9/11
I was fifteen years old on September 11th, 2001. When the planes hit the towers, I was probably in English class, though in the confusion of the immediate aftermath no one in the school knew anything for at least another hour. During 4th period chemistry class, an announcement came over the intercom from the principal: all students whose parents worked in the World Trade Center were to come to the library. That’s when we knew something was wrong.
I lived in New Jersey, in a town with a big commuter population. Lots of kids’ parents worked in downtown NYC. We were all worried when the announcement came, but our chemistry teacher, looking nervous, just said, “A plane hit one of the towers. It was probably an accident.” We continued with class.
Fifth period was lunch. I sat with my friends as a second announcement declared all after-school activities canceled for the day. Rumors flew around the cafeteria, and I heard the word “terrorists” thrown out for the first time. My friend Lauren, who knew no more about the situation than I did, yelled, “Damn you, terrorists! You made them cancel band practice!” We all laughed.
It wasn’t until 6th period history that I got information. I will always be thankful to my 10th grade history teacher, Mrs. Tomczyk, for going against the school’s orders and giving us details. We didn’t have live TV in our classrooms, and the only way we were going to learn anything was if a teacher told us. Mrs. Tomczyk believed we had a right to know, and so she closed the door and told us.
When she said the towers had fallen, I let out a sharp laugh. I didn’t think it was funny, of course. But my instinctive physical reaction was one of disbelief. Gone? How could they be gone? At the time, we still didn’t know how severe the damage would be to the rest of the downtown area. A completely apocalyptic image surfaced in my mind, and it’s still one I hold, even years later. We spent the whole class discussing what happened, acting as support for each other. We didn’t learn history that day. We were living it.
The next period was gym, but I didn’t stay — my mom came and picked me up from school. She’s a volunteer at heart, and she wanted to be there at the elementary and middle schools to help the kids who might not have anyone to go home to. So she wanted me and my younger brother to be home first and foremost, so she would be free to help others. I planted myself in front of the TV and watched the news, and saw the images for the first time.
My history homework that night was to read Patrick Henry’s most famous speech. “Give me liberty, or give me death.” I cried.
I did not personally know anyone killed in the attacks. But one of my best friends lost a cousin. A girl a year below me, who’d lived in my neighborhood and worked with me on the school newspaper, lost her older brother. The tragedy was very immediate in our town, and we’re lucky we didn’t lose more people.
So though it’s been 9 years, and all that’s happened since has been hard to separate from the memories of that day, it’s still vivid in my mind, and still horrifying. I still feel ill on this day, morose and contemplative. And I thought it might be best for me to share that. This is the first 9/11 I’ve spent outside of New Jersey, and I find myself wishing I was on the east coast, to share the experience with others who lived it like I did. But, since I can’t do that, I felt I should at least share my experience with all of you.
The day after the attacks, an AP reporter came into that same history classroom to write an article about student reaction. The article is only available behind a paywall now — and is, frankly, some pretty terrible journalism — but I long ago copied and pasted it into a document, and I share it now, below the cut, for posterity.
