Remembrance Over 25 Years
On the morning of September 11th, 2001, I was a senior in high school sitting in my English Literature class. My friend Ashley came in to sit in front of me. She stated, “Two planes have hit the World Trade Center.” I responded, “Oh, that wasn’t planned.” I thought to myself, “Why would two small Cessna-like planes crash near the WTC?” We continued on with our class. I’m not sure anyone else knew yet, and I don’t remember all these years later how she knew already.
Our English class period ended, and I walked down the stairs to proceed to the next hallway. After walking up the next set of stairs, I saw my history teacher (we’ll call him H). H was probably the largest person I knew, blessed with the wit, strength, height, and mass to keep in check any little shit high schoolers causing a ruckus. He was a gentle giant who rarely gave the “knock it off” look, but when he did, you knew he was serious.
He was standing in the hallway. His eyes held back tears, his body language shouting pain. I could tell he was very upset, and I thought of what Ashley said to me. “Oh no.” My body knew something was wrong before my head did.
Not long later our school principal came over the intercom with a message to all the faculty and students. She informed us that the Twin Towers had collapsed in NYC, and that after school programs had been canceled for the day. I appreciate today that she didn’t leave us in the dark to find out another way. I’m not sure many other high schools in the nation treated their students the same way, perhaps out of shock, perhaps still treating high schoolers as children.
I went to lunch in a small cafeteria outside of the normal student cafeteria. My friends worked for the school television station and there was a TV in the cafeteria playing CNN. This was my first exposure to the horrific images, short looping planes flying into the buildings, and clouds of asbestos death descending on Manhattan.
My friends and I discussed at lunch what would happen next, barely eating. The trouble was that the ’90s we knew were a transition decade. Those years were after the USSR and Cold War, but still before anything else. All of our discussions were still stuck in that old world. We were educated in that old world, only able to conceive of its dynamics, foreign policy, coalitions, and economics. It really didn’t matter what we discussed, predicted, or conceptualized in response to such a shock. We were wrong, and I think we were just trying to cope. For the first time in our lives we were old enough to understand and feel heart-stopping fear.
I remember crying later that day with my family at home. We watched the WTC-7 building collapse on TV in the early evening. There were many hugs as we comforted and consoled one another. Later that night I was in my room reading or listening to music. A military fighter jet flew over the house. The unmistakable sound of a high-performance jet engine rattled the windows and furniture in my room.
On September 11th, 2002, I was a freshman in engineering school. Many of my new friends were from the tri-state area. I listened to their stories about their parents, many of whom worked in Manhattan. One of my friends could see the towers collapse as she watched from her schoolyard in Queens. Thankfully none of their parents died in the attacks, but practically everyone of them had a friend from their hometowns who did.
On September 11th, 2007, my friend Carol (not her real name) told me her story that day. Carol was working near the WTC at the time. She arrived off the subway just as the second plane hit the South Tower. She walked up the subway stairs only to see people running and screaming in a full-blown panic. She had no idea what was going on and froze for a moment, only for something to tell her to get back on the train. She went underground and got on a northbound train to head back to her apartment.
After sitting down on the train and taking a moment to breathe, the woman sitting next to her asked, “Ma’am, are you okay?” Carol looked up to see a beautiful young woman with an expression of concern on her face. “Oh, I’m okay, thank you.” “Are you sure? Would you like anything?” Carol, still in shock from the scene, couldn’t help but feel that she needed this person in this moment, and the woman responded with grace and care in, of all places, the NYC subway. They continued to chat a little bit, but Carol got off the train to return to her apartment. As Carol was walking up the stairs to her apartment, she realized she knew the kind woman on the train and her name was Monica Lewinsky. By the time she had gathered herself later that morning and turned on the TV, both towers had already collapsed.
I have heard and read countless accounts of the mass trauma surrounding these life-changing attacks. Years later, I still stop to give my full attention to anyone telling their story of that day. I’d like to think that’s not all that uncommon for myself to listen to said stories, but I probably don’t listen to other stories with the same intensity. It is notable that once a year, everyone does stop and fully listen to one another. It doesn’t matter where you were, or who you were with. Your story on that day matters. Maybe if we listened to each other as we always do on the anniversary, we wouldn’t have such disconnects in our society.