to someone else. Because this is just bullshit.
So remember how—I forget how long it was after [9/11]—you couldn’t fly? Remember that? It was maybe a couple weeks or something.
I wanted to go home. But my boss didn’t want me to go home. He wanted me to keep writing.
I was like, “Bro, I think I gotta go home.”
The day before I was supposed to leave, he was like, “Stephen come into my office.” So I did.
“You know,” he says. “My best friend is so-and-so from the FBI. Right? And look. I’m not allowed to say anything. But there is a severe red warning. Do not fly! That’s what they’re saying. Do. Not. Fly! Now, it’s up to you. It’s your choice. But please, do not fly. Can I pay you not to fly? Can I fly your parents out here?”
I’m like, “You just told me we can’t fly …”
That show got canceled three or four months later. And my managers were like, “Can you just take a couple more interviews?”
“No, no, no.”
“Just take a couple. You can always say no.”
So I did some interviews. Got some offers.
One was this show on CBS with this blond-haired Australian guy. It was actually a good show and they were offering me more money than I thought I’d ever make in my life. But I didn’t want to do it and I was afraid to turn it down because I was, like, I’ll never make this much money again.
But right around then, I flew to London because we were doing Jesus Hopped the ‘A’ Train in London. Phil Hoffman was the director.
And I said to Phil, “I don’t know what the fuck to do. Because I want to be back in New York and I want to, you know, do my thing. But there’s this offer and bah bah bah bah! And I don’t know what to do. So. What do you think?”
I remember Phil said, “I can’t tell you what to do. But I’ll just say this to you. If you’re gonna say no? Learn how to say no now, at the beginning of your career. Because if you don’t learn how to say no in the beginning, you’ll never learn and you’ll spend your career doing shit you don’t want to do.”
So I turned the show down and came back to New York.
I think I had, like, $150,000. I thought I was a millionaire. But then, after not paying taxes, it ended up being much more profitable if I’d never gone to the state of California.
At least I was back in New York.
When I got here, I wrote Our Lady of 121st Street. That play did well for the theater company. I did some acting.
And I never looked back.
I did not have friends who died on 9/11. But yeah, I knew people who knew people. Which I learned subsequently.
Like, I used to have this old Romanian couple in my building. The Toledos. The husband looked like … you know the millionaire dude on the Monopoly board? That’s what he looked like. Little big boss man.
His wife was Mrs. Sophia Toledo. She was, like, eighty-three years old. Still working. Tough European stock.
She was a translator for immigration. And so, she was down at World Trade Center on 9/11. And everything came crumbling down.
She was rescued from the rubble. Basically, some big black guy just picked her up out of the rubble and put her, like, upright on her feet. Little ancient Mrs. Toledo.
He made her count to ten and then he was gone, she said. She never got a chance to thank him. But, you know. He saved her life.
My experience of 9/11 felt like being in an existential French novel.
For me, hell was being alone in that big studio in L.A., writing something meaningless when literally everybody and everything I love was in dire straits.
It felt so horrible to be in L.A. Fluorescent lighting. It wasn’t creative. It wasn’t real.
I’m from New York, you know? So that’s what I write about.
I mean, L.A.… it’s nice. I enjoy L.A. I know it’s the town they built over the graveyard. I don’t care. I’ve got depression, so the weather, the moon, everything. The food. It’s easy to be healthy.
But I’ve always felt like, if I ever left here permanently, I’d lose my edge. Like, if I left, I’d turn into one of these bitches. You know?
I remember this one time, I’m talking to this guy out there. A writer. He led his own show. Some really big Mucky Muck. And he’s like, “Stephen, why don’t you move out here?”
I said, “Yeah, man, I love it out here. Maybe I will someday. It’s better for me in so many ways. I’m just afraid I’ll lose my edge. I need to feel connected, you know?”
And he was like, “Ha ha! You know, Stephen? I was the same as you ten years ago. Ha ha! And I told my wife—honey? Remember, I told you that? I can’t be out here, I said. I won’t be able to write. But I came out, and it’s fine. I do the same work out here and it’s great!”
But I was like, “No, I’ve seen your work, man. See, you lost your fucking edge.”
There’s a reason New York was the hardest hit on 9/11. When people come to the United States, they don’t fly into Peoria and catch a connecting flight to fucking wherever. They come to New York City. It’s the port of entry to the world.
And look, I’m disappointed in our sports teams. They fucking suck. The Jets. The Mets. But, you know … we’re in the middle of a pandemic, right? And again, people are predicting, like, the doom of New York City. Like, they’re saying New York is gonna go away.
