On the terrible day of September 11th, 2001, one woman learned how motherhood changes everything.
yvette and daughter christiana
Yvette Manessis Corporon: My daughter was born on May 6,
2001, at Lenox Hill Hospital on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
After nine hours of labor and 50 minutes of pushing (thank
goodness for ample Greek hips and whoever invented the
epidural), Christiana made her grand entrance into the
world. My
husband Dave beamed with love and pride as he took our
freshly swaddled baby and placed her in my arms. Bursting with
emotion, I looked down at her little pink face and couldn't
believe how lucky I was to be holding this perfect little baby girl
in my arms.
But that's not the day I became a mother.
On September 11, 2001, Christiana was 4 months old and I was still
enjoying an extended maternity leave from my life as a news
producer for WCBS in New York. Dave, a cameraman for Fox5 in New
York, called me as I was feeding our Christiana and told me what
had happened less than a mile away, just across the river from our
apartment -- where our
beautiful baby sat in her bouncy seat playing with her stuffed
bear.
I grabbed Christiana and put her in her floppy, white eyelet hat --
it was a gloriously sunny morning and I didn't want her to get
a sunburn. We headed to the roof deck of our apartment and there I
stood, alone with my baby in my arms, and watched as the North
Tower of the World
Trade Center burned. The gaping hole was huge, the smoke and
fire horrendous, and I knew that Dave was either down there already
or on his way to cover this catastrophic accident. That's what
we all thought -- it had to be an accident, right?
I watched the smoke fill the air, praying and wondering what it
must be like for those poor people trapped inside the burning
building. I thought about how terrifying it must be for those down
on the ground, knowing Dave must be there by now. I was amazed that
-- in the midst of this horrific scene -- the sky around the tower
flickered and twinkled with what looked like little shiny bits of
confetti. I imagined they were the pulverized remnants of the
coating that reflected the sunset on the towers every evening. This
was the same coating that made the gleaming towers look like two
exquisite works of art. They made my evening runs magical as I
marveled at them, huffing and puffing across the Brooklyn Bridge
every night in my attempt to finally lose the baby weight.
I stood on the deck with Christiana in my arms and watched. I watched as a gray plane came into view from the tip of New Jersey. I watched as it looped down around the Statue of Liberty and turned north. I watched as it headed toward the towers and I silently thanked God. It must be a rescue plane, I thought. They're going to rescue people from the roof, above the fire. They're going to douse the flames so more people can get out.
But of course, I was wrong.
See Dave's gripping original 9/11 footage below, shot minutes after the first tower was hit.
Squeezing Christiana tighter, I watched as the plane continued heading north. It was low and it was fast. And as I stood there watching it, everything changed. In that moment, I realized this plane was not there to help. In that moment, I realized that this was not an accident. It's not helping, it's not helping, I repeated again and again outloud. But there was no one to hear me -- no one but Christiana. Alone on the deck of my home, holding my beautiful, innocent baby in my arms, I watched as the second plane slammed into the South Tower of the World Trade Center.
And then, in that moment, I finally became a
mother.
As the world changed around us and right in front of my eyes, I
finally understood what it was to be a mother. I wanted to sink to
my knees and cry and scream like all the screams I heard coming
from the streets and homes of my neighborhood, from my neighbors
and friends. But I couldn't afford the luxury of all that
emotion, of all that precious time wasted. I was a mother, and I
had a baby to protect and keep safe -- and that's all that
mattered.
What was on those planes? What if they had chemical weapons on
those planes? That was all I could think of as I raced back
down to my apartment. I was terrified that there may be more planes
coming, terrified that my baby would breathe poisoned air. I put
Christiana back in her bouncy seat and closed all the windows. I
placed towels under each and every door and window sash, and I
prayed I was wrong for the second time that morning.
