I was ignorant of the whole situation until my mother called me, which was soon after the South Tower collapsed.
Right away my mother asked if I was watching and I, confused by the urgent tone in her voice, asked what she was talking about. She spat out, almost angrily, that I needed to turn on the television. Alarmed, I did as she told me without further question. Right away my eyes were met with live footage of a skyscraper on fire. Still unaware of the severity of the situation, and unable to discern what city I was looking at, I asked her if it was happening in Colorado, my rationale being that that was the only reason my mother would be so frantic over a building being on fire. She explained to me that it was one of the buildings in the World Trade Center, one of the buildings someone tried to blow up in the 90s. She said the building just like it was also on fire but it had just collapsed a few minutes before. I was thinking, yeah right, a building that tall collapsed in on itself. Just now. Uh-huh.
Of course I didn't question my mother's sanity, I just figured she didn't see it right, or she was confused because that sort of thing did not happen. Not in the world I lived in.
While I was trying to figure out what was really happening, what the news anchor was saying, my mother went on to tell me that commercial airliners crashed into the buildings. My mind couldn't quite process what she was saying, what I was watching, so I spent a few minutes convinced it was a freak accident of epic proportions, some crazy computer glitch that messed up the navigation equipment--"commercial airplane pilots don't go around crashing into buildings, not on purpose!". Admittedly, I knew none of what I was telling myself made any sense, but neither did anything my mother was telling me, nor did the scene that was unfolding right before my eyes.
That conversation with my mother probably only lasted ten minutes or so, but due to my confusion, disbelief and horror I remember it lasting much longer. Every moment seemed to drag by in slow motion. Eventually I told my mother I needed to get off the phone, to call Duane--which, by the way, I didn't end up doing at first. So we said goodbye and I just sat in front of the television, changing channels, the same burning building footage on every channel, even Telemundo--which, horrifically enough was actually showing fuzzy closeups of people falling, jumping from the building. Stunned, I I quickly changed to ABC (and continued to watch their coverage for the rest of the day).
According to my journal entry that day, reports--not all confirmed reports, mind you, but were reported on national television nonetheless--were pouring in from everywhere of planes crashing into the Pentagon, Camp David, near an airport in Pennsylvania, a few others in Washington State. There was even a report of a possible car bomb on the streets of Washington DC. Nobody knew what was really going on but at that point it was clear, even to me, these were terrorist attacks.
I came to a very important realization at that time: Not safe. We aren't safe. We never really were.
This reality, so new to me, left me feeling naked; exposed; breakable. I was sick with terror and alone. So very alone.
I called Duane. I asked him if he knew what was going on and when he was going to come home--because in my head no employer would expect their employees to stay at work when the country was under attack. He said he knew what was going on--everyone did--but he had to stay late that night as it was a Tuesday (he always had to stay late on Tuesdays--long story). It was when I was in the middle of choking on my rage, a biting reply on the tip of my tongue, when the North Tower started to collapse. As it crumbled I thought there was no way what I was seeing was real--because at that time I still didn't believe the South Tower had fallen, regardless of what I'd been told. I thought there was no way it was going to completely collapse. I thought it was going to stop halfway down. I needed it to stop. Prayed for it to stop. Begged for it to stop.
About five seconds into the collapse I finally accepted that it wasn't going to stop, that it would fall all the way to the ground. I started sobbing and shouting. I was yelling at Duane, telling him what was happening. Telling him that Peter Jennings had just said, minutes before I called Duane, that the New York City firefighters are known for staying in the building until the last moment. That there were probably a ton of firefighters and civilians left in that building and that they were killed--murdered--right before my eyes and the United States was under attack, and I needed him.
The moments it took for the north tower to collapse felt like...I don't know how long. Too long. Not long enough--it still feels wrong so many lives were snuffed out in a matter of seconds.
I don't really remember what happened next. The next couple hours are a blur, in retrospect I believe I was in shock at the time. All I know is I was glued to the television and I cried a lot.
My journal entry from that day ends with something I tend to forget about when I think about the events of that day. I wrote about how amazing it was that the American people were uniting, that all over the United States people were rolling up their sleeves and donating blood. People were giving money to the Red Cross and displaying American flags with pride. Also, the church held a prayer meeting that night and we were told to pray for President Bush and his advisers. I feel like that day ended with a glimmer of hope.
Why am I blogging about this? Because I need to get it out, all that I'm feeling, regardless of whether or not anyone but my children read it. The days and months leading up to the tenth anniversary of 9/11 I tried to figure out how I would explain to my girls what happened, why 9/11 is such an important day in our nation's history and why I will never--must never--forget.
In the end I didn't really end up bringing it up other than saying the date out loud, knowing my children would not have any idea that the day was in any way significant. Later in the evening my husband and I gave a brief explanation to our 8-year-old--whom we decided was old enough to learn about it--of what happened ten years ago, but then went on to tell her that she shouldn't worry because it happened before she was born. You could say that we chickened out, that we minimized the importance of it all, I'm not sure I would disagree. It's just that how does one go about really explaining such a horrific series of events to a child? I didn't want to sit her down and show her the footage of commercial airplanes crashing into the Twin Towers, because even I have a difficult time watching that.
Don't get me wrong, I'm well aware that ten years ago every child had to deal with the reality of 9/11. I know many children lost parents that day. Even more children lost uncles, aunts, grandmothers, grandfathers, cousins and family friends. Not to mention all the others who have lost a parent since then because of the ongoing war. So what makes my children so special? Why shouldn't they have to know too?
It's not that I want my children to be ignorant of our nation's history--Because I don't. It's just that once they really know, once they see the events that happened that day they can't un-know any of it. They will have to share in the nightmare. They're too young for that sort of burden. They're too young to know what the rest of us know; that we're not really safe.
The attacks on 9/11 didn't just happen to the victims and their families. It happened to every American citizen. We all mourned--still mourn--those who lost their lives that day. We've all have had to deal with the fallout. We all have an opinion on the matter (for the record: I don't entertain the conspiracy theories. I cannot. My heart can't go there; I just don't have it in me. And in the end, no matter what, I believe every single person who was knowingly involved in the attacks will be held accountable at the judgement bar. *shrugs*)
It doesn't seem like ten years have passed since September 11, 2001 regardless of all that has happened since then. I've come to the conclusion that it doesn't matter how much time passes, doesn't matter how much I try to put it behind me, it will always feel like it just happened. Wounds like that don't heal, at least not completely; the scars remain. I can never forget.
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