From: "Whitney Casey"

Subject: I'm in a New York State of Mind.

Date: Sun, 23 Sep 2001 00:13:21

To my dear friends and family,

This letter is as much for me as for you. If I've

failed to keep you abreast of my whereabouts, two weeks ago I moved to

New York to work for CBS as a reporter, if you already know that-- I'm safe. Or as

safe as you can be in a city that has just been trespassed by such a barbaric

and heinous act of terrorism and hate. It's Wednesday afternoon,

I'm sitting on the roof of my West Village apartment building, 15

stories up and just about 20 city blocks from what has now

unflatteringly been dubbed "ground zero".

Ground zero...a place seven stories tall and deep of crumbled

cement, broken glass, twisted steel, and bodies...thousands of

sisters, mothers, brothers, fathers, and friends. Some say the

smoke that continues to billow upwards represents the souls of the

victims, as it continues to rise into the heavens so do the lives

of the people who lie beneath the burning rubble. Ground zero, a

place I've sadly become very familiar with having spent the last 24

hours reporting there. To say it looks like hell would be an

egregious mistake. I'm afraid hell will look even worse. I

can't imagine heroes and "good doers" risking their lives rummaging

through hell to look for survivors.

I've been working now close to 20 hour days for nearly 10 days

straight. But for me to be spent emotionally or physically would

selfishly trivialize the feelings of the families and loved ones

that now roam our downtown streets like nomads searching for the

missing....to say nothing of the tireless efforts of the

firefighters, police and other rescue workers at ground zero.

Tuesday, September 11th was my first day on the job. I took a cab

uptown to 524 West 57th St., the CBS Broadcast Center. It was 8:50

am. I was slated to go out on a story with another reporter in an

effort to learn how things work...etc. at my new station. When I

arrived I saw the indelible image. Tower one with plumes of smoke

pouring out of its grandiosity.

I had no idea how the next hour would change all of our lives, no

one did.

Running into a frenetic newsroom, I was one of the first willing,

warm bodies, two minutes later I was on the train downtown headed to

St. Vincent's Hospital. The largest and closest trauma center to

the "accident". (What preliminary reports said it was... a small

plane that crashed into the WTC.) When I surfaced from the underground

I looked up... the twin towers always providing my geographical

south. The second plane hit and along with it so did the all

encompassing knowledge of a purposeful mission. Terrorism.

Meeting my crew at the hospital, it was time to work. An

overwhelming sense of responsibility now overtaking my fear. We

forged forward stopping those fleeing north from downtown. What did

you see? Where were you? How many people escaped?...Live, Breaking

News...and my very first questions to residents of a city in which I

was a stranger.

Stranger...a moniker that lasted about as long as the south tower...because when

it suddenly plummeted to the ground, the unknown

New Yorkers next to me instantly became kindred. Our fear, anguish,

and disbelief connecting us-- bonds instantly built by our

terrifying experience that were stronger than ANY built

by time.

The ensuing events-- unfathomable. Shrill screams of rescue vehicles

cutting through the silence of disbelief. Hundreds of doctors and

stretchers pouring out into the street in front of me, even office

chairs cloaked in white sheets are pushed into the street as

make-shift hospital beds for the expected...and then the

unexpected...the waiting.

After "fringe" injuries (those injured by falling rubble around the

WTC) checked into the hospital... the sirens were silenced and with

every hour the eerie sense of loss settled in. I would give updates:

"it’s now been 36 hours here at St. Vincent's...the food and supply

warehouse is full, the blood supply is full, but the hospital is

not, so far no civilians have been saved from the wreckage".

After the city, state, and country's top brass filed past my

microphone the press conferences and updates stopped and along with

them the hope of any survivors. Now came the heart tugging stories

and faces-- The real pictures of our disaster. They flocked to the

hospital to see if- out of the four hundred brought in within the

first few hours- could just one be theirs? As I left the press

staging area in front of the hospital they would approach me by the

droves, tugging at my coat, pleading with me to show their loved

one's picture on TV. Each with a story of who they were and how

they were loved, each with a story of how they were lost.

With every story came contagious tears...mine, theirs and I'm sure

our viewers too. How could you possibly refuse their pleas? But in

the same breath how could you possibly show each face, tell each

story? There were just too many despite the poignant pain and

urgency in each.

