I was just beginning my sophomore year at St. Joseph’s Prep. Aside from shaking off the rust of summer vacation and reacclimating myself to the tedious routine of a school day, I had few concerns.
It
was 2nd Period. I was in Room 301, the Physical Science Lecture Room.
Fittingly, the course was U.S. History. Class had just commenced when Mr.
Scott, the A.P. Government teacher, entered the room with a grim look on his
face and whispered something to my instructor, Mr. Lindsay. After Mr. Scott
departed, Mr. Lindsay shared with us the news: a plane had crashed into the
World Trade Center in New York. We said a prayer and then went about our
business.
Frankly, this initial report did not disturb me too greatly. I had never been to New York and had never seen the World Trade Center towers. I was too young to remember the ’93 attack orchestrated by Ramzi Yousef. I vaguely knew about Osama bin Laden and al Qaeda from the embassy bombings in Kenya and Tanzania in 1998, but at that moment I thought this event was an isolated minor tragedy, not a major act of terrorism. I imagined a small plane had struck the building and naively hoped that few people were injured or killed.
Terrorism was a relatively foreign concept for a teenager in the halcyon years before 9/11. Sure, there were domestic incidents like the Oklahoma City bombing in ’95, the Olympic Park bombing in ’96, and the Columbine shooting in ’99. However, I was inclined to believe these were the actions of madmen who just wanted to kill innocent people. The notion that such delusional individuals would possess any kind of motive worth a moment’s consideration was beyond the comprehension of my self-righteous mind. Ultimately, I felt safe. Military violence and political terrorism were actions that happened in far-flung regions of the world; they were not part of my provincial reality. Besides, what had the United States ever done to provoke another country or terrorist cell? We were the good guys.
It wasn’t until 4th period- my lunch break- that I began to grasp the gravity of the situation. I entered the cafeteria and bore witness to a bizarre scene. Nearly everyone was on a cell phone. I didn’t own such a device and didn’t know anyone in my neighborhood who had one. The mood was chaotic; few people were actually eating lunch. As I waited in line to buy a soda, I noticed the aforementioned Mr. Lindsay in front of me and asked him what was happening. I’ll never forget his response: “Our country is under attack.”
What? How is that even possible? I ate quickly and then walked into the main atrium, where a large TV had been positioned for students and staff to watch the news as it unfolded. It was here that I first saw the depth of the destruction that had occurred. It appeared as if a bomb had been dropped on Manhattan. Smoke billowed from the ruins of the World Trade Center. Soon replays of earlier events showed a passenger jet flying into the South Tower and both buildings collapsing after being consumed by flames.
Not long afterward, school was cancelled for the day and we were all sent home to face an uncertain future.
In attempting a broader description of the events of 9/11, I find my command of the written word lacking. After all, how can anyone adequately capture the collective shock of watching a large plane deliberately crash into a skyscraper as its twin burns nearby? Or the national disbelief as both towers collapsed in a heap of twisted steel and rubble? Or the shared horror that gripped us as our observational detachment broke and we slowly realized that thousands of human beings were passengers on the doomed planes or workers and first responders buried in the World Trade Center debris? Or the painful reality that once-happily anonymous folks would suddenly assume the burdensome label of “9/11 families”; that sons would grow up without their mothers, that daughters would be deprived of their dads, that wives would become widows, and parents would have to bury their children? And all for the crime of living in the United States and going to work on the wrong day, or boarding the wrong plane. It doesn’t make any damn sense; no words, however eloquently arranged, will ever change this fundamental inanity.
So, in lieu of a definitive summary or a provocative analysis, I present my personal recollection, incredibly minor and insignificant though it may be, betraying an embarrassing ignorance of the world during my teen years. I also offer my sincere hope that the disorientating darkness that enveloped that day will no longer define it.
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