story4931.xml

story4931.xml

born-digital

story

yes

no

2002-09-11

Today is September 11, 2002. It has been an angry year, a sad year, a confused year, and every day has been plagued by recollections of the past, thoughts of the loss suffered by our nation. I have only felt sadness for the loss of the buildings in New York; the loss of life has yet to sink in to my mind. I didn't lose anyone close to me, thank God, but unfortunately, this fact has made me numb to the losses of others. Only now am I finally beginning to understand the gravity of three thousand dead- some whose stories may never be known or told.
On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was sleeping deeply, and I vaguely remember hearing the phone ring once or twice in my sleep. I was having a dream: there was this beautiful green plant with proud and healthy green leaves. A finger reached out to touch the top of the plant, and it immediately turned brown, withered away and died. When the phone rang a third time, it jarred me awake and I felt a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I looked at my watch: it was nearly 9:00 CST. I answered the phone, and heard my roommate on the other line: "Turn on the TV."
"What channel?" I asked.
"It doesn't matter," she said. "Just turn it on!"
I stumbled to the living room and switched on the TV, cordless phone in hand. All I saw on the TV was smoke, but where it was coming from was confusing: it looked like it was coming from the Pentagon. A movie? A prank? I was all the sudden very ill. "What's going on?" I looked for some kind of clarification.
"We're being attacked," she told me.
The picture on the TV switched to another familiar sight, made alien by plumes of smoke but mirrored on the wall behind me by a picture of the New York City skyline I had owned since childhood. "Oh, God. This is bad," I said, in astonishment. "I'll call you back."
I hung up with her a few minutes before the first tower began to fall. It happened in slow motion, just like a bad movie. I began screaming and sobbing, and for a while, time stood still. I was praying and crying and cursing all at the same time. The events of that morning touched me deeply and changed me indeliably.
I went to New York City when I was about thirteen years old. It was the best time of my life. I had never been out of the South before, and though I grew up in a medium-sized city, I certainly had never seen a place like that. I loved the way the people talked, the way they walked confidently and defiantly down the sidewalk, the culture and the lights transported me to a different world. My favorite place in New York was the top of the World Trade Center. At the bottom, I leaned as far back as I could and I still couldn't see the top. It was as if the buildings were forever high. On the way up in the elevator, I was in awe that my ears were popping because we were so high up. I wondered if it was possible for an elevator to go forever high. At the top, I leaned down and stared at the street: the tiny little cars, and the people pin-prick sized. Our tour guide told us that if we dropped a penny from the top and it hit someone on the head down below, that it would kill them.
I didn't have to go to work on September 11, and it is a good thing because I couldn't have handled it. I was glued to the TV all day. I was thirsty, but I didn't want to move. I had to go to the bathroom, but I didn't want to leave the TV, afraid I would miss the part when an announcer would say, "Ha Ha, we were just kidding. This was all just a very bad joke." I stayed up all night, hoping to hear news of survivors.
The next day, I did return to work, a little more somber than usual. My workplace, a video store, is usually a very jovial environment. We play a lot and we work very hard, but on September 12, there was no business and there was certainly no playing. Instead of watching movie trailers, we had every TV turned to the news. That day, one customer in particular stands out in my mind. A very well-dressed woman came in the door, and I could tell when she began talking to me that she was not from the area. "These movies were due yesterday, and I need to pay the late fee," she told me. I checked them in and looked up her account. Her address was a Manhatten address. "Stuck here, eh?" I asked her, mentioning the fact that the quiet skies over the store, which is near the Birmingham Municipal Airport, were keeping me on edge. We began to talk, and I found out that she grew up in Birmingham and had married a man from New York. She was in town visiting family. Her husband worked in the World Trade Center, she said, but he was home sick on the day before and was fine. She wished she could fly back and be with him. I told her I had always wanted to live in New York. She said, "Don't you dare not ever live in New York. Go there, if only for a year. Do it for yourself. You're young, and you shouldn't ever forget that dream."
I will, one day. I will never be able to take my children to the top of the World Trade Center: I will only be able to show them pictures, and tell them the story. The most important thing for my generation to pass on is the collection of stories of heroism. The tales of compassion and kindness. The community created by the most horrific event yet witnessed by our country, on our own soil. I try not to think about the people. I didn't know any of them. I never will. But now, a year later, I sense the thousands of spirts floating above the city of New York, looking down on their family members and their friends, telling them to move on with their lives. Thanking the firefighters and the civilians who tried so hard to get them out of the burning buldings. Watching as we all remember and whispering in three thousand ghostly voices: "Close the book. But never forget what you all saw here."