I remember growing up hearing my parents and grandparents talk about where they were and what they were doing when JFK was assassinated. My grandparents would talk about Pearl Harbor. They still recalled the details of those days. I always had a strange curiosity about whether there would be an event like that for my generation. I didn't want an event like that - I just wondered sometimes. We all know the answer now.
I was completely oblivious to what happened until about 11 that morning. I was in college in VA and had an exam that morning at 9:30. I drove a car that didn't have a working radio, so the 45 minute trip to campus consisted of me humming to myself. When I got to campus, I parked, locked the doors and immediately realized I had locked my keys inside. I didn't want to be late for my Ethics exam, so I decided to call campus police afterward.
I got to the room and the air was thick with despair. No one was speaking. No one was talking. No one was really even looking up from their desks. The professor walked in and a student said, “Did you hear what happened?” The professor responded, “Yes. It is terrible.” I assumed a student had died or something tragic happened on campus. I took my exam, answering questions about hedons and dolors - measurements of happiness and pain - unaware of the reason for that question and didn’t know anything happened until the police officer who unlocked my car asked, “Did you hear the Twin Towers were hit?”
A sudden rush of adrenaline and sadness shot through my entire body.
In addition to finishing school, I was a firefighter and EMT at the time and whenever I heard about an emergency, a tragedy, an accident - my immediate response was to do something; to drop everything and help (it still is, actually). I had another exam that day and as badly as I wanted to drive to the firehouse and find out what we could do I realized it would have to wait a few more hours. Life goes on, right? I slowly walked to the student union. The radio was on but there were no TVs in the room. I still didn’t quite grasp what happened and the radio reports made me think all of Manhattan had been destroyed. I wondered if it was some sort of cruel Orwellian joke.
Outside I noticed the strange absence of airplanes in the sky. It was completely silent, save the quiet hum of cars, an occasional bird song, and footsteps on pavement. No one spoke. No one smiled. A Muslim woman walked by hurriedly with a look of unmistakeable shame and dread. I wanted to smile at her but I couldn’t. Not because she was Muslim, but because any happiness or friendliness had been driven out and replaced by a deep, sad pain. It felt wrong to be happy or smile. It didn’t make a difference because her downward gaze seemed unbreakable. I don’t really recall what happened later that day. I know I went to the firehouse after my exams and it is all a blur from there. I was placed on a list of people who could be called on to go to the Pentagon (we were about two hours away) for search and rescue. About a day later I got notice that the status had been changed to body recovery and we would not be needed. I can’t explain the devastation that came with that news.
That was the first time I felt the nation groan. It was like we all felt the same thing. There was a clarity to what was important on a larger scale. There was a feeling of unity that I had never experienced before. I remember it was almost a spiritual conviction when I would be tempted to get angry at someone or be judgmental - I would think “With what we’ve all been through now - I need to cut that guy a break.”
I remember that for months afterwards people went out of their way to show me courtesy and gratitude to me anytime I was in uniform. People would tell me to get in front of them in line. I recall a specific instance feeling very awkward when an elderly lady insisted I do this at the grocery store. Waitstaff would come out and tell me the meal was “on the house.” Strangers would shake my hand and thank me. It felt wrong, honestly, although I appreciated the gestures. I hadn’t actually done anything. I now realize they were doing what they could to help. They couldn’t go say thanks to the responders who died and countless others who responded after, but they could thank me. They could pay for my meals. They could give me their place in line.
There is something else about that day that I still don’t understand but will try to do my best to explain. I didn’t know a single firefighter who died that day but it literally felt like I lost 343 family members. I suppose it is the commonality of what we did and the fact that it could have happened to any of us, and it could have been FDNY sending aid and prayers our way. There is a saying that “fire gets in your blood,” and I can say that 11 years after being out of it - that is a true statement.
So, what does this have to do with anything aside from me writing this down so I don’t forget it (and so it quits banging around in my brain and heart)? I don’t know. Maybe there isn’t any other reason.
I do wish we would remember the way we behaved those following months, though. We were better to each other then.
