I told myself I wasn't going to write a 9/11 post. What I experienced was nothing compared to what so many went through that day. But at one in the morning yesterday, I did write. Why? I'm not sure. To save it forever. To let my kids know what being a parent during an attack feels like. I don't believe what I wrote even touches on how I truly felt--on how concerned I was for my country, how sick I was for all those families, how scared I was to be in this city and how desperate I was to get to my son.
For those who'd like to read, I will stop talking and let you have it.
My day started out like every other. I woke up, drank a ton of coffee, rushed to get dressed, dropped my son at daycare and carpooled to work. Papers stacked up on my desk, many needed
to be copied. Our Xerox room was in the middle of our office. Placing my phone on voicemail, I grabbed the papers and resigned myself to spend the rest of the morning alone.
White-haired Bob peeked around the corner, his eyes wide, his knuckles gripped the door frame. “A plane just hit the World Trade Center.”
I had no words to offer. I didn’t understand the implications of what he’d just said. My knowledge of the World Trade Center didn’t go beyond the name. I wouldn’t say I lived a sheltered life, far from it. But what I will say is I didn’t live a life far reaching outside myself.
Continuing with my copies, I thought about what he’d said. A plane hit a building.
Oh my God. A plane hit a building. I stopped what I was doing and turned to find Bob so I could ask him what that meant, but he was standing in the doorway again. Tears filled his eyes.
My heart stopped.
“Another plane just hit. It’s a terrorist attack.”
I knew the definition of the word terrorist. Abandoning the copy room, I found an office with a tv and watched smoke billow out of two of the tallest buildings I’d ever seen.
Unsure of whether to sit down, run away, cry or scream, I didn’t move. Frozen by the sheer magnitude of what was happening. Bob and our other office mates stood around the tv in much the same way as me.
Suddenly the news switched from images of the destroyed Twin Towers to those of grief-stricken reporters informing us the Pentagon had been hit by a plane.
I ran for the phone. Working in D.C. comes with concern for personal safety, but never once did I imagine anything would
actually happen. Not like this. How would I get home? I carpooled. My carpoolers weren’t in my building. The phone wouldn’t dial out. There was nothing but silence.
My son. My sweet little boy was forty miles away from me. I wanted to know he was safe. I wanted to know he’d be taken care of. I wanted to get to him. Repeatedly I tried to use the phone; a call would connect, then drop. I couldn’t see through the tears. Couldn’t focus through the worry.
After trying for half an hour, I finally got through to my carpoolers—they’d left me. People were fleeing the office. None of them lived in the same direction as me.
I was stuck.
Trying the phone again, I got through to a friend who was willing to go pick up my son. The news misreported many downed planes, potential targets, areas to be affected . . . areas near my home.
I was beside myself. Alone, I sat in front of the tv, watching in horror as people lept from unimaginable heights to escape being burned alive. Why? Why would anyone do this? How could someone hate so deeply to take innocent lives? How could anyone take pleasure in this? How?
A trembling hand gripped my shoulder. “Krystal, you’re still here?”
Looking up, I saw the swollen face of my friend Karrie. “I have no way home.”
“I’ll take you,” she said.
I shook my head. “But it’s out of your way.”
“Who has your son?”
“A friend.”
“I’ll take you, but we are going a little later. I heard a lot of people ran out of gas waiting to get out of the parking garage.”
I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but I stood up and wrapped my arms around her, sobbing into her shoulder. We backed away and stepped onto the balcony of the eleventh floor of our office building. The sky turned from blue to black. The Pentagon burned and we could see it.
The two of us didn’t say much, we just sat there and watched while crying. How could this happen here? Those poor people. All the families affected. All the lives lost for nothing.
The streets cleared, the air was crisp and eerily quiet. Washington D.C. is a busy place. The typical traffic jammed roads were empty. The only people on the sidewalks were plain clothes cops. No planes flew overhead.
“You ready?” Karrie asked.
I nodded.
We were the only people left in the building aside from security. The
bing of the elevator sent a shock through me. It took us thirty minutes to drive home. We didn’t pass any other cars. I imagined the end of the world would be that quiet—and that’s what the day felt like.
But it wasn’t and never will be. Americans are strong. Humanity stronger. People came together. We fought. We rebuilt and we survived.
There may be hate in this world powerful enough to strike fear in the hearts of millions, but the good nature of most humans will always prevail. No matter how hard people try to hate, we will always try harder to find peace.
Please say a prayer for all those who were tragically affected on 9/11 and hug your families daily.
