It might seem odd that I would write a post in memory of September 11, 2001. I had no direct involvement. No one that I personally knew died in the horrific event. I wasn't even in the same country when it happened.
But today, on September 11, 2013, I find myself more mindful and solemn about the whole thing than I have been before.
I remember I was with my family at the home of some friends of ours. My sister and I were playing or reading magazines, something like that. I didn't even know what a World Trade Center was.
The neighbor came running over and in a frazzled manner, said she had just seen on the news that the World Trade Center had been crashed into. As an eight year old, I didn't really see why this was a bigger deal than any other plane crashes we heard about, but as my parents and their friends scrambled to find a radio to tune into BBC (the only live English news we had access to there), I realized that this must be a big deal.
As I was in a different country, it was evening when we heard that the first tower had been flown into. Probably about 7 or 8. Maybe 9. I don't know what time it was exactly that I heard, but I think at that point, only one of the towers had been hit.
My sister and I went back to our activity (whatever we were doing) after hearing what had happened, knowing we would probably just learn more about it later from our parents who were currently busy trying to learn more about it themselves. After a while, we came back out to the living room where all the adults had been. What had been a busy scramble of people looking for information had become eerily empty. There was no one there except the woman whose house we were at. This is the image I think of when I think of September 11th: I saw her sitting under a table (that must have been the best place to get the station that broadcasted BBC), with the portable radio pressed closely against her ear and a puzzled, sad look on her face. I tried to ask her something, but she motioned for me to be quiet so she could hear. That made sense, so I just listened too for a minute and went back to resume playing since I didn't really understand it anyway. Much later, when my parents returned from the neighbor's house where they had been watching all the news they could until it became repeats, we went home and went to bed.
My sister and I attended a local school two days a week and the next day would have been one of our days to attend, but my parents wanted us to stay home that day.
In the days and weeks following September 11th, my family somehow aquired video tapes of footage people had gotten while escaping the towers. Some of the videos' creators had survived and some hadn't. My mom watched these tapes and I would join her. And sometimes when it was just me, I would sit down and watch them. I was sort of fascinated with them, although I couldn't watch the tapes for very long because they made me feel sick. I know most of the reason was because it was really shaky filming from the videographer running and it made me dizzy. But I can remember the feeling so well that I would get in the pit of my stomach while watching the tapes, and I know it wasn't just the videography that made me feel sick.
Maybe it was a morbid thing to want to watch them, but it was sort of how I grieved it. Even though nobody that I knew or loved had been killed in the attack, I had heard the last cell phone voicemails husbands had made to their wives and families and I didn't have to know anyone personally to be hurt for them. I imagined if it were my dad who had been on one of those planes. I imagined if my mom was one of the people who had to see someone jump out of a window in front of her. I imagined myself walking in New York City that day, seeing a building start to crumble before my eyes and not being able to get away fast enough, even at a safe distance.
The truth is, if you were American, I don't think there was a safe distance. I'm not into worshiping America as the greatest country on earth because no matter how great a country is, my god is still God. I am proud to be American though, because even though there's plenty of things wrong with our society, there are also plenty of things to be proud of. Even if we weren't there, even if we didn't lose someone we knew and loved, there was a little place in our hearts that was shaking as the towers shook and fell. Maybe that makes the whole country look weak to some people, but I disagree.
Because the fact that we were all shaken together says something.
But today, on September 11, 2013, I find myself more mindful and solemn about the whole thing than I have been before.
I remember I was with my family at the home of some friends of ours. My sister and I were playing or reading magazines, something like that. I didn't even know what a World Trade Center was.
The neighbor came running over and in a frazzled manner, said she had just seen on the news that the World Trade Center had been crashed into. As an eight year old, I didn't really see why this was a bigger deal than any other plane crashes we heard about, but as my parents and their friends scrambled to find a radio to tune into BBC (the only live English news we had access to there), I realized that this must be a big deal.
As I was in a different country, it was evening when we heard that the first tower had been flown into. Probably about 7 or 8. Maybe 9. I don't know what time it was exactly that I heard, but I think at that point, only one of the towers had been hit.
My sister and I went back to our activity (whatever we were doing) after hearing what had happened, knowing we would probably just learn more about it later from our parents who were currently busy trying to learn more about it themselves. After a while, we came back out to the living room where all the adults had been. What had been a busy scramble of people looking for information had become eerily empty. There was no one there except the woman whose house we were at. This is the image I think of when I think of September 11th: I saw her sitting under a table (that must have been the best place to get the station that broadcasted BBC), with the portable radio pressed closely against her ear and a puzzled, sad look on her face. I tried to ask her something, but she motioned for me to be quiet so she could hear. That made sense, so I just listened too for a minute and went back to resume playing since I didn't really understand it anyway. Much later, when my parents returned from the neighbor's house where they had been watching all the news they could until it became repeats, we went home and went to bed.
My sister and I attended a local school two days a week and the next day would have been one of our days to attend, but my parents wanted us to stay home that day.
In the days and weeks following September 11th, my family somehow aquired video tapes of footage people had gotten while escaping the towers. Some of the videos' creators had survived and some hadn't. My mom watched these tapes and I would join her. And sometimes when it was just me, I would sit down and watch them. I was sort of fascinated with them, although I couldn't watch the tapes for very long because they made me feel sick. I know most of the reason was because it was really shaky filming from the videographer running and it made me dizzy. But I can remember the feeling so well that I would get in the pit of my stomach while watching the tapes, and I know it wasn't just the videography that made me feel sick.
Maybe it was a morbid thing to want to watch them, but it was sort of how I grieved it. Even though nobody that I knew or loved had been killed in the attack, I had heard the last cell phone voicemails husbands had made to their wives and families and I didn't have to know anyone personally to be hurt for them. I imagined if it were my dad who had been on one of those planes. I imagined if my mom was one of the people who had to see someone jump out of a window in front of her. I imagined myself walking in New York City that day, seeing a building start to crumble before my eyes and not being able to get away fast enough, even at a safe distance.
Because the fact that we were all shaken together says something.