From my New York City rooftop, I watched 9/11 usher in the age of spectacle

I moved into a loft apartment in Brooklyn in early September 2001, three months after graduating from college in Western Massachusetts. My apartment was in what was then a desolate industrial park, but rent was high enough that I split it with two roommates. For the first 10 days living in New York City, I sent out job and internship applications at a reasonable pace, by mail of course – something straight out of a coming-of-age novel.

On that Tuesday, September 11, I had nowhere in particular to go. When my roommate woke me up to tell me an airplane had hit the World Trade Center, both of us thought at the time it was a small plane, probably not a big deal. 

I rousted myself out of bed and climbed up to the roof of our old East Williamsburg warehouse. The top offered a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline, albeit from a healthy distance. It was the best thing about that apartment.

We watched the smoking buildings from five mi...