Fifteenth Anniversary of 9/11: Where Were You On That Terrible Tuesday?
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Composite by Jennifer Semple Siegel, created on 9/12/2001 _________________________ |
My story is unremarkable, but my
horror was not.
At 8:46 AM, I was
asleep when Flight 11 hit the North Tower.
My husband nudged
me awake. “The World Trade Center is on fire,” he said as he flipped on the TV,
an old black and white portable. “A plane crashed into one of the towers.”
I jumped out of
bed, memory of the 1993 WTC bombing smoldering in my brain.
Terrorism?
“When I went into
the shower, Katie Couric...,” he said. “By the time I was out...this.”
“Terrorism,” I
said.
“They're not
saying. Could be an accident.”
But I knew.
I could feel the
hate vibrating in my bones. A sense of panic.
I dressed without
showering and went into the living room. I flipped on NBC.
In living color,
we saw the second plane slice into the South Tower.
9:03 AM, Flight
175.
Yes. Terrorism.
Jerry had classes
and left for school. On a Monday-Wednesday schedule, I stayed home alone.
I remember
looking out the window as Jerry backed the car out of the driveway.
As the world ends, I will die here at home,
all alone.
Our college did
not cancel day classes, which was kind of odd – I still think so – but they did
cancel Tuesday night.
On NBC, I heard
Jim Maceda’s firsthand report from the Pentagon as an explosion rocked in the
background. “What was that?” he asked – at least that's how I remember it.
9:38 AM: Flight
77.
9:59 AM: South
tower collapses.
10:10 AM: Flight
93. Pennsylvania.
10:28 AM: North
tower collapses.
It was an eerie
disconnect; it was an absolutely stunning fall day, brilliant blue sky, about
70 degrees and yet the world, filled with roiling black smoke and collapsing
buildings, was ending.
I looked to the
sky for answers.
What other horrors remain in flight?
Three-Mile
Island, 20 miles away, a logical terrorist bull’s eye.
I recalled TMI,
in late March 1979.
Evacuation.
A mass exodus out
of central Pennsylvania.
Panic.
But where does
one flee when the world is ending?
I did the typical
things people did that day: I cried; I shook my fist at God (“How could you
allow this?”); I surfed CNN, NBC,
ABC, MSNBC; I proclaimed my hatred for the perpetrators, whoever they were; I
watched as American flags on cars began flapping in the wind and –
God Bless America.
– I waited for
the end.
To my relief,
Jerry came home, and the world hadn’t ended – yet.
Like millions of
other Americans, we decided to donate blood for the survivors who would surely
be dug out of the rubble.
The blood bank
asked us a few questions: they rejected Jerry because of a medical issue and
gave me a number.
“Come back in two
hours.” The line was long and not enough blood collectors. I later learned that
subsequent donors were told to come back the next day.
We didn’t act
like people anticipating their last day on earth; we ate dinner at a Chinese
buffet, but our taste buds were numb. We ate because it was time to eat, and,
besides, I couldn’t give blood on an empty stomach.
After donating my
pint, I still had to do gurney time and drink plenty of Gatorade, despite my
full stomach.
Back home and
recovering, I tried preparing for Wednesday classes, though I knew both I and
my students would not have Freshman Composition or Creative Writing on our
minds
Later in the semester,
students would begin writing about this day.
I called my aunt
in Iowa, and Jerry called his mother in Florida; we just wanted to be sure no
one we knew and loved was in those planes or in those buildings.
In my dreams, I
made an uneasy alliance with the God who had allowed this day to happen; I
dreamed of CNN, news crawls, fire, smoke, rubble, dead bodies, grieving
families.
Still, I began to
suspect we would live another day.
And so we did.
See, I told you
my story was unremarkable.
How about your story?
_____________________________
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