‘The Falling Man' is still you and me after 20 years.

The following description by Associated Press photographer Richard Drew is taken from the book "September 11: The 9/11 Story, Aftermath, and Legacy," which examines the AP's coverage of 9/11 and the events that followed in detail. Drew captured one of the most iconic — and horrifying — photos of the twenty-first century on that day. It is a companion piece to this story, although it is not the main image.

It's what my family refers to as "the picture that won't go away." The majority of newspaper editors declined to publish it. Those who did received hundreds of complaints the day after the World Trade Center attacks.

The image was criticized for being coldblooded, ghastly, and sadistic. It then gone.

Even after 20 years, I'm constantly questioned about it. I've been requested to speak about it on national talk shows, by international TV crews, and at institutions around the country. A 7,000-word feature in Esquire magazine lauded it as an icon, a masterpiece, and a moving work of art. Sir Elton John, a musician and photo collector, described it as "possibly one of the most exquisite photographs ever photographed."

All of this for a single frame out of hundreds shot in haste before being yanked to safety as the World Trade Center's second tower collapsed toward me.

It was dubbed "the most famous picture nobody's ever seen" by my fellow photographers. However, it was observed. “Oh, that's the one where the guy looks like he's swan-diving,” people say whenever it's discussed. Alternatively, “That's the one where the guy's body is precisely aligned with the World Trade Center lines.” Then there's "I know - that's the one where the person appears like he's sitting in a chair if you turn it upside down."

That strikes me as ironic. Here's a snapshot that was deemed too distressing for readers to view. People, on the other hand, were flipping it over to have a second look from a different perspective.

I take a unique perspective on it. That morning, I was on the corner of West and Vesey streets, beneath the north tower. It was difficult to see and even more difficult to breathe since the smoke was so dense. When I first heard the first of a succession of loud cracks, I mistook it for the sound of concrete debris striking the ground. But I was mistaken. It was the sound of people stomping on the pavement.

I shot eight frames focusing on one individual falling through the air. Then there was a loud explosion-like roar. I just kept shooting, thinking the roof had given way. Because I was so close, I had no idea the entire structure was collapsing.

My life was rescued by an emergency technician who grabbed me away. As we ran, the tower slanted toward us, so I came to a halt and shot nine more frames.

Probably stupid, but when you're in shock, it's as if you're on autopilot.

For a long time, seeing the tragedy unfold messed me up. Every plane I hear flying overhead still makes me wonder if it's a friend or foe. However, neither the image nor the initial reaction to it bothers me. People often wonder how I could film someone dying in such a cold-blooded manner. That's not how I viewed it. I created a photographic record of a person in the final hours of his life. And I see him alive every time I look at it.

I've photographed people passing away. I was standing behind Robert F. Kennedy when he was slain as a 21-year-old rookie photographer on an apparently routine assignment. There was no telephoto lens available at the time to keep me at a safe distance. His blood spattered into my clothing because I was so near. I witnessed his life bleed out and heard Ethel's screams. After 35 years, the images that were captured through my tears still bother me. But, unlike the 9/11 photograph, no one refused to print them. Nobody averted their gaze.

It's difficult to say why not. The assassination of Robert F. Kennedy altered the course of American history. The destruction of the World Trade Center, on the other hand, had a similar effect. The images of John F. Kennedy were more explicit and, in some ways, more intimate. As a public figure, a brother, a father, and a husband, we knew him.

It took me over a year after September 11th to even respond to the question. I didn't want to think about post-traumatic stress syndrome, which I was battling. The Associated Press then sent me to a training center operated by former British special forces to learn how to survive in dangerous environments. You'd think that imitating being attacked or kidnapped would make me more nervous. However, I found it reassuring. Knowing how to take even a few preventative actions allowed me to regain control of my fate.

As my fears faded, I wondered why the photographs of RFK and the World Trade Center elicited such disparate reactions.

“Americans don't want to stare at photographs of death and dying over their morning cornflakes,” remarked one editor who objected to my shot. I don't agree. As long as the victims aren't Americans, I believe they're cool with it.

Nick Ut, a buddy and coworker from the Vietnam War, captured a shot of a napalm-affected girl sprinting down the road in flames. The photograph became an instant classic and was awarded the Pulitzer Prize. In the United States, however, no one was concerned about being napalmed. The image elicited sympathy rather than empathy.

It's about personal identification in the photo of the World Trade Center. We had the impression that we knew Bobby Kennedy, but we didn't. We weren't presidential contenders or affluent scions of a political dynasty. We were just regular people who had to go to work every day, most of the time in high-rise buildings.

Like the guy who worked at the World Trade Center.

That is what makes people uncomfortable with the image. We take a look at it and imagine ourselves in the jumper's shoes. “Which choice would I choose?” we ponder. Would I rather wait for aid as the flames licked at me, or would I rather jump through the fresh air and sunlight to certain death?”

The girl in Nick Ut's photo, you see, was on fire. Her misery is visible on her face. It's terrifying, but it's not America's face. The man in my photograph is unharmed. He doesn't appear to be in any discomfort. But you're well aware that he's on the verge of passing away. And you can't help but wonder, "Could it have been me?"

Tom Junod, the author of the Esquire story, spoke with the relatives of many fatalities in an attempt to identify the man dubbed "9/11's Unknown Soldier." He discovered that their reactions differed depending on how they felt about death.

Some people were offended by the implication that their relative might have chosen death over his family (ignoring the fact that death was certain in any case). Others hailed his decision to jump as courageous (ignoring the possibility that the man might have been forced to leap from the smoke-filled tower in order to breathe).

Despite the fact that his search was fruitless, Junod came to the same conclusion as me: the point was moot. Because we already knew who the man in the photo was.

He was just like you and me.