story379.xml

story379.xml

born-digital

story

yes

no

2002-04-10

I was in bed when the planes hit. I was woken up by my
frantic mother and we ran over to my grandma's apartment.
I saw the image on the TV screen, and ran to get dressed and
grabed my camera, police scanner and walkman. I clipped
everything on my belt and ran down to the pier.
There were few people there, it was just a bit after 9. I
could see the smoking towers as soon as I hit Shore Road.
As soon as I got on the pier, I began snapping pics. I made
my way to the middle and just looked at the island, the smoke
rising over Brooklyn towards Dyker Heights.
I had 770 AM going on in one ear, and the police scanner by
the other. I'm watching and listening to the news and info
coming in. I hear about the Pentagon, then Pennsylvania,
then even the false attacks that were broadcast.
Then it happened. Tower 2 fell.
The dust rose and enveloped the entire island. It looked
just like when the space shuttle would be taking off. All I
could do was watch and take pictures. Emergency services
were saying how they had difficulty getting through, now
within a dust cloud. On the pier, tension was mounting as
the typical loud-mouths you'd expect were voicing their
hatred for Arabs. But it was contained, for the most part.
Then went Tower 1.
It was a shock, no one expected those two to fall. They've
been up for too long. My first thoughts were of friends
that attended nearby Pace University. Then of another at
BMCC, a school I decided to attend in the Spring for a rest
during the winter.
What seemed like an eternity later, the NYPD came down and
ushered us away, closing off the pier for what would be the
next two weeks. I quickly went home and got online as best
I could to check on people.
My best friend, one of the onesfrom Pace, phoned me as soon as I walked in. Luckily, he
had night classes that day. My aunt and uncle in Florida
had sent an EM to see if we were alright. And another
friend came on and IMed me, worried that I may've done
something stupid like run across the Brooklyn Bridge to the
WTC. (She wasn't far from the truth, had I attended BMCC
earlier, I'd've been there. I know 'cause I wanted to be
there.)
The only thing left to do was sit and watch the 24 hour news
about the incident. That is till I got a call from my job
at the supermarket up the block. They had shut down early
for the day, and wanted me to do something. I needed the
distraction, so I went in, but I took my radio with me.
I was in the basement, cutting UPCs off outdated dairy
products for credit, the radio playing KTU's live news feed
coverage, interrupted every so often by the unusually somber
voice of morning DJ Goumba Johnny. The store had opened,
a few cashiers and a bookkeeper coming in. The bookkeeper
was my other friend from Pace, who told me that her and her
boyfriend were caught in the dust explosion while running
uptown. She had seen it all, and it was disturbing.
After work, my father was stuck at his job, being he's part
of the Port Authority, so we hadn't seen him in a couple of
days. Days we spent watching the news and listening to the
radio. You can still see the effects of the attacks. As I
write this now, I see ou the window crews cleaning up debris
and hauling it away on barges.
December 7th, 1941 was a day of infamy. What then can you
call this?