Where’s it gonna go?
It’s change, that’s all. It’s got to change. And you have to allow for that.
Every time some beloved place closes here, I mourn it. And I feel like this is the end. Like, “No more H&H Bagels? Fuck New York!”
But you know what? Let’s say, God forbid, there’s another, horrible second wave of COVID. And there’s more economic devastation, so buildings and businesses are abandoned, blah blah blah.
What’s gonna happen?
Someone�
��s gonna take over those buildings. And they’re gonna do this thing where they start selling food. Someone else is going to start a theater. That’s how it goes.
Like, remember the Bleecker Street Theatre? It was down around the corner from Lafayette? It was gonna close down, and everyone got so upset. They were outraged.
But like, the whole reason they were being squeezed out was because thirty-five, forty years ago, rent here was nothing. Now it’s like prime real estate. So that’s part of the process.
You have to be open to how the next generation is going to find the next big place. And I’m sorry. It might not be downtown New York. It might be someplace else.
That said … yeah, I still believe in New York.
I grew up in the building I live in. And I went through this period where, when I’d walk through the front door, my neighbors didn’t hold the door for me. Maybe they thought I was a fucking robber or something. Which is funny since I’ve been living here longer than any of them.
Like … you’re what? An investment banker from Estonia? Like I said. Now the neighborhood’s all about privilege and entitlement.
So I get in the elevator. I’ve seen these people, like, hundreds of times.
I say, “Hi.”
Nothing.
This one guy, my neighbor. He lived on my floor. It got to the point where I wasn’t even going to try and talk to this guy anymore. He did this to me all the time.
But then. I’m fortunate enough to win the Pulitzer Prize. I go up in the elevator one time, and my building is suddenly like, [urbane accent] “Excuse me. Are you the fellow who won the Pulitzer Prize?”
“Yessir.”
“Oh my god! This is my wife, Mary! This is Susan! You have to come back to our place!”
It was like, everything changed. Like that. Word spread. “You know that fat, dirty guy who brings in the blacks and Puerto Ricans? He’s actually somebody!” Suddenly, everybody started treating me nice.
Yeah, man. I’ll take it.
Still, there’s a part of me that misses the old days. Like, when you interacted with people in the street, you did it through the filter of We Live in New York.
Now? If I told you how people talk to me in the fucking street? You wouldn’t believe it.
Like, I’m walking the dog and some fucking pesky motherfuckers be like, [high-pitched voice] “How come you don’t have your dog on a leash? You gotta have that dog on a leash!” You know how they do?
So many times, I just want to turn around and be like, “You know this is New York, right? Is there some reason for you to assume that I’m not insane? That I’m not gonna take out a knife and fucking plunge it through your neck? Huh, motherfucker? Because you want to fight with me about the dog peed too close to the rose bush? Shut the fuck up.”
But you pick your battles, you know?
103 Zabar’s is the iconic specialty food store at 2245 Broadway and 80th Street.
104 CUNY stands for City University of New York. With twenty-five campuses, eleven senior colleges, seven community colleges, and seven postgrad schools, it’s the largest urban public university system in the United States.
105 David Milch is a multiple Emmy Award-winning writer who created or co-created several iconic NYC-based shows, such as NYPD Blue, Brooklyn South, and Big Apple. Tom Fontana has also won many awards. He lives in NYC, where he’s had several plays produced while working on shows like Oz (which he co-created), The Beat, Homicide: Life on the Streets, St. Elsewhere, and The Jury.
106 Craft service is the department in film and TV productions that provides cast and crew with food and beverages.
107 Horton Foote (1916–2009) was an award-winning American playwright. He founded the outdoor summer theater Horton by the Stream, in Tannersville, New York.
FATHER JAMES MARTIN
Father James Martin, sixty, is a Jesuit priest, a New York Times bestselling author, and a consultant to the Vatican’s Dicastery for Communications.
His books include Jesus: A Pilgrimage, The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything: A Spirituality for Real Life, and A Jesuit Off-Broadway: Center Stage with Jesus, Judas, and Life’s Big Questions.
In 2002, James wrote Searching for God at Ground Zero, a thoughtful and thought-provoking memoir of his time ministering to courageous rescue and recovery workers at the Pile. He also serves as editor-at-large for the Jesuit magazine America.
After listing these and other honors, comedian Stephen Colbert once introduced Father Martin by saying, “More importantly, you are the chaplain of the Colbert Nation.” Without missing a beat, James quipped, “Much more importantly.”
