Today is the second Tuesday in September. Again, as with every year, the calendars change and September comes, and with all those routine happenings associated with every September: summer winds down and the fall chill sets in, students return to class, shops of every kind are filled with back-to-school merchandise and even already some Halloween knick knacks here and there. And, as has been the case, at least for me, for the past seven years, my mind reverts back to that second Tuesday in 2001, the 11th, the day that life changed (perhaps forever) in America for all of us. It is quite possible that this second Tuesday in September was the first time my generation will be able to remember exactly where they were when they heard it happened. We join the legions of other generations who can remember such events - Pearl Harbor, John Kennedy's assassination, the Oklahoma City bombing, etc. There is a part of me (sadly) that knows this will not be the only day that my generation remembers.
There isn't a whole lot more to say about this - I've written more about this day than perhaps any other in my short 23 years of life, and it's always the same haunted visions, sounds, thoughts and memories of that day. Truly, there's nothing more to say or to write about that day - the things I remember of that day hardly change. I'll only post what I wrote three years ago, on the fifth anniversary of that second Tuesday in September, as I remembered the emotions and feelings and facts of that day.
September 11, 2006
It was a Tuesday. I was, in many respects, just a kid, having begun high school as a sophomore just eight days earlier. I was fifteen years old, not even able to drive yet, barely able to think for myself, barely able to hold a conversation with anyone. Dad took us to school, first my sister at the junior high, then me. We always listened to Don Imus, a colorful syndicated radio personality from New York, on the way to school. That morning, Imus talked, ironically, about Saddam Hussein, and when (and if) the United States would ever go after him again. It’s funny how Imus would address something which would become entangled so quickly in our national psyche.
Gym was my first class – we ran the dreaded mile that day, I ran in 8:54, one of my best times ever, thanks to the conditioning of JV volleyball for the previous three weeks. As we all headed into the locker room to change back into our school clothes, sticky and sweaty from the morning run, my principal came over the loudspeaker. I beg your pardon for this interruption, but I must inform you of a national tragedy, the PA crackled. Immediately, I thought of our president – were we witness to his assassination? But as the principal continued his PA address, I realized that the tragedy was so immensely different.
This morning, two hijacked planes crashed into the World Trade Center in New York City, in a terrorist plot against this country. I ask all students to go to their second hour classrooms, where teachers will have on the television in anticipation of an address by President Bush.
I honestly believe, in my heart of hearts, that at the moment each American heard the news, our lives were changed dramatically – perhaps for good. I know that my mind immediately reverted to 1993 – I was seven the first time the building had endured a terrorist plot in an attempt to take down the towers. And while I did not vividly remember the plot of 1993 against the trade towers, their presence in the Manhattan skyline was unmistakable, always piercing the air above the Financial District, the two looming skyscrapers dedicated to the world economy. And now planes had flown into them? Hijacked airliners? A terrorist attack? I had no idea what to expect the next time I watched the television. What could planes crashing into the World Trade Center possibly look like?
Passing time came, and I was stopped more than once by friends who asked me just what the World Trade Center was, what it looked like. I tried to describe it to them – they’re the two big gray skyscrapers in lower Manhattan, you would know them if you saw them, they were bombed in 1993 – but all of this was said rather robotically, as I all I wanted was to get to a television and see just what had occurred in New York City. And while parts of me dreaded going to class and seeing the television, another part of me wanted to run and find out what was happening to my country.
The next class was AP History, with our dreaded, ever-intimidating, overly zealous teacher. Always ready to teach us more about the history of our beloved country, she somehow missed the boat that day by insisting we get through our lesson on the Iroquois Indians before she allowed us to watch what was truly U.S. history in the making. Twenty-five minutes into class, after we scraped through a lesson, CNN was finally turned on.
What I saw is indescribable. Aaron Brown was anchor that morning and broadcasting from the roof of the network building, looking south towards lower Manhattan, the towers – or what was left of them – in clear view. Each of the towers had a huge, gaping hole, with black, billowing smoke pouring out, polluting every square inch of airspace in the vicinity, so thick it could be seen from space in NASA photos later in the week. It looked like something from a cinematic thriller, some flick where Arnold Schwarzenegger would come tethered from a helicopter and save the day. The image was unreal. It all felt like a bad dream, it was as if I was watching a movie. I can’t remember if both towers were still standing by the time we turned on the television – in later news reports, when the times of the collapse were reported, I think perhaps the South Tower had already fallen by the time we were watching. All I know is that at least one tower stood – one hurting, injured, broken tower, a thick, gaping wound in an iconic skyline.