I had stopped nursing just two days before. I never did produce
enough milk -- and breastfeeding
for me was an endless, frustrating cycle of nursing, supplementing,
and pumping in order to stimulate more milk. After an exhausting
and difficult four months, I had finally decided to stop. But now,
everything was different. I
didn't know if and when it would ever be safe to go
outside, if stores would be open, and if I would ever
even be able to buy formula again. I needed to feed my baby, to
make sure she had enough to eat. It was up to me to keep her safe,
to sustain her and keep her well-fed. It was up to me to keep her
happy, to play peek-a-boo, sing to her, and elicit smiles and
giggles when all I wanted to do was curl up in a fetal position and
cry. But there was no time for that, because I was -- after all --
Christiana's mother. I began nursing again as I watched both
towers burning on television.
As I was nursing, Dave called. He was now at the base of the
flaming towers, looking up at them. "Don't worry," he
said. "They got the second tower, what more can they do? The
worst is over." Unfortunately, Dave was wrong too. "Take
care of our baby," he said before hanging up. Of course
I would -- that was my job. I was her mother. And just as
taking care of Christiana was my job, I knew Dave would be doing
his. To know my husband is to know he is an incredible
photojournalist. I knew he would be capturing history, that he
would be right there, under and inside the Twin Towers alongside
the firefighters as they did their job. I just wanted him to be
safe in the process.
As Christiana played on the floor, I went to her bedroom to get a
diaper. I walked back into the living room and stared at the
television. The picture had changed; what I now saw on the screen
didn't make any sense. I didn't understand what I was
watching. And then everything changed again. The South Tower had
collapsed. I knew Dave was there. I sank to my knees. In my mind, I
was now a mother and a widow as well.
Thankfully, I was wrong again. Dave was finally able to call home
about an hour after the second tower had collapsed. He's lucky
he survived -- and for a while, he didn't think he would. After
assuring me he was all right, he hung up and went back to work,
again telling me to take care of our baby. Dave has always been the
guy you want next to you in a breaking news situation. He's
fearless and smart and will always get his shot. This news story
began no differently, but it ended like no other.
By now, everyone has seen the iconic footage of 9/11, which has
been played around the world. The cameraman stands his ground,
shooting toward the flaming towers while hundreds of people race
past him. The camera pans up to catch the tornado cloud from the
collapsing tower kick over a building and barrel down the street
toward him. People are now flooding past him, running for their
lives, but he stands there and keeps shooting. Finally, he turns to
run away himself, the camera still rolling as the debris cloud
closes in on him, coming at him from every direction. There's
no escape. It finally overtakes him. Sound becomes muffled, and the
camera goes dark.
Millions of people around the world have seen this footage and
wondered what happened to that cameraman. Did he make it out alive?
Did that footage cost him his life? That cameraman is my husband,
the father of my children, my Dave. As everything turned black
around him, the debris filling his lungs, he thought of me and our
little baby back home, across the river in Brooklyn. He thought
that was it -- that he would die there on Broadway, like the
ash-covered victims of Pompeii we had seen on our honeymoon.
What have I done? I've stayed too long, he
thought. He feared he would never hold our baby again, never see
her wobble her first steps, or walk her down the aisle at her
wedding. But thankfully, that was not to be the case. To those who
wondered what happened to that cameraman, not only did he make it
out alive -- but he also made it out a father.
Every single one of us has a story about that day; how we survived,
mourned, came together, and came away different. But as different
as our stories are, it made so many of us realize the same thing:
Giving birth doesn't make a woman a mother. Having a child
doesn't make a person a
parent. It's that one defining moment in our lives --
whether it's facing a health crisis, a
catastrophic event like 9/11, or even a menacing bully
on a playground -- that makes us understand what it means to be a
mother or a father. It's when you realize that nothing matters
more than the safety and happiness of your child.
9/11 changed all of us. How could it not? But it's also the day
countless women everywhere finally realized what it truly means to
be a mother. And I'm just one of them.
Yvette Manessis Corporon is an Emmy award-winning writer and producer. She is also the co-author of "Peeing in Peace: Tales and Tips for Type A Moms." Yvette lives in New York with her husband and two children.
