Letters From David Tengelin: A 9/11 Memorial in His Own Words
By Patric Tengelin
Preserving David’s Voice
This article is a personal memorial, preserving the words of my younger brother, David Tengelin (1976–2001), who was killed in the September 11 attacks while working for Marsh & McLennan on the 100th floor of the North Tower of the World Trade Center in New York City.
A Life Built Deliberately
David was 25 years old. He had built his life deliberately and patiently — moving from Sweden to London, then to the United States, graduating from Northern Arizona University, and finally establishing himself in New York. He arrived with little more than determination, a temporary green card, and the belief that if he worked hard enough, he could build the life he imagined. And he did — piece by piece, job by job, letter by letter.
Writing in Real Time
Along the way, David wrote. Not for publication or recognition, but to make sense of where he was and who he was becoming. His letters and journal entries capture the inner life behind the résumé — ambition, fear, humor, gratitude, and wonder — written in real time as he built a life in New York City.
The Books That Shaped Him
During those early years, he also developed a deep and serious love of literature. He read widely and intensely, moving through the great European and Latin American writers of the twentieth century — books preoccupied with identity, freedom, purpose, and the weight of being alive. They didn’t merely entertain him; they shaped him. They fed his growing desire to write, and to put his own thoughts into words with the clarity he admired in others.
What Remains
In the years since 9/11, David’s name has appeared in media accounts, memorials, alumni tributes, and official records. This piece exists to preserve something quieter and more personal: his own voice. Though he is gone, there are still places where traces of him remain — a bench in Gothenburg Botanical Garden and a chair in Bryant Park bearing a plaque with his name — where someone might sit as he once did, thinking, reading, or writing.
What follows are some of David’s own words. They are the part of him that survived — his voice, his optimism, the way he made sense of the world. If you never had the chance to meet him, I hope these passages offer a glimpse of who he was, and why he is so deeply missed.
David’s Words
Everyone carries at least one novel inside of him or herself, so goes a saying. At the age of 25, I have already gathered enough material for several novels, but if I were to pick just one to be published it would be my move to New York after graduating college. It has all the elements you expect in a great novel.
Throughout college I knew that I wanted to go to either New York or San Francisco after graduation. I had visited the latter regularly and liked its European character (the proximity of things) and mild year-round climate. I did not visit New York until March of 1997, and it was love at first sight. I can vividly remember the day Jared, one of my roommates, and I drove our black Chevy Cavalier over a hill in Jersey to see Manhattan. Awestruck we descended the hill and merged with ten lanes of traffic to squeeze through the Lincoln Tunnel. Spat out at the other end of the tunnel I had shrunk or maybe it was everything around me that was bigger.
January 4, 1999
When the bus left Newark on its last leg of the journey, which had taken me across a whole continent in three days, I was beginning to feel nervous. I had not slept many hours during the trip and the last meal I had was in Effingham, Illinois, a whole day earlier. As soon as I set foot in Port Authority I was approached by a homeless person, whom I shoved aside and pretended to be perfectly comfortable in my new surroundings. I called the hostel and after a heated exchange with the person on the other end, I had an address to give to the cab driver. I have not taken a cab since, but on that night it was probably a very wise decision.
We passed through the theatre district just as the plays and musicals were letting their audiences onto the sidewalks, and where I didn’t see people, I saw flashing signs and billboards.
The cab slowed down outside a one-story yellow brick building with a blue door. This was 427 West 12th Street to be sure, but the windows were blacked out as if though they were expecting an air raid and there were no signs of life. As a man who takes precaution, I wanted to ask the cab to wait while I checked it out, but I let him go and rung the doorbell. Moments later, I had signed in and was given the tour.
As always, I was pleasantly surprised by the hostel and that was a good thing, because I ended up spending five months there. There were three small rooms with three bunk beds in each room and a larger room with many more beds for people who stayed shorter periods of time. The communal areas were in the basement and that is where weary travelers would gather in the evenings in the dark winter months. The place provided a cozy shelter and I enjoyed the company of many of the travelers.
When I first arrived in New York I didn’t have my temporary work visa, which I was entitled to after finishing college in the United States. Since I didn’t have a work visa, I also didn’t have a social security number, and without the two you cannot apply for a job. I also did not have a mailing address or phone number of my own.
July 6, 1999
I grab some coffee and a bagel, and then head out the door and down the stairs to the ground floor. I make a right on 21st and uptown on 2nd Ave. I join the flow of people on the sidewalks hurrying to their cubicles.
“Walk” means cross.
A flashing “Don’t walk” means cross, but fast.
And when it stops flashing, the bold put their life on the line.
The walk to work has all the elements of a car race. I pass her and she trails me. Dogs’ leashes create a roadblock and I get held back. The daring crossing earlier is rendered useless. On the corner a “Coffee & Bagel” stand, but who can afford a pit stop on the final stretch.
March 18, 2000
Last Thursday when I came back to the World Trade Center after checking my mailbox down on Broadway, I saw Kim Le Pref, one of the owners of Bakers Bounty. She is the one that let me sell bread a couple of times. She was standing in front of her van selling hamentashen, rugulash, black and white cookies and apple turnovers.
I felt like going up to her and saying:
“I don’t want your job anymore. I’m an accountant making thirty grand a year. I live in a building with doormen and not in a hostel. I have to make trips to LA and take cruises to Mexico.”
But just seeing her in the square in front of the Twin Towers was enough for me to realise how incredibly far I had come since last March. She was nice enough to hire me and I just couldn’t figure out why they wouldn’t have me back. I know there were customers who asked me if they could freeze the fuccuci (soft pizza) and I would shrug my shoulders, because I didn’t know. I should have nodded instead just to get the sale, but there’s the honesty getting in my way again.
March 10, 2001
It’s when I walk up to the window in our new offices on the 100th floor of One World Trade Center that I realise how incredibly lucky I am. I see Manhattan laid out at my feet almost like a roadmap, and every landmark is distinguishable. The fifty-floor skyscrapers crouch humbly; at our height, we’re alone with the jets.
© Patric Tengelin, 2026. All rights reserved.
This archival compilation, including all introductory material and the preserved writings of David Tengelin (1976–2001), may not be reproduced, republished, or redistributed without prior written permission from the author.
Further Reading
If David’s own words resonated with you, these related reflections continue the story from different angles — through memory, lived experience, and the quiet search for meaning that often follows loss:
Bryant Park, Memory, and My Brother David: A Personal September 11 Essay
This long-form essay by Patric Tengelin reflects on his brother David, Bryant Park, and the quiet years before September 11. Grounded in personal memory and documented history, it traces how specific places carry meaning long after people are gone. The piece resists commentary and aggregation in favor of direct experience and preservation.
A Family Witness to 9/11: Memory, Return, and the Years That Followed
Part personal testimony, part historical record, this essay documents how memorial spaces changed from the early aftermath to the present day. Photographs and firsthand reflections reveal the human side of remembrance — from temporary walls of notes to permanent tributes across New York City. It is a long view of grief shaped by time, place, and quiet acts of honoring.
In Loving Memory of David Tengelin (1976–2001)
A long-form memorial tracing David’s life from childhood through his years in New York, written by his brother.
About the Author
Patric Tengelin is a writer focused on remembrance and lived personal history. His work documents family memory, place, and the long aftermath of September 11 through firsthand experience and preserved primary materials.
This blog serves as a long-form personal archive, created to safeguard voices, letters, and records that might otherwise be lost, summarized, or reduced to footnotes.