9/11 Six Years On (post written September 11, 2007)
Six years. Six years. I can’t believe it’s been six years since the attacks. Wow. Seems so long ago and yet the memories remain stark and immediate.
Yesterday, September 11, 2007, wasn’t a sparkling early fall day as it was that day six years ago. It was overcast and for that, I was relieved. Gray and humid. Sticky and gloomy.
At the end of the day, however, the sun did indeed break through the clouds and there was a spectacular sky of deep oranges, glowing pinks, and ruby reds. Perhaps that was the most striking part of the day for me. Otherwise, 9/11's almost becoming just another day. Has it?
If this section is contradictory, I apologize but think such back and forth is due to the ambivalence I feel about the day now. It’s an uncomfortable commingling of a “let’s move on” attitude with a “lest we forget” fear-inspired reverence.
I read somewhere that 9/11 is our generation’s Pearl Harbor. The parallels are easy to draw: both attacks were committed by foreign aggressors on U.S. soil and sea; to many, both were attacks that came swooping into our consciousnesses with really no prior warning; both were attacks that changed how we as a generation of witnesses, as a U.S. people, thereafter function and see the world and our place in it.
Six years. September 11, 1976, is Andrea's (my childhood friend) birthday (that's her in the opening picture on her first hot-air balloon ride in Washington state). Mysteriously enough, her father was born on the actual Pearl Harbor Day, December 7, 1941, the day that will live in infamy. What is it about their family, I wonder? Doomed? No. A bizarre synchronicity? Maybe.
That day six years ago, as I was heading to work at the publishing house tucked away within the odd Flatiron Building that straddles 23rd Street where Broadway and Fifth Avenue meet, I thought of Andrea. It was a day like any other. Thinking of everyday things. It was also primary election day in New York City. I was thinking to myself: Must head into the office to send a bday e-greeting to Andrea and figure out where I can vote.
Those were my thoughts until Crystal, my co-worker, stumbled into my office. I was there a bit before 9 and wondered where everyone else was. I was checking email and trying to read the NYTimes online. I was about to gobble down my Lemon Zest Luna Bar.
Crystal stammered, “Hey, do you know that a plane hit a building down the street?” “What?” I replied nonchalantly with another question. “Yea,” she said, “that’s why no one else is here right now. They’re all looking at the building.”
I was confused. Crystal used few words but I still didn’t understand what she meant. I recall my mental image of what was happening to include a small, private plane, flown by a pilot and perhaps one assistant, accidentally crashing into a building a few blocks down from where our office was.
My thought processes also included a recollection of what the weather was like. Although I had only been inside the building 15 minutes and although I did have a window those days in my office, I couldn’t remember what the day was like. It leapt back to me and I stated to Crystal but more to myself that it was too nice and clear of a day for a plane to be involved in an accident.
I bet my experience of processing and getting a handle on what was going on was what many people dealt with that morning. Perhaps those more removed by geography from the attacks, had an even tougher time figuring out what was going on.
It somewhat sunk in as Crystal and I headed downstairs to the Fifth Avenue side of the Flatiron. There, our co-workers and the many others who worked at St. Martin’s Press were huddled, speechless. From there, you could careen your eyes straight down Fifth Avenue to the smoking North Tower.
What must have happened was that many, commuting by subway, as they ascended from the station just a half block away, headed toward the office and were facing south. They must have seen the first plane hit the North Tower. Me, heading by foot from the south, I faced north as I entered the office; my innocence extended by direction and fate a handful of minutes more.
We all stood there numb and shocked, a collective blob of disbelief. Transfixed. I saw the second plane hit the South Tower and we watched as the two mammoths, pulverized, disintegrated.
It was warm in the morning sun. I had just started a new tattoo on my left upper arm and shoulder over Labor Day weekend. It had healed for just a few days. I kept it covered with a ¾-sleeve blue cardigan. The tattoo was coated in Bacitracin first aid ointment. It was gooey and uncomfortable as we huddled outside that morning, witnesses to the unthinkable.
