Sept. 11, 2001 — 15 years later — by Kevin Canessa Jr.

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THE OBSERVER | WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 2016

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Emotions of 9/11 still abound today Editor’s note: The beginning of this column appeared in The Observer Aug. 10, 2016.

By Kevin Canessa Jr.

I

didn’t expect to remember much about the morning of Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001, but because of how it turned out, almost every step I took I can still recall. I woke up at about 6 a.m., and my grandma, with whom I was still living at the time, asked me what — if anything — I needed ironed.

I gave her my favorite pair of khaki corduroy pants, a shortsleeved orange, summery shirt, and she pressed them off as though they were done by professional cleaners.

When I left the house — 37 Ivy St., Kearny — I remember looking to the sky to watch a FedEx plane (an MD-11) that was taking off, and then marveling at the cloudless sky. Remember that? It was a perfect day. Absolutely perfect day.

As I did most days, I made my stop at Sunset Deli on Kearny Ave., and got my usual cup of coffee — cream and one sugar — and a buttered roll.

Rarely did I break the routine.

“Have a good day, Kev,” the then-owner, Joe Petito, said as I left.

I got into my car, a maroon 1998 Nissan Altima, began driving toward Jersey City — and for one reason or another, I took a different route than I normally did. I went via Montgomery St., a four-lane road that runs east-west. What was wonderful about this way of going was that once one reached Baldwin Ave., the street was anchored by an optical illusion — the World Trade Center’s two towers.

It was such a beautiful sight — one I often took for granted back then. But I remember seeing the sun shining on the

LEFT: The St. Anthony Class of 2002 in front of the Towers before they came down. The photo was taken in the spring of 2001. RIGHT: Canessa, top r., with some of the students and teachers he was with on 9/11 in a 2002 photo.

two towers. And as I got closer, I could see the reflection of the two towers in the waters of the Hudson River.

I got to school — excited — because for me, it was the first full day of classes. After homeroom, I was in Room 101 for the first period. Senior religion seminar.

One of the then-seniors, Pedro Rodriguez, helped me pass out the syllabus for the year — the expectations, grading policies, curriculum, etc. When he was done, Pedro gave me the extra copies, I put them into my folder — and suddenly, there was a massive boom!

Our supposition was that it was a tractor-trailer overturning near the Holland Tunnel, which was just two short blocks away. We thought nothing much of it at the time.

I grabbed a student desk, sat down on its top to begin reviewing the syllabus with the kids — when out of nowhere, in comes C.J. Flaherty, my colleague who was teaching a U.S. History class outside in one of the school’s trailers (there just wasn’t enough room in the school proper to house all classes).

“Dude, the World Trade

Center just exploded. It’s on fire,” C.J. tells me.

“Bro, don’t (expletive) around like that. That’s not even funny,” I responded.

“No! I’m not kidding. Go outside and look for yourself.”

C.J. sat with my class while I went outside. I exited the Eighth St. doors, walked about 15 steps, and looked out at the North Tower, which had gaping holes on all sides. I could see C.J. wasn’t kidding at all. It was on fire, and we had absolutely no idea how it happened. That would be the final time I ever saw the Towers standing — and it was the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen.

The smoke was dark. The holes in the building were enormous.

It was immediately clear — for most of us at the school, and everywhere else, this was going to be the worst day of our lives.

Back in my classroom, I had the kids put the syllabi away — and we immediately said a prayer. At that very moment — not even knowing what was to come — we all knew there would be a lot of carnage.

Prayer was about the only thing we could do.

After the prayer, we put on

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the TV. Each classroom had one. The only over-the-air channel not knocked offline was WCBS Channel 2. The silence, especially on the first day of classes, where there’s usually a lot of excitement and activity, was deafening. The kids and I were glued to the television, and all we could ask each other was: “What on earth happened?”

As a few moments passed, we saw what appeared to be a chopper flying toward the South Tower. And with that, a huge explosion and fireball ensued.

Then, the TV went blank.

We knew, right then, we were under attack.

It was only a few minutes past 9 a.m. And we were just beginning the first full period of the day, of the quarter, of the semester and of the academic year.

Yet we still had no idea what was to follow.

Once the TV went out, I wasn’t sure what to do next. We tried to put on the TV again — and WCBS was somehow back on the air using an auxiliary antenna from the top of the Empire State Building. Their regular antenna was atop the

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North Tower of the World Trade Center — and it wasn’t functioning.

Along came the vice principal, the late-Brother James Redunski, F.M.S., who had told me the City of Jersey City recommended all TVs be shut off. So I obliged, even though I knew the JCPD didn’t say a word about the TVs. They had plenty to do at that moment — recommending turning off TVs in schools wasn’t one of their duties.

He also said we should try to make the day like any other.

So for a moment, I got the kids to take out their syllabus again — and began to review it with them.

Now this is where that story from Sept. 7, 2001 (Part I of this column) comes into play.

It was about 9:15 a.m. when the sirens began to blare. Non-stop.

Whether it was firetrucks from the FDJC, the Port Authority Police Department or from many of the municipalities throughout New Jersey that were making their way to Lower Manhattan, one thing was clear: This couldn’t possibly be treated like an ordinary day. see COLUMN page

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THE OBSERVER | WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 2016

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COLUMN from Fast-forward to third period.

It was 10:15 a.m.

