Fifteen Years Later, A Remembrance

I’ve never actually put my memories of September 9, 2001 down in words. While it’s not a day that I actively try to forget, it’s not one I like to remember either. But…

I’ll never forget.

I was sitting at my desk trying to get ready for the day ahead when a co-worker leaned back from his desk, peering around a wall and announced that a plane had hit the World Trade Center.

At first there was a moment of disbelief. And then the dawning belief that it must have been one of those single engine planes or helicopters that flew up and down the Hudson River all day long. Hadn’t I sat at a desk in another office in Jersey City, directly across from the Twin Towers, and watched those planes zip by all day long? It must have been some kind of crazy accident.

“No,” he said. “They’re saying it was deliberate.”

Beginning in the fall of 2000, I started commuting from my home office in Boston to New York every week to work on a project in the Jersey City office. Along with a couple of my fellow creatives from Boston, I’d fly down on Monday, cab it to the World Trade Center, then take the PATH over to Jersey city. On Friday, we’d take the trip in reverse. Every week for about six months.

So, the events of 9/11 played out, not only on any media I watched, but also on the big screen in my head. Those memories of the World Trade Center—the twice weekly trips through it’s belly, the daily view of the Twin Towers from across the river—they were the stage for my imagination to play upon.

I wasn’t there, but I could, oh, so easily envision what my New York co-workers were seeing, what they were experiencing. And what if any of them were late to work that morning and taking the PATH train across the river? Bad enough to be a witness. The idea of any of them as victim was one I couldn’t face.

That day in Boston was unreal. We all tried to find out what was happening. No one knew if there was more to come. How widespread the attack would be. When reports of the attack on the Pentagon came in, the horror, fear and disbelief grew.

And it wasn’t done, yet.

I was on the phone with my sister when the first tower—the South Tower—came down. She’s the one who told me; her voice shook. It hardly seemed possible that a building of that size and stature could collapse. I was stunned.

And then came the realization that there were still people in the building. People trying to get out. People trapped above the fire caused by the plane crash. People trying to rescue those inside. So many people. The horror show in my head grew.

Flight 93 crashed in Pennsylvania.

The second tower came down.

I went home. And it only got worse. Because now I didn’t have to imagine anything. The news media broadcasted everything. With a continual voice-over of new information, old information, and ongoing speculation. Newscasters and experts talked and talked and the videos played over and over, hour by hour.

I don’t know that words can fully express the magnitude of what that day meant to those of us who lived through it. Most Americans experienced it like I did. Secondhand. We weren’t there. We didn’t see the planes hit the towers or the Pentagon in person. We didn’t rush to the scene to try to save people. We didn’t run for our lives as the second tower came down. Most important, we didn’t suffer the loss of loved ones.

So, today, I’ll remember that terrible day fifteen years ago. Even if I’d rather not. For those who died. For those who still grieve. And for those who don’t have even a remote possibility of ever forgetting.

But I’ll also remember how immediately afterwards, we remembered that we are the United States, and seemed to feel the meaning of Patrick Henry’s words, “United we stand, divided we fall.”

We could use more—a lot more—of that attitude today. I’m hoping we find it. This time without a tragedy first.

 

• Category: Commentary
• Tag: Historical Event, Remembrance