Father Martin began working with LGBT communities after June 12, 2016, when an active shooter entered Pulse, a gay nightclub in Orlando, and killed forty-nine people and wounded fifty-three more.
In response to this tragedy, Martin wrote his book Building a Bridge: How the Catholic Church and the LGBT Community Can Enter into a Relationship of Respect, Compassion, and Sensitivity. He told the Washington Post he was “disappointed that more Catholic leaders did not offer support to the LGBT community.”
This stance attracted controversy. While many bishops and cardinals applauded Father Martin’s position, others flatly denounced it. Backlash from the Christian far right was as violent as many found it predictable.
Still, on this and other issues, Father Martin persists in pondering God’s infinite love. He talks open about what he calls “the mystery of suffering” and the Christian imperative of forgiveness.
When viewed through the lens of 9/11, these elements take on a new and poignant dimension.
I ENTERED THE Jesuit Order in 1988 and was ordained as a priest in June of 1999. So on 9/11, I’d been a priest for two years, but I’d been a Jesuit for much longer.
Before all that, I lived and worked in New York. That was in the early eighties, after I graduated from the Wharton School of Business. I was a part of the financial world for six years. And in many ways, the World Trade Center was sort of a monument to that community.
Like most New Yorkers, I didn’t find the Towers particularly attractive. Architecturally, that is. As buildings, they were pretty utilitarian. That part of the city was barren back then. Mostly people went down there for business or maybe to go to Windows on the World.
I would go down there occasionally for some meeting. But really, my primary use for the World Trade Center was orienting myself when I came up out of the subway. Downtown, you could look up, see the Towers, and say, “All right, that’s south.”
And it wasn’t just when I was downtown. On 9/11, I was working for America Media on 56th and 6th. Even there, when you crossed the street, you could look still look south and see the Towers right down 6th Avenue.
I remember how disorienting it was—shocking, really—when I came up out of the subway for the first time after 9/11 and realized they were no longer there. It was like not seeing the Statue of Liberty. Or the Empire State Building. Or the sky, for that matter.
A lot of New Yorkers felt like that, I’m sure.
On the morning of 9/11, I was at America House, our residence-slash-office. It was a Jesuit community and the office of America magazine together. Kind of unusual.
I was at my desk around 9:00 A.M. My mother called from Philadelphia and said, “A plane hit the World Trade Center.”
My first thought was—I’m sure people told you this, too—of the pictures I’d seen of that World War Two airplane that hit the Empire State Building.108 And I said to my mom, “Well, I don’t work anywhere near there. Why are you calling me?”
Then I turned on the television and saw the first Tower was hit. Obviously I thought it was an awful, tragic thing, and I thought of the people who were in there. I don’t know if you remember, but at the time, people were unclear what was going on. It’s just a terrible accident, that’s what I thought.
A few weeks before, there’d been a fire in a tall office building in Center City, Philadelphia. A terrible mess. A
nd I remember thinking, “Wow. They’ll have to do the same thing here.” You know, kind of dismantle the building.
We just weren’t able to comprehend it. The scale hadn’t hit me yet.
That morning, I had a doctor’s appointment across town. On my way there, I started seeing all these people on the street checking their cell phones. This had to be within half an hour of the first plane hitting. I looked downtown and saw plumes of smoke pouring out of the building. I remember thinking it looked like a giant cigarette burning at the end of 6th Avenue.
When I came back from my doctor’s appointment, the woman who’s our receptionist said the Towers had collapsed. I got a bit nasty with her. I said, “What are you listening to? What kind of ridiculous radio program is that? What are you talking about?”
“No, no,” she said. “They collapsed.”
I got mad at her. I said, “Stop. Don’t tell me that. It’s crazy.”
Then I went to my room and turned on the TV. I saw … and I couldn’t believe it.
That night, as you know, the whole city shut down. Our cook wasn’t around, so I remember I cooked dinner for our community. Right after dinner, I walked from 6th Avenue all the way over to 9th, to St. Luke’s Roosevelt Hospital. But they said, “No, no, we don’t need you here.”
So I headed to Chelsea Piers, because there was a rumor that that’s where survivors were taken. I went to a triage center where there were all these priests and nurses and doctors. At that point, it was a very ad hoc situation. There was no guidance from the Archdiocese of New York or the Jesuits or anyone. Everyone was there on their own.
We waited a couple of hours. I expected at any moment that dozens of injured people would come in. But they didn’t. No one came. Because, as we now know, there were no survivors.
I went back the next day, but it was the same thing. It was frightening.
Tower Stories Page 48
