I just posted this on the Theme Parks board 9/11 thread, but thought I would share here too:
I woke up September 11, 2001 to my clock radio alarm somberly telling me, “a plane has hit the World Trade Center.” I was 18 years old and preparing for my freshman year at college. My school happened to start later in September than most others, so I was still living in my parents’ house. Everyone else was at work or school already, and I had set my alarm because I wanted to get a jump on buying dorm room essentials and packing that day.
I remember it being one of those gorgeous, crisp early fall mornings. The day was promising to be cool and comfortable, sunny but not hot. The sky was bright blue, the trees were still bright green, and everything seemed lovely.
I turned on the TV just in time to see the second plane crash. This was the first time I realized it was an attack, not an accident. The media drew the same conclusion just as quickly. There was already speculation of going to war, at 9:30 that morning, and I remember calling my boyfriend’s house at the time, and blurting out, “Are we going to war?” without even realizing it was his father that had answered the phone. “No, of course not,” he reassured me.
The rest of the day is a bit of a blur. I remember being shocked to hear on the news that there were two other planes, one that hit the Pentagon and one that crashed in PA. I remember my parents both came home, I remember watching the television for most of the day. I remember that the conclusion that it was terrorism happened pretty quickly, and the tv was full of anchors and reporters debating about what would be done in counterattack. I remember having the somewhat ridiculous thought, “I really should go about my day, or else the terrorists win.” I half-heartedly tried to go out to Bed, Bath & Beyond and walked inside to find out they were closing anyway. Thank goodness.
We lived in northern New Jersey for awhile when I was young, and there were quite a few people that we knew that could have been in the city that day. Thankfully, we didn’t lose anyone. But I was surprised to see a familiar name on the news days later: the pastor of our old church, St. Joseph’s, Father Mychal Judge, had been declared Victim #1 by the NYC coroner’s office. He died when he was hit by falling debris when the south tower collapsed, while giving last rites in in the north tower.
The things I remember most are the days after the attacks. How nice people were to each other. How sad I felt that this was something so unusual that I noticed it. Doors were held, cars were allowed to merge, people said hello to one another, please, thank you, and all in this kind of zombie-like haze. Everyone seemed sedate, saddened by the sheer weight of what had happened. American pride surged in a way I had never experienced before. You couldn’t get an American flag anywhere, and I had to settle for red, silver and blue stars from a party store to decorate my dorm room door. God Bless America murals started going up on barns and abandoned buildings that faced highways. It was amazing, how the country banded together as one, to say, “We will carry on, we will honor those who lost their lives, and we will triumph.”
I will certainly never forget, and I only wish we could hold on to that sense of community we felt in those terrible days after 9/11 all the time. At least we seem to still come together on the anniversary, to remember and honor those who lost their lives that day. Be kind, share love. That's the best way to honor them!
