What 9/11 Taught Me About Showing Up

Twenty-five years ago — Sept. 11, 2001 — was a sunny but otherwise unremarkable morning in Brooklyn. I was standing with a group of fellow volunteers outside a Park Slope Elementary School, and we were wrapping up an early shift serving as election day poll watchers. 

We were groggy, drinking lukewarm coffee out of paper cups, about to begin an exhausting day of canvassing for a local city council race.

As we walked out of the school, a woman stopped us on the street. I’ll never forget this exchange. “Hey, did you hear the World Trade Center was hit by an airplane?” We were stunned — it seemed like such a surreal thing to say. How could an airplane hit the World Trade Center?

“Look!” she said as pointed down Atlantic Avenue. There it was — the stunning sight of the World Trade Center on fire with smoke billowing over downtown. We took a train to the campaign headquarters, where people gathered around a radio listening to the horror unfold. I went to the bakery next door, where the TV was tuned into the Spanish-language news. 

It was all chaos, whispers, and stunned shock. No one really knew what was going on — remember, this is in the days before smartphones and social media. 

We had no idea what to do, or how bad things were. So we left to continue knocking doors, unsure if the election was cancelled. As we stood on the street just down the block, a firefighter came out of his house, suiting up to join his brothers in Manhattan. His daughter cried, asking him to stay home. He hugged her, told her he loved her, and hurried toward Manhattan.

Suddenly, the air started to fill with thick smoke and dust. We stood there, frozen, when the firefighter’s father told us to come inside. We hurried into his apartment and watched in shock as the first building collapsed. That moment is etched in my mind, something I will never be able to forget. 

That night, we went home to Carroll Gardens, just across the harbor from the site. The night was eerily quiet. Thick layers of dust settled onto cars, sidewalks, and church steps. Office paper, coloring pages, checks all flew over the river into our front yard. The smoke and smell stayed in the air for months. 

I wanted to help, but what could you do in the face of such tragedy? We were called back to work that Thursday, so I went back to my job at The Salvation Army of Greater New York and got busy. That week, I worked alongside Salvation Army officers directing emergency volunteer efforts and donations. 

I also spent time with firefighters and other emergency responders working in the pit, handing out contact lens solution, fresh socks, toothpaste, and water — small things, but necessary for people doing an unimaginable job.  also helped connect social workers and mental health professionals to the sites set up to help families searching for loved ones.

Supporting The Salvation Army’s disaster response became a key part of my job for the next six months. I helped support the city, state, and national Salvation Army establish full-scale emergency response sites — distributing federal funds to help displaced families pay bills, reconnecting pet owners with their animals, and making sure people had access to fresh food, diapers, and medication.

None of it was glamorous. Most of it was quiet, unseen work. But that time taught me something I still believe: showing up for your neighbors — especially when no one’s watching, and especially when it isn’t easy — is the best kind of public service. It is what community looks like. 

My friends and colleagues from 9/11 still show up for each other. Each year, like battle-tested war veterans, we call, email, text, connect: “Are you doing okay today? I am here for you.” Only we know what we went through.  

Twenty-five years later, I still carry that lesson with me: when your neighbors need help, you show up, even when it is scary. Even when it is hard. That’s the kind of leadership I will bring to the 45th Ward: calm, steady, responsive, and proactive.