Sept. 11 election helper campaigns for people to 'get busy living'

On Sept. 11, I was campaigning for Brad Hoylman, District One candidate for New York City Council, when the terrorist attacks occurred.

My day had started by catching the 5:43 a.m. Dinky so that I could arrive at Penn Station at 6:59 a.m. Then I went to Hoylman's campaign headquarters, where they gave me a stack of campaign literature and sent me to a polling station in Noho.

District One encompasses the southern tip of Manhattan, including the World Trade Center. My polling station at W. Fifth Street and Third Avenue was as far away from the WTC as you could be while still remaining in District One — a little more than a mile.

After the planes hit, I could see smoke coming from the WTC, but did not know the cause. The other campaigners used their cell phones to get updated info, which was how I learned that it had been two planes.

I called home, waking up my dad — it was just after 6 o'clock a.m. in Los Angeles. "A couple of planes hit the World Trade Center but I'm fine, so don't worry."

"Okay, be safe, Liriel," he said.

Masses of people began streaming uptown on foot, having evacuated their downtown offices and apartments.

Some were crying. Others got angry with a campaign volunteer who was still handing out campaign lit.

I called the campaign headquarters for instructions. They weren't sure what was happening, they thought the election would probably be cancelled, they told me to watch out for myself.

I decided to head uptown with everyone else. I avoided the subway, worrying it might be a terrorist target. It also seemed an inglorious way to die.

A block up, there was a clear view of the WTC. By then, the first tower had fallen. Information about the Pentagon was beginning to trickle out and there were rumors that the Sears Tower and the mall in Washington D.C. had been hit, that a car bomb had blown up at the State Department, and that there were still unaccounted-for planes.

It was surreal. It felt like Armageddon.

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I wondered which city they would hit next and I worried for my family in Los Angeles.

I decided to catch a bus headed uptown. Some people that worked in the WTC were on the bus. One woman who had also survived the 1993 attack vowed never to return. The streets were jammed and the bus was crawling along, so I decided to walk.

Grateful I had worn comfortable shoes, I continued uptown on the East Side, determined to avoid major landmarks. A crowd was gathered around a radio on the sidewalk. One guy said, "It'll be fine, we have a republican as President." Uncomforted by his logic, I moved on.

I crossed over to the West Side through Central Park. I knew that my sister's friend from college, Jengie, lived at 72nd Street and Amsterdam, but I couldn't remember the exact apartment, so I looked for a working phone to call home. My calling card wasn't working, so I called collect.

I fumbled over my words, but the operator's calm competence was reassuring. I wondered if she knew where the call was originating.

My parents and sister were extremely relieved to hear from me again.

I walked to Jengie's apartment. A man opened the door, after taking a look at me and signaling me to come inside.

Many others had had the same idea of coming to Jengie's apartment. I ended up going home for the night with another of my sister's friends, Rina, since Jengie's apartment was getting crowded.

The streets were empty except for police cars and taxis, none of which stopped for us. We finally caught a bus that took us to 42nd Street.

In the movie "Vanilla Sky," there is a scene where Tom Cruise drives through the streets of New York, but they are empty. He stands in Times Square, and it is totally desolate. That's what it felt like that night, walking to Rina's apartment. The police had blocked off several blocks at Times Square, so there were only barricades, police, and a few other pedestrians — very eerie.

Rina lived a couple blocks from St. Vincent's Hospital, where rescuers had brought many of the victims. Ambulances and doctors crowded the entrance.

On the way back to Princeton on the New Jersey Transit train the next morning, the conductor announced they would not be requiring tickets due to the tragedy. That's good, I thought, because I had not gotten one. Then I immediately felt guilty.

In the months after Sept. 11, it's not the images of planes hitting the towers or of people jumping afterwards that keep me awake.

My memories of that day are more immediate: the woman sobbing hysterically on the phone, the fear that the plane I heard overhead was hijacked, the long lines at ATMs.

I try not to think about what would have been different if I had stayed home that day, or if I had been at the polling station in the WTC. If anything, the attacks have taught me how pointless it is to try to control your fate.

Although Sept. 11 is permanently imprinted on my psyche, dwelling on it — as opposed to remembering and learning from it — would not be helpful for the victims or for myself.

I choose instead to follow the maxim of Morgan Freeman's character in "Shawshank Redemption." It's cruel but true: "Get busy living, or get busy dying." Liriel Higa is a Wilson School major from Los Angeles, Calif. She can be reached at lshiga@princeton.edu.