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I remember years ago my mom told me that everyone her age remembers where they were when they found out Kennedy was shot. She was ten years old at the time, and she was in school. I was probably about ten years old myself when she shared this information with me, and I remember thinking that I couldn't possibly fathom an historical event of that magnitude, something that hit so close to home that thirty years later you'd still be talking about it.
Historical events are things you read about in social studies textbooks, I had thought at the time, about which you take a test, and pretty much forget about after you pass (or fail) it.
Suffice it to say that my outlook on the subject changed on September 11, 2001.
Just like my mother in 1963, I too was in school when New York suffered what was equivalent to an assassination, except I was a full-grown adult in college, as "adult" as one can be at nineteen, anyhow. I was reveling in the perfect schedule I had that semester, specifically self-designed to ensure that I would be dismissed from class at precisely 11:10 AM every single day.
When the first plane crashed at 8:46, I was sitting in Dr. Giaquinto's educational psychology class, a class I would have remembered for life if not for its juxtaposition to this tragedy, then for Dr. G, who was probably the best professor I ever had, hands down.
Upon being dismissed from this class at 9:30, I was blissfully unaware of what was going on. This being ten years ago, no one had internet on his or her phone; I didn't even have a phone at the time. And even if I did it probably wouldn't have worked.
I proceeded to my 9:40 math class, much less memorable than Dr. G's class. When I was dismissed from that one, I discovered bedlam in the hallways.
I heard snippets of conversations: "Two planes hit the Twin Towers." "Trains aren't running." "Phones aren't working." "I have to call my mom...does anyone have a quarter?" "I can't get in touch with my dad...he works in Tower 1."
Confused, but not yet terrified because I didn't know what to make of the situation yet, I scurried down to the cafeteria. I found familiar faces--my brother Tom, his girlfriend (now wife) Christine, and some of our friends. Everyone was panicking, worried about family, friends, cell phone service, and how they were getting home. Tom and I normally took the A train to school; we now had no clue how we would be getting home.
We stepped outside and all we saw was black smoke. Some people went down to the promenade to take pictures. For what reason, I'm not sure.
Eventually we settled in with a group at O'Keefe's on Court Street. I don't know why we chose to go there; I guess we figured we would make the best of, for lack of better terminology, a totally sucky situation and get some lunch and beers. We figured we wouldn't be going anywhere for a while, and when we did, it would probably be on foot and we would need our energy.
O'Keefe's will always hit a soft spot with me because it was there where we were able to see horrifying images of exactly what was going on, and began to realize that this was serious business. I mentioned to Tom that we should probably find some way to get in touch with our parents, given St. Francis College's close proximity to downtown Manhattan, just to let them know that yes, we were okay, and no, Christine and I didn't choose that day to go shopping at Century 21 between classes like we so often did.
We did get home, eventually, at around 4:00 pm, via a ride from a friend. At the time I was living with my parents in Woodhaven, and it might as well have been a ghost town. I worked part-time at the library at the time, and I specifically remember riding past it, seeing the gates closed, and realizing there was no reason to call to see if I should come in.
Over the next couple of days I started to see how this tragedy was affecting me personally, even though I was fortunate not to have lost anyone. On the train en route to school on Thursday, a huge fight broke out between two men who didn't see eye to eye on the subject. I was supposed to see Incubus in concert that Saturday, and my mom told me, "There's no way you're going." (Incubus, or maybe it was Roseland Ballroom, was kind enough to refund my money, given the circumstances.)
I started to get angry. We're going to live in fear for...how long, exactly? Why are we letting these people win?
However, pretty soon I started to realize the error of my attitude, that I was being incredibly immature, and that this was so much bigger than a delayed train ride or a missed rock concert. Out of the 4,000 people killed, I was lucky enough not to have known any of them. Many people, including my own friends, were not so fortunate. And for that, I realized I should be eternally grateful.
I always get a little choked up this time of year when I hear a patriotic song. It might be at school, at church, or on TV. And sometimes I'll chide myself, saying, Calm down. You didn't lose anyone on that day. Think of all the people who did. You should feel lucky.
But in actuality, that's not true. Because as Americans, as New Yorkers, we are all family. And I know I can't even begin to sympathize with those who lost their son, daughter, husband, wife, mother, father, aunt, uncle, sister, brother, fiancee, girlfriend, boyfriend, best friend, or cousin on that day.
But I know that the only thing we can do is stick together, boost each other up, try to keep going, and not let them win.
Tomorrow, instead of mourning a loved one, I will be fortunate enough to watch the Jets season opener and 9/11 memorial ceremony with my husband.
And I will, without chiding myself, shed a tear for all those lost in that horrible tragedy a decade ago.
