Inspired by Stacy's post today, I decided to write about my own 9/11 experience.
Back in September 2001, I was a junior in college. I had just walked into D-Hall for breakfast that morning when I noticed a small crowd gathering around the T.V. on the wall. I joined them in watching the CNN broadcast, but only stayed long enough to gather that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center in New York.
At that point, there weren't any speculations of terrorism and I thought it must have been a small plane that accidentally hit the building so I moved onto breakfast so that I wouldn't be late to class. That's how my mind worked 6 years ago...news of a plane crashing into a building didn't instantly stir up fears of terrorism in my heart and mind. Back then, something like that could have only been an accident.
As I walked to class after breakfast, I met up with my friend who was headed to the same building. She looked ashen and horrified. She asked me if I heard what was going on and I nodded my head. She then told me that the second tower had been hit with another plane, something that I must have missed while I was eating breakfast. It was at that point that I got a sinking feeling in my stomach and began to wonder if we were being invaded. By whom, I didn't yet know, but I was scared.
My thoughts instantly went to my father, who works for NSA. It was always the joke in my town growing up that if there were ever a bomb dropped in America, we would be hit because we're home to NSA, Fort Meade and about 40 miles from Washington, DC. And now, it seemed, that might actually be happening. My mind raced...if NSA hadn't been hit yet, then surely it was bound to eventually.
I walked into a normally orderly class that was now abuzz with students discussing the planes and the twin towers, and now I learned, the Pentagon had been hit. That made me even more worried because that was close...close to me in school at Richmond and close to my parents in Maryland. There was almost a frenzied panic in the air in my class that day. The University of Richmond draws a lot of students from New York and New Jersey and some of my classmates had family or friends who worked in the city. They were all on their cell phones, desperately trying to get a hold of their loved ones. I did not have a cell phone at that point, but one of my kind classmates gave me a calling card so that I could go to the student lounge and try to reach my dad at work. Of course I never got through. The lines were hopelessly jammed.
My professor didn't even try to teach that day. He told us we were welcome to stay in the classroom and watch the latest news together, or we could leave if we wanted. I chose to stay for a bit and then I walked back to my dorm room. The rest of my classes were canceled that day, but I still had cross country practice that afternoon. I remember it was a very somber run; everyone's minds were somewhere else and our usual cheerful conversation was silenced.
I don't remember for sure, but I don't think anyone who attended the University at that point in time had an immediate family member killed in the attacks. My school held a moment of silence later that week and we all gathered around the lake on campus and threw daisies in the water in remembrance of the lives lost. I was very lucky that day and wasn't personally affected nor did I know anyone personally affected by the events on September 11th. Still though, the images of that day haunted me. They, in fact, haunt me till this day...especially the pictures of those poor souls jumping out the buildings. I cannot fathom having to make that choice and the fact that those people did so is unimaginable to me.
During the last semester my senior year of college, I was enrolled in a Creative Writing class and we were called on to write a short play. For reasons still unknown to me, I was drawn to write a first person fictional account of 4 people who were either in one of the planes, the twin towers or on the ground that day. As part of our final grade, we had to find people to act out our play in front of all of the creative writing classes and anyone else on campus who wanted to come. I was a nervous wreck on the day of the performance. I felt that my play was tasteful and respectful, but I was so afraid that there would be someone in the audience who might have been personally touched by the tragedy. I didn't want to bring up painful memories for anyone. Still, I thought the story needed to be told and not avoided because it is then that we truly honor those who lost their lives that day.
A few minutes into the performance of my play, a girl walked out sobbing, being consoled by her friend. I felt sick to my stomach. I began second guessing myself and worrying and feeling that I had done something terrible. It's not like I wrote anything graphic. My play consisted of telephone conversations between people that day, some who got out and others who didn't make it. But obviously, it did hit a nerve. I was so relieved when it was over and was surprised when I did get applause. I got my graded play back the next week with an A on top and a note from my professor that it was "excellent" and "gutsy". In the end, I realize that I wrote a story, fictional or not, that deserves to be told and shouldn't be avoided because of the difficult subject matter. Yes, it does hurt to remember, but wouldn't it hurt worse to forget?
And I'm glad that myself and others are still writing about September 11th today, 6 years later. Leaving out the politics of it all, I just think it's important to honor those who lost their lives that day with our words and memories. For me, it's truly the only way I can.