Six years. Six years. I can’t believe it’s been six years since the attacks. Wow. Seems so long ago and yet the memories remain stark and immediate.
Yesterday, September 11, 2007, wasn’t a sparkling early fall day as it was that day six years ago. It was overcast and for that, I was relieved. Gray and humid. Sticky and gloomy.
At the end of the day, however, the sun did indeed break through the clouds and there was a spectacular sky of deep oranges, glowing pinks, and ruby reds. Perhaps that was the most striking part of the day for me. Otherwise, 9/11's almost becoming just another day. Has it?
If this section is contradictory, I apologize but think such back and forth is due to the ambivalence I feel about the day now. It’s an uncomfortable commingling of a “let’s move on” attitude with a “lest we forget” fear-inspired reverence.
I read somewhere that 9/11 is our generation’s Pearl Harbor. The parallels are easy to draw: both attacks were committed by foreign aggressors on U.S. soil and sea; to many, both were attacks that came swooping into our consciousnesses with really no prior warning; both were attacks that changed how we as a generation of witnesses, as a U.S. people, thereafter function and see the world and our place in it.
Six years. September 11, 1976, is Andrea's (my childhood friend) birthday (that's her in the opening picture on her first hot-air balloon ride in Washington state). Mysteriously enough, her father was born on the actual Pearl Harbor Day, December 7, 1941, the day that will live in infamy. What is it about their family, I wonder? Doomed? No. A bizarre synchronicity? Maybe.
That day six years ago, as I was heading to work at the publishing house tucked away within the odd Flatiron Building that straddles 23rd Street where Broadway and Fifth Avenue meet, I thought of Andrea. It was a day like any other. Thinking of everyday things. It was also primary election day in New York City. I was thinking to myself: Must head into the office to send a bday e-greeting to Andrea and figure out where I can vote.
Those were my thoughts until Crystal, my co-worker, stumbled into my office. I was there a bit before 9 and wondered where everyone else was. I was checking email and trying to read the NYTimes online. I was about to gobble down my Lemon Zest Luna Bar.
Crystal stammered, “Hey, do you know that a plane hit a building down the street?” “What?” I replied nonchalantly with another question. “Yea,” she said, “that’s why no one else is here right now. They’re all looking at the building.”
I was confused. Crystal used few words but I still didn’t understand what she meant. I recall my mental image of what was happening to include a small, private plane, flown by a pilot and perhaps one assistant, accidentally crashing into a building a few blocks down from where our office was.
My thought processes also included a recollection of what the weather was like. Although I had only been inside the building 15 minutes and although I did have a window those days in my office, I couldn’t remember what the day was like. It leapt back to me and I stated to Crystal but more to myself that it was too nice and clear of a day for a plane to be involved in an accident.
I bet my experience of processing and getting a handle on what was going on was what many people dealt with that morning. Perhaps those more removed by geography from the attacks, had an even tougher time figuring out what was going on.
It somewhat sunk in as Crystal and I headed downstairs to the Fifth Avenue side of the Flatiron. There, our co-workers and the many others who worked at St. Martin’s Press were huddled, speechless. From there, you could careen your eyes straight down Fifth Avenue to the smoking North Tower.
What must have happened was that many, commuting by subway, as they ascended from the station just a half block away, headed toward the office and were facing south. They must have seen the first plane hit the North Tower. Me, heading by foot from the south, I faced north as I entered the office; my innocence extended by direction and fate a handful of minutes more.
We all stood there numb and shocked, a collective blob of disbelief. Transfixed. I saw the second plane hit the South Tower and we watched as the two mammoths, pulverized, disintegrated.
It was warm in the morning sun. I had just started a new tattoo on my left upper arm and shoulder over Labor Day weekend. It had healed for just a few days. I kept it covered with a ¾-sleeve blue cardigan. The tattoo was coated in Bacitracin first aid ointment. It was gooey and uncomfortable as we huddled outside that morning, witnesses to the unthinkable.
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