Everyone has one, and I haven't contributed mine to any media except for my own recollections, so forgive me if I feel the urge to put it on pen and paper... as if I could ever forget.
Tuesday, September 11th, 2001 was supposed to be eerily similar to Monday, September 10th and was in all likelihood going to blur into Wednesday, September 12th. Especially to an 8th grader who was trying to negotiate the limitations of a strict Catholic school setting with the self-perceived authority of being at the top of my middle school. After all, I was practically in high school and like many of my classmates, I tried to act it. My universe thusly encompassed the four walls of my home and however many walls were in my school. Sure I wanted to graduate or move on or whatever, but deep down things were going just fine thank you very much. I was ripe to have my innocent world view robbed.
Getting to school and home room were like any other day. But as the days first activities were beginning, our country was morphing all around the bubble created by St. Thomas Aquinas School. It started during religion class, when we were interrupted a few times by our assistant principal calling our teacher out into the hallway about 3 times in the 35 minute periods. Looking back, it would be easy to interpret this interruptions and subsequent awkward stares by our teacher to mean something was amiss. But, I mean, how were we to know at the time. There were no prior experiences like 9/11 by which we could be like "Uh oh, I know what this mean." There was no precedent for this kind of disaster, no gene contained in our DNA like the one forged that Tuesday that causes our palms to get sweaty in an airport security checkpoint or in a metro stop flooded with men in flak jackets.
And so the day went on for another period, notably art class. We pretty much abused our middle-school art teacher who was flaky enough to think we were being creative. We were, just not in the ways he wanted. Like someone would bring in a Ludacris album from home and one of us were charged with manning the speakers to turn down the volume during the swears (and we would never quite self-censor correctly for some reason). So mischief was naturally abound when all at once the curtain came crashing down.
In a swift and serious fashion we were whisked out of the classroom and without a word of explanation we were guided to church. And I am quite serious when I say we were all convinced we were being sent there for penance for our less than holy acts of behavior to our poor art teacher. This was the beginning of a very confusing stretch for us, for from this point on no one gave us anything more concrete than a "shhh."
We filed into the pews like we did on every first Friday for the school mass, except we had had our first Friday mass last week. So why are we here? Everyone was of the same confused mindset and anyone's guess was as good as the other's. Father Martin came out and began the services intended for something no one knew while classes were still being marshaled into their seats. The confused yet jovial attitudes of the students couldn't contrast more with the stern, forlorn look of the teachers or clergy at that hour. And that was as close to anarchy as our bubble got. Sensing on this, no one really paid much attention to anything they were thinking an hour before. This was weird, and weird never happened at St. Thomas. Not to us. What the hell was going on?
Then all of a sudden our guys pivoted from one another back to the altar. Father Martin was saying something about pulling together as Americans and a horrific tragedy. Again, no details, but enough sound bites to thoroughly scare us. It was a different kind of pandemonium, and I'd say half of us thought we were finished... like done with altogether. I distinctly remember my friend Colin and I looking straight at each other an mouthing "nuclear war" at the same time with the same "I can't believe I'm saying this" expression. It didn't help that moms were starting to come in to the middle of church and pulling little Timmy and little Suzie right out of mass. On September 10th, this would have been blasphemous on a level that would have blown our minds. But on September 11th, with all the strange things that had happened already, we all wished we were one of those lucky kids that was that much closer to finding out what actually happened. Again may I remind you, we were told nothing, so getting out became priority number one. Whatever gave us some kind of piece of mind we weren't all going to die.
And as if we needed anything else to freak us out, Father Martin was accompanied as the mass was progressing by various priests and deacons who I guess felt the need to bring God back to that day. The big tipoff was when our elderly Monseigneur, who had been out of commission for a while, even made an appearance and looked visibly bewildered. I can't say that I blame them for being shaken or disturbed... they were in need of a bedrock as much as we were. I wish I had the wisdom and focus to turn to God in that moment, but I wasn't ready for the judgment so perhaps my way of avoiding the certain damnation I felt i was in for was by avoiding thinking of God altogether. Looking back now, I could have used him then the most and I was lucky I found him in the time after that day.
After mass ended, we were shepherded back to the school as swiftly and sternly as were were whisked into the church. And then we waited.
This was probably the worst part of the entire day. Word had leaked about various details surrounding what had happened. They were vague enough where we were still in the dark but they gave us something... anything... to cling to. We heard something about a bomb, possibly a hijacking or possibly a subway. And as far as cities were concerned, we knew it had something to do with New York and there was something about Boston. This last part scared me because coincidentally enough my dad was at a meeting in Boston that day. My mom was the assistant managing editor of the Connecticut Post, so i knew it was out of the question for her to leave work and come pick me up. But with the lack of details and mystery surrounding the day, I wanted to just start the day over and never leave them again. But I had to wait, along with all the other kids whose parents were occupied.
Girls who had a parent that worked in the City were crying, guys were practically assaulting our teacher who was just sitting there stone-faced in order to get some information. It was chaos, panic, confusion, anarchy. I hated it, I wanted to get to my home where my grandparents were staying in our in-law apartment. And mind you, this was before everyone was handed a cell phone as soon as they developed speaking skills. So we were cut off completely until we were to reach home. Even the bus drivers were instructed to say nothing as they were called in especially early to bring us home. They couldn't get there soon enough and we didn't need to be prodded to be quick about getting on the bus. Good byes would have to wait... or would this be the last time I saw my friends? Would I be brought to some underground bunker? What was going on.
After probably the shortest bus ride (but one that felt like the longest) of my life, my twin brother and I who were finally reunited (we were in different classes all day) threw open the door and went for the TV to search of CNN or some other channel like that which was never relevant in our lives until that very moment.
The rest is a history we are still living. This blog post doesn't really have an end because in many ways 9/11 still isn't over. But on that day, we were bonded by the unknown. We witnessed along with the rest of the world as the Twin Towers fell, as a smoke plume drifted from the Pentagon, as reports of another plane crashing in Pennsylvania we flashed all over the screen, and as people everywhere ran. We were young, we were naive, but we weren't the only ones in confusion. We weren't the only ones panicked by the chaos. We weren't the only ones who ran.
And now six years later we are faced with questions about a terrorists mastermind still at-large, a war still unfolding in a country that had nothing to do with that day, and whether or not we should just move on from 9/11. It's pointless to even think that, because as long as we have to take our shoes off at an airport were are still living 9/11. And at the point in which we as a nation became so vulnerable, so human, how wise would it be to forget the lessons of what happened that day. Moving on from 9/11 is as stupid as saying move on from DARE class or get beyond CPR training, except on a scale so large your life depended on it. Lessons like 9/11 shouldn't be forgotten, though some are calling for just that.
I'll always remember 9/11, what I felt, how I wanted family, security, piece of mind, and ultimately God. You are more than welcome to do with your 9/11 experiences as you wish, but don't tell me to move on. Like it or not, it's a part of me, I'm a part of the 9/11 generation, and I've accepted that. Can you?
1 comment:
touching
Post a Comment