The morning of Sep. 11, 2001, started out as a fairly typical day for me. I boarded an early morning flight from Richmond to Detroit with a co-worker to head to a client’s office for a document collection. My biggest complaint that morning was that no breakfast was served in the coach cabin (which, in retrospect, sounds so incredibly petty, but who could have known?).
Our flight was uneventful, and we arrived in Detroit (I learned later our plane landed at almost the same time that the first hijacked plane hit one of the WTC towers), picked up the rental car and began the drive to the client’s site, roughly an hour’s drive from the airport. As we pulled into the parking lot, we heard that a plane had hit one of the World Trade Center towers.
My co-worker and I looked at each other and laughed at what kind of idiot pilot could not see he/she was about to hit a skyscraper, and we didn’t give it another thought until later, when one of our client’s employees flipped on the television in the conference room where we were working.
When I saw the images of the smoking towers, it sucked the breath right out of me. A hushed silence fell over the room, because most of us knew someone who worked in the towers or the vicinity. One co-worker’s pregnant sister worked in one of the Towers and usually was at work when the first plane hit, so she was hysterical (we later learned her sister had been late to work that morning and was stuck on the subway, but she was fine).
Then the third plane hit the Pentagon, and with the Army/military being a close community, I was sure I knew someone killed in the attack (fortunately, I was wrong, but I know many people who would have been killed if they had been at their desks when the plane hit). In fact, among the 12 of us working on the project, although we knew many people who could have been killed that day, none had been, which was a blessing. They took the day off, were late for work, had a meeting out of the office. Why were they spared? Why was my plane spared? We all have to live with that guilt, that knowledge that it could have been us.
It wasn’t until an hour after we first saw the smoking towers on TV that it occurred to me that people might be worried about me. When I finally reached my husband, he had been frantic, since the early news reports did not indicate which flights had been hijacked.
We worked the rest of the day in a daze, occasionally stopping to silently cry or go outside and bang against a wall in frustration. We finished the bulk of the project the next morning, and completed everything the day after, but no planes were flying, so we had to drive back to Richmond.
Almost three years later, I was called to serve in the war against terror, which had somehow been tied to Iraq.
A few days ago I watched "Flight 93" and cried for probably the final 30 minutes. I cried for the terror and horror of those trapped on the plane, for the senseless loss of life, for the pain caused to those left behind, for the thought that any religious beliefs could justify intentionally murdering those people, and for the many mistakes made that day (or prior to that day) that could have prevented that tragedy.
There has been a positive change for me as a result of 9/11. Suddenly it was respectable to serve in the military, police, or firefighting service again. My husband came home from Vietnam in the 70s and other Americans spat on him. I came home from Iraq in 2005 to standing ovations.
When I wear my Army uniform in public, I still get the occasional glare, but many more people smile at me or shake my hand or say “thank you for your service” than people did before 9/11.
My grandfather and great-grandfather were both NYC firemen. I wish they were still alive to see how appreciated they would be today.
Sometimes I wonder what all the fuss is about, and I don’t feel worthy of the attention I get. But I would rather see people treating military, police and firefighters as heroes as opposed to worshiping actors, music stars, or professional athletes.
posted by Pattie A. @ 9:45 PM
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