Nine Eleven
by V.E. on September 11th, 2009
filed under personal, politics
I never know what to do for 9/11. Or about it. Am I supposed to feel remorse? Anger? A sense of community? I didn’t even know the Towers existed before I saw them on my television screen that day. That’s representative of how much I knew about the world before some idiots decided demolishing the World Trade Center was a good idea.
Courtesy of DebtHelp.tv
I knew New York existed, but it was far away. It’s where Broadway was, but I couldn’t recognize the skyline. I’d never seen a Broadway play, ridden a subway train, or walked in Times Square. I vaguely knew of Fifth Avenue but only because there were commercials on the radio for a Saks 5th Ave. store opening… somewhere around L.A. Los Angeles was more important to me—and more immediate.
I was a Junior in high school. Nobody in my house ever watches TV in the mornings, so it was off to school for me. KROQ was playing in the van—Kevin and Bean, as usual—and they mentioned something about New York being attacked and played music from War of the Worlds. We laughed it off, though somebody in the van mentioned it was bad form, even for Kevin and Bean, to joke about attacking New York. (I believe KROQ got in hot water over that, though I couldn’t tell you for sure.)
It was September. I was in my third year of colorguard. I loved it and hated it (we had a love/hate relationship, if you can imagine that)—the coach had either just quit or was about to quit after some altercation with the band director. One of the friend’s I’d had since my fifth grade year began dating another girl in my class who, in turn, refused to let him talk to me. For years. I was losing touch with my best friend at the time, even though we lived across the street from each other. It was a troubling time in my bubble that was high school.
I got out of the van in the drop off circle and headed into the band room, where I spent most my mornings before school. Uncharacteristically, the TV was on and people were sitting, silently watching it. I remember walking in through the two sets of double doors laughing at something I can’t for the life of me remember—and my laughter dying on my lips when I saw one of the flutist’s tear-streaked faces. I looked from her to the TV and watched as the North Tower collapsed under its own weight. The South Tower had already disappeared into a pile of smoking beams, rubble, and death. Someone gasped. We were watching New York literally go up in smoke on live television.
“Seriously?” I asked no one in particular. No one answered. I don’t know how long I stood there in the band room doorway, but when I turned around again after the first “get to class” bell had rung, there were probably fifteen people behind me in a similar state of disbelief.
I headed up the stairs to my first period class on the second floor, German 3. Herr Despard, the teacher, said we didn’t have any work because he wanted to watch the developments in New York. “Do something in your workbooks if you want to,” he said. Like we were going to actually do work if we didn’t have to. I almost laughed, but I thought it might be inappropriate. Someone—probably Dr. Leininger, the principal—came on the PA system and alerted teachers of the possibility of students staying home from class. And also to continue teaching normally if that was at all possible.
It wasn’t. I don’t even remember my second period. I slowly filled in the details via my teachers and the live reporting on TV. Some plane had hit the North Tower at 5:45 that morning. Then, another one hit the South Tower at 6 AM. They talked about melting beams and jumpers (though at the time I think they said they’d been blown out of the building by force since talking about jumpers is a no-no) and dust and smoke everywhere. The Pentagon had also been hit, and there was another plane that was (it was later found out) headed for the Capitol but that had been stopped by the plane’s passengers. After an hour of burning, the South Tower collapsed. Then, half an hour later, at 7:30 that morning, the North Tower collapsed. That’s what I’d walked in on.
Third period was colorguard. We hauled our flags out to the front of the school to practice, as usual. We weren’t going to win medals by sitting around, even if New York was in trouble, my band director said. Dr. Leininger came on the PA system again and said, “Okay, everyone, get out your cell phones; we know you have them.” (It was school policy to disallow cell phone use on campus during school hours.) He continued, “Call your parents or someone to come pick you up. We’re closing the school for the day. JPL has been named the number three most likely terrorist target, and they’ve also been closed for the time being.”
Suddenly, the front of the school was flooded with kids whooping and cheering. Then, the teachers and administrators came out and the yelling immediately quieted. We weren’t getting out because of something good, after all, but because of something bad. That meant: no cheering allowed. Our flags and rifles were forgotten for the moment while people pulled their cell phones from their pockets, backpacks, and handbags. My best friend (the one I didn’t yet realize I was losing) was somber, and another friend came by and offered me a ride back to his place. I declined. My brother was in sixth grade still, in a school across the city. My sister and I tossed our flags back in the band room and…
I don’t remember what happened after that until all three of us were home. I was in fight or flight mode and I’d chosen fight. My sister later said that I was really good under pressure, but I don’t remember it.
We were home. Someone flipped on the TV and we watched the planes hit the towers and the towers fall over and over and over. We probably saw it fifty times that day on replay. My father came home; he worked at JPL, which had been closed. My mother came home in tears. When she saw my mother, my sister started crying, too. My brother was having a hard time grasping why my family was so distraught about something so far away. It felt like I was in the eye of the storm. I could see the turmoil and destruction, but I wasn’t a part of it. It just surrounded me.
I didn’t know anyone in New York. I didn’t even know people who knew people. Or, at least, I didn’t know I knew those people who knew people. I looked around me in the following days and felt like the only one who wasn’t a crying wreck all the time. I hadn’t even known those towers existed before I saw them collapsing on TV that morning, much less know anyone in them.
Courtesy of Memeticians
I still feel like that. Am I the only one who… doesn’t care? That sounds horrible, but I feel more guilty for not feeling guilty than I feel for what actually happened. I read the books. I watched the documentaries and dramas. I was sympathetic and went to vigils and sang “We Shall Overcome” with the rest of the attendees. The only thing I learned was that learning about a tragedy doesn’t make me feel more for the people who lost. I still feel… absent.
No doubt, something could make me understand. A tragedy could happen to me any time that could make me see what those mourners see when they look at where the two towers used to stand. I don’t know what that thing could be, the thing that would make me understand. I don’t know if I even want to understand. I’m not trying to be insensitive, but I’m just not connected to September 11th the way everyone else in the United States seems to be.
