story20772.xml

story20772.xml

born-digital

story

yes

no

2006-09-11

I was walking onto the Boston College Bus in front of Huntington Market listening to Imus in the Morning. Imus said that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center.

First of all, why Imus, I dont like Imus.

I thought, What idiot flew his Cessna into a skyscraper? I also thought, Well it isnt the first time some idiot did this, just like the Empire States Building in 1945. I immediately thought it must be foggy in New York, just like it was in 1945. I got off the bus and made my usual walk to the parking garage elevator.

Just as I was about to step in the elevator I heard that another plane had hit the other tower. The elevator doors closed and my radio went dead. I looked at an African American student in a yellow jacket with green trim. His hair was about an inch long, curly, and he looked a little like Marcus from work. I remember him being rather handsome. I looked at the radio in his ear and asked, Did you hear that? He look at me with frightened acknowledgement and nodded. I then said something to the effect of, Two planes have hit both World Trade Center Towers. I then remember thinking that wasnt technically correct. One plane hit each World Trade Center Tower, but my mind was competing with the terrorism train of thought that was racing to the surface. Everyone else looked confused, except that man in the yellow jacket who looked at me with the look of knowledgeable agreement.

I then walked into the library, put my stuff down, and waited for the call from my mom. Its one of those moments when you know your mom will call; like when a plane engine falls into a Chevron Station Parking lot, or a weapons cache is found in some Chechnyian rebel encampment with batteries bearing the Texaco star. (Both of those are true BTW) My phone rang, we spoke, and I walked down the hall to watch the TV. I didnt work. I just sat in the little old school desks that looked like Mrs. Debbie Sheas classroom with everyone else and watched in silence. I remember this supposedly worldly educated woman who was arguing that this wasnt an act of terrorism. I remember saying something snide like, call a spade, a spade.

I took place in a prayer vigil and went home. I sat with Tiziana, my Italian roommate, who lit a candle for each of us and put it in the window. She put an American Flag on the door even though she isnt an American. I thought it was sweet. At some point, Arancha tells me about Basque terrorists.

I then spoke with Roger. We talked about Flight 11. How many times he took that flight on a Tuesday morning, because it was cheaper and we were struggling college students. We spoke about how he was going to come out that weekend and would have taken that flight. However, true to form for both of us, we got in some big fight about something that no longer matters. I told him not to come, not that he would have come after the fight we had anyway. I am still thankful that we are hard headed opinionated people; its what makes me love him and what kept him alive.

…..then comes a couple of days later….

Im on the phone with my Mom again who says that my appartment is on TV and am I going home. I say yes and I'll call her later. Then my Aunt Vickey calls, so I know I'm looking at a one to two hour conversation. Im walking to my apartment and the way is all cordoned off by this apartment complex. I think it is called the Park Street something or other at the time, but that place had changed names maybe four times in two years. I sit there and wait and talk. I watch the TV cameras. I see a policeman or two, but its obvious that most of these guys are FBI. Then someone tells me that Mohammad Atta lived there. I tell my Aunt. We talk about the strange coincidences of my life.

Later that night, I talk with Tizi about that time we were in the Huntington Market (which is/was in a Hassidic Jewish neighborhood) and commented that only in America would you find a Russian owned market with a group of Hassidic Jews, a Roman Catholic, an Evangelical Christian, and two Arab men. The faces of those Arab men, though Ive tried to remember, are lost to the blur of time.