The reports were so sketchy that morning – it felt like no one, not even the news media, had a firm grasp of what was and was not happening. More often than not, it felt like the East Coast was in upheaval. It was reported that the Capitol had been evacuated, there was a car bomb at the State Department, the White House staff had been moved to a bunker, and more sickeningly – there was reportedly a large explosion at the Pentagon. As a young, rather naïve, fifteen-year-old, I felt like my country was falling apart. Our teacher looked baffled herself – she kept asking us, in disbelief, “The Pentagon? The State Department?” None of us could give her answers – we were just as confused.
Passing time came yet again, and I shuffled off to Lit class, goosebumps all over me from the images I had viewed, still in shock as to what had occurred. We watched more of the footage – in those few minutes we were in passing, the second of the towers collapsed. I left U.S. History and in the two minutes it took me to walk across the high school to my next class, there was suddenly no longer a tower standing and people were running for their lives – running for their lives, in New York City of all places. Running for their lives, running to beat the cloud of dust that sought to devour them as the towers crumbled.
We began to hear more about the Pentagon in those next hours – it was confirmed that American 77 had plummeted into the headquarters of the Defense Department that morning as well. Then came reports of an airliner crashed in Pennsylvania – that would later be known as United 93, which had originally targeted either the White House or Air Force One before the brave men and women on board fought back against their would-be killers and crashed the plane before the evildoers could do any more. I eventually went to Band, where our director told us we wouldn’t be marching like had been planned – “It’s just not the right time to march, we’ll just sit and watch the coverage,” she told us. Things began to settle down into the afternoon – nothing else occurred, no new plots unfolded, and now we were left to reel from the images and grieve for the lost. President Bush made several addresses that afternoon – one from Louisiana, one from Nebraska – it felt as if we were hiding him from the terrorists. We watched the footage in fifth, sixth, and seventh hours – finally, in eighth hour, my biology teacher opted not to have us watch the news and try to attain a sense of normalcy to the end of the school day something for which I am still grateful even in retrospect.
We had a volleyball match that evening, so I remained at school for the better part of five, six extra hours after class let out. I grabbed dinner somewhere close by, on the north end of town, before our warm-ups at 4:45, trying to stay on the gameday regimen and eat something light, which was not hard to do, considering the circumstances of the day and my acute lack of hunger which followed. Everything seemed so nonchalant, so passé, so meaningless – all I wanted was to go home and be with my parents, the only ones who could assure me that everything was going to be all right regardless of what transpired in New York City and Washington. There were times I stopped myself that afternoon and thought to myself, “Did all of that really happen, or is this all just a dream? Am I imagining what happened in New York this day?” The afternoon seemed to crawl, but eventually we played our match against Wausau East and lost in two – the JV squad wasn’t very good that season and my mind was beyond preoccupied, more often than not I was unable to concentrate, even on the sport I loved. Dad stuck around for the varsity match – I was a record keeper for two of the players – and Mom, Grandpa and Grandma went back to the house to get dinner.
I don’t remember a whole lot more from that day. Dad and I talked sparsely about the tragedy that night during the varsity match – he was actually speculating that he may have lost an old friend in one of the towers – and then I came home, ate Rocky’s for dinner, and got the 411 from my family about the president’s evening address. Finally, finally, finally, my president had returned to Washington, in an act of defiance against the terrorists, and had addressed his broken country from the Oval Office, a supreme sign of resolve, assuring us that we would rebuild, we would heal, we would strike back. My grandma assured me that he did very well, but I didn’t process much that night, keeping the status quo of the day. There had still not been adequate time to process anything.
I retreated to bed early, probably around 10:00 or 10:30, closing my door to the outside world, sitting in a corner of my room, and crying, letting out the first tears of the day, the tears I had restrained all day, the tears I had wanted to cry for the past twelve hours. I cried that night, warm, fat tears, tears for my country, my world, for my fellow citizens who had perished that morning, for the children and spouses they left behind, for their lost potential in what the day before had been a normal world. I cried out of confusion, I cried out of sorrow, I cried out of bewilderment, I cried out of naïveté. Armageddon, I thought to myself. This must be Armageddon. I eventually crawled into bed, my face still wet with tears, digging my head into my pillow and yearning desperately for a new day. And, although I did not know God intimately, I prayed that night for September 12th…
Five years ago….five years ago, on a Tuesday in September.