Michael B. McNutt, the-then dean of seniors, came into my room (at some point) to tell me that both towers had been hit by airplanes and that the south tower collapsed. Then he told me the Pentagon had been struck. I was overcome with such fear that my hands turned to a clammy sweat.

And somehow, I kept it together.

Somehow.

It was in third period that the first mom came to pick up her daughter. It was Dianne Colon, mother of senior Francesca Bernarbe.

“I’m taking her the hell away from here,” Mrs. Colon told

me. “Be as safe as you can.”

Then, minute by minute, more and more parents and guardians came in to get their kids. Toni Bollhardt, the school’s exec assistant, would call the names one-by-one.

Only those whose families came would be allowed out of the building. For the rest, it was 100% lockdown. No one in, no one out. Except for teachers.

When 11 a.m. arrived, it was my first free period. I went outside, and as I stood at the curb of Eighth St., sucking down one cigarette after the other (my nerves were shot by that point), people were starting to come back from New York City via the ferryboats. The PATH trains were shut down.

The Holland and Lincoln tunnels were closed to all but first responders.

The people were covered with an ashen-like substance, which we later learned was the soot from the collapse of the two Towers. Some were bloodied all over. Others had no shoes. It was mass chaos.

People were just bewildered, walking somewhere. I’d bet most hadn’t a clue where they were heading — though they knew they were far enough away from New York to be somewhat safe.

I walked away from the curb, and this is when my 9/11 became unique.

A colleague approached me and told me 1010 WINS had reported a “nuclear missile was heading toward New York City.” My stomach dropped.

I sat in my car, and turned on WFAN, because I needed to hear familiar voices in Don Imus, Chuck McCord and Sid Rosenberg. Don and Chuck were still on the air. After a few moments, I had to turn off the radio, because all I could think of was how it was going to feel when the missile hit.

Would we burn? Would we

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vaporize? Would we suffer?

Would it be quick? Would it be painfully labored?

Then I took a walk closer to the waterfront, only to smell the smoke which had already reached Jersey City. It was a smell I still remember, because it wasn’t just burning paper and melted steel — clearly, it was the scents of burning flesh, carnage that no one could begin to imagine.

The rising smoke from the Towerless pit was a most unsettling sight.

My colleague (an administrator) made me swear I wouldn’t tell the kids about the alleged nuke and I agreed at that moment.

But fifth period would soon arrive, another senior religion seminar course, and there wasn’t a chance in hell of me keeping that news secret from those kids. They were all young adults — and if they were going to die, they at least had the right to prepare for it.

I told them what I had learned, and despite the admin’s call to keep the day a regular day, I’d all but given up again. So did the kids who remained. Yet this false news of a nuke didn’t scare them at all.

If anything, it toughened them all up. They tried — to no avail — to call home. Cell service was scant. Some got through.

Others couldn’t.

One kid’s mom was in Lower Manhattan that day — he was a member of the State Champion basketball team. One of the best ballplayers I’ve ever known. He went on to Syracuse University where he had a great four-year run. But that day, not being able to get in touch with his mom, he cried a lot. We all cried with him.

Fortunately, we later learned his mother escaped and was unharmed.

The unknown was unbearable. What was next? Were there 20,000 dead people in New York? How would kids get home if parents didn’t come to get them? It was surreal.

We got through that day, somehow. But Downtown Jersey City seemed more like Jerusalem. There were National Guardsmen on every corner of every street within view of the school. When I left at 3 p.m. to go get a cup of coffee, I had to show my ID to the guardsman to walk one block.

When I got to the next corner — where Lucy’s Cafe was — I had to give another guardsman my ID, also.

Had to repeat the process on the way back.

The last kid left St. Anthony’s that day at 4 p.m. Those kids who came from Manhattan or Brooklyn stayed with teachers who lived in Jersey City that night. While those in Manhattan could get back to Jersey City by ferry, entry into Manhattan from Jersey was prohibited.

I got in my car and had to take a maze to get home.

All the while, all I could see in my rear-view mirror was smoke. All I could smell was the smoke. Charles McCord’s voice was the only means of comfort I had.

The normal 20-minute ride home to Kearny took two hours. The traffic heading into Jersey City as I left it was surreal. It was backed up from the Wittpenn Bridge all the way through Harrison on Rt. 280.

Those people likely had been there since 9 or 10 a.m., with no way of turning around. It was one of the most remarkable sights I’d seen that day.

When I got home and walked up my stairs at about 6 p.m., I grabbed my grandma and uncle Matty and hugged them as though there were no tomorrow. We had a bird’s eye view of the Manhattan skyline from our living room window — and the smoke was still a sickening sight.

I’ll never forget later that night, when I went to the deli for a cup of coffee (I needed to get out of the house at that point to escape the TV news), that a man was furious the Atlantic City bus had been cancelled the next day. I recall looking at him and asking him what was wrong with him?

He walked away, and I did, too. I had to.

I got back into my car, cried like a baby, and finally went home for the night.

Like you, I was forever changed that day. I was just under two miles away from the greatest tragedy to ever hit our shores. And somehow, I didn’t die — even though I thought for sure I would.

What I will never forget are the sounds, the people covered in soot — and those who died that day. Fifteen years later, I feel the same today as I did then.

We can never, ever forget what happened that Tuesday morning in 2001.

Because if and when we do, we are seriously doomed to repeat it.