It’s probably no surprise to people that we have an abundance of TV shows dedicated to the murderous events of Sept. 11, 2001. Images are instantaneous but understanding takes longer. The attacks on America were worse, in a different way, than when President Kennedy was assassinated. Tragic in the same way as Pearl Harbor, but more so because the attack wasn’t military as one might expect by a surprise attack.
It was an attack on ideas, ideals, principles and a country that has demonstrated for well over 200 years that people of different races and creeds, religious and secularly minded, can live together in peace and prosperity.
In each of the categories, there are individuals who break the peace or threaten the pursuit of happiness for others. But as a group, America’s majority is not just willing to share opportunity but thrives in the sharing. Usually, the religious and secular people live and work side-by-side, recognizing that either God or nothing in particular is the authority over all people and events. Unless there is some separating group-think, such as the whites of the rogue group KKK against the blacks simply because they are not white, America’s lifestyle works.
I did watch a couple of the shows marking the tenth anniversary of the attacks. It was not because I didn’t remember where I was or what I was doing that day that I watched. It was not out of morbid curiosity that I needed to watch. It was a need to face the horror, sorrow, destruction, and evil that was captured live and in color. I needed to wrap my mind around the events of the day—to embrace it with understanding and acceptance, to spiritually hug the victims and their families with comfort and prayer, to see faces and hear voices that explained the day. Their day.
My day on 9/11 began normally. I got up around 7:30 a.m., noticed the sunny, bright day outside, took a shower, got dressed for work, grabbed a yogurt from the fridge and headed off to work at the local newspaper. I enjoyed the cool, sunny day with a bright blue sky hanging overhead and, for a moment, lamented the fact that I’d be inside all day, until going home by 5:30 p.m.
The receptionist and I greeted each other, declaring our readiness for another work day, and I picked up the faxes waiting in the box by her desk. I sorted through the faxes, making a mental note of who would receive which one. Reporters, editors and senior editors were already at their desks, working on stories that were more or less ready for the day’s edition. After placing my purse under my desk and turning on my computer, I distributed the faxes and said good morning if eyes were not glued to the computer screen. Otherwise, friendly conversation waited until after deadline. It was an afternoon newspaper and mornings were full of concentrated, deadline-oriented work, even for a relatively small, community newspaper.
I returned to my desk, checked the phone for the blinking light designating waiting messages, took messages from a few non-urgent calls and sat down to start Tuesday’s work. Some of my tasks repeated each week to meet a deadline for publication later in the week. Tuesday was set aside for entertainment listings—local events and live band music coming up for the weekend and the week beyond. Putting it together was a long, tedious and repetitive task that I didn’t enjoy, but it was just part of the job. Little did I know of the extreme break in routine coming up momentarily.
I’d been at my desk for about 25 minutes. It seemed that several people saw a story come over the newswire or got a phone call from the outside saying they’d seen a story on TV news about a plane crashing into one of the Twin Towers in New York City. Everyone kept working, awed and surprised that what was at first thought to be a small plane crashed in such a way. Some muttered that it was a weird accident and a wondered that it didn’t happen more often. Others said maybe we were being attacked, only half joking. Some coworkers went back to the Sports department where the TV was on, tuned to the news. Very soon after the first TV views, word trickled back like a silent but swift wind that another plane had hit the other tower and neither plane was small, but huge commercial airplanes carrying many passengers. The crashes were obviously on purpose. Mouths fell open, faces frowned, thoughts became anxious and people were bewildered and astonished.
There was more. Another plan crashed into the Pentagon, the brain of military activity. Just a few minutes later, news flashed that yet another plane crashed in a field in Pennsylvania. There was no doubt that all the crashes were related but it was unknown who did it and why–and if there are more to come.
Two of my coworkers were husband and wife. She went back to see the news on the TV and stopped at his desk on the way to hers. He was frantically doing last minute things on the computer to make stories ready for printing. His eyes went back and forth, from his wife’s startled look to the text and pictures on his screen, as she said in her quiet and reverent voice filled with incredulity, “The buildings! They just fell down! Both of them. I saw them fall down on TV!” She slowly walked the few feet back to her desk and sat with a dumbstruck look on her face as she apparently processed what she’d just seen, as it happened, on a beautiful September day.
I think publishing was a little late that day, but I don’t remember clearly. The whole day was foggy while I got my regular work done as if I was not really present in an office of over 50 employees. Autopilot kicked in, one thing at a time was done. The phone rang a lot, especially after the Pentagon was hit, from locals who knew people who worked there. A few callers just wanted to confirm that what they were hearing about the planes was true. For some unknown reason they depended upon their local newspaper over the national ones or the international TV coverage.
A couple of coworkers were visibly upset, making phone calls, crying and pacing. There was some concern about where kids were and if schools were safe. Some wondered if they should go pick up their kids or not. Another’s child was across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and she wondered if the bridge would be attacked and her kid stuck on the other side. There was hugging and consoling, conversation and conjecture, fact and fantasy running rampant through minds that were afraid to speak up.
It was the first time I’d ever seen young people out on the main roads, hawking an “Extra! Extra! Read all about it!” newspaper supplement on my way home from work. It had pictures and updates within it. I’d only seen that in very old movies, not on my streets.
In the following weeks and, indeed, for the next eight years that I worked there, I noticed a significant decline in the number of phone calls to the newsroom. It seemed the silly complaints and oddball questions and other trivial matters had no importance anymore. I’m not sure if that change was good or bad.
I didn’t know what to think, clearly, on that remarkable day we named 9/11. I did think something was terribly wrong and that whatever the reason for such an attack, it had nothing to do with America. It had everything to do with the attackers. It still does.
One of Billions 