Stories like Jennifer's. She's 26...my age... her best friend Paul

worked in the South Tower. They talked that morning because he had an

important meeting. One he never made. Jennifer was alone Tuesday

night, weeping hands to her face, her head buried in her knees. I

watched her alone on the hospital's stairs, one of the first of

thousands that would come to try to claim loved ones. When I approached her

she said she didn't want to go on camera, so instead we just talked

alone. She told me of the dialogue between the two friends that day,

their typical banter. Paul was nervous about his

presentation...Jennifer assuaging his worries. After she finished

her story she looked at me for help. I gave her a number to call..a

number of hospital officials that could tell her if Paul had been

admitted to St. Vincent's. That was all I could give! Just a silly

number! I felt so useless and pathetic. She was in such great pain.

I could do nothing.

The next day, while I was roaming the neighborhood between live shots,

I saw Jennifer. Showered and fresh faced she stood in the second

day's sun flanked by friends and resolve. They had a plan--post

Paul's picture and stats on every place possible--maybe someone

would recognize him as “missing” and call. Their pain now placed in

this plan. Its execution taking time away from their saddening

reality. So onward they went, Jennifer and her friends, which very

well could have been mine or yours, they gave me Paul's picture and

info. That night I showed his picture. I told his story.

Day three…stories like Paul's begin to settle into my heart and

with no sleep it was beginning to become hard to separate work from

reality. Standing in front of about 100 people and my camera I

waited for the director to tell me when my live shot was up. I was

doing a walk and talk type of live shot where I was going to show a

van that was covered with faces of the missing. "Two minutes away

Whitney" the control room barked. I checked behind me to make

sure no one was blocking the van. I noticed in my

periphery...Jennifer. She was gingerly removing Paul's picture from

the sea of faces on the van. Successful, she began to walk away.

Not seeing her face, I instinctively and naively said "Jennifer did

you find him, did you find Paul?" She turned...and with a

tearstained face almost inaudibly said..."Whitney...Paul is

dead."...Jennifer then walked away.

Once a stranger now a friend.... tragedy throwing the three of us

together, three that were definitively now

reduced to two.

Watching the cursory exchange from the control room via my live

camera my news director asked me if I was okay to go live. I had

30 seconds before they tossed to me, tears swiftly falling

down my face. "Yes I'm ready...Yes". I had to, or I would be broken,

finished right there. Frozen, a woman watching, stepped out of the

nameless crowd and wiped the mascara from my cheek. She also gave

me a maternal, reassuring smile. Seconds later, I was on live

talking about the van behind me covered with faces. I couldn't look

back at the van I was speaking about in fear of seeing the one empty

8x11 space where Paul once looked back at me.

I made it through that live shot and about two dozen more that

night. I wonder now how Jennifer made it through that night and each

night after.

It had been three days of stories like this but the familiarity of

Jennifer's finally broke me. I became violently sick, vomiting

between live shots. At 1:30 am I was finally told to break. I

gathered my bags and stared walking home for my first sleeping

break in nearly three days. Two blocks away I felt two worlds away.

I just stopped and cried. I cried uncontrollably. The stories and

faces were emblazoned in my memory. They began to tell themselves over and

over. Crippled, I sat on the corner. I cried for them. I cried for me. I told myself I

couldn't go back. I couldn't hear or tell one more story. I couldn't see another

face. I finally arrived home and slept for the first time.

I did go back the next day...and the next one too. Nearly a week

had now passed, the stories still fresh, but the responsibility to

help heal a city now the prodigious task.

Supplies were in demand, families needed to file missing persons

reports, type O blood was scarce, and it was our responsibility to

help the problems get solved. We were in 24 hour coverage, doing

what the media was originally created for... Public Service. Now my

resolve began to fuel. I couldn't remove my compassion or empathy

but instead channeled them into my information gathering... my

information giving. And thus the week continued.

Eleven days later... exhaustion prevails and thankfully I am told

I've got a full day off. I begin this letter and my own personal

reflections...trying to replace the images of ground zero with those

the church has now called “ground hero”. All the good I've now seen by

my neighbors, volunteers, politicians, entertainers, and most

notably by New York's Bravest. It is hard but necessary.

At month 23 in this business could I really be prepared for what was

ahead? At 23 months am I prepared for what was already behind? At 23

years in the business could anyone really be prepared for something

so evil and abominable? If there is anyone that could be...I would

never want to know them. To be prepared emotionally and

professionally for something like this seems pernicious,

compassionless, and deceitful-- much like the terrorists who violated

our lives and futures. That Trojan horse of evil people took

Manhattan for a day, maybe even close to a week, but from what

I've seen in the goodness and largess here, the grit and moxie... the people of

Manhattan will take their island back. They already have begun and

they are making it better.

Through devastation, tragedy, and loss, I have been baptized by my

new city...but with courage, faith, and determination I will now

grow up in her embrace.

New York City is truly the greatest city in the world.

Semper Fi,

Whitney