It's the beginning of a new
school year, my junior year in college, and my roommate Ashley comes barreling
into our room one Tuesday morning. I'm still in bed, and she yells for me to
wake up.
"Tali!
The Pentagon has been blown up and the United States has no defense right
now!"
And
she runs back out of the room.
I
have no idea what she’s talking about, but it sounds serious, so I crawl out of
bed and follow after her. She’s got the TV on, and it’s showing pictures of the
Pentagon, although it looks intact other than a corner that’s billowing thick
black smoke.
The
news coverage is scattered and chaotic, the way it always is when the world is
in crisis; the kind of event that has newscasters scrambling to turn the air over
to anyone who can shed any light whatsoever on what’s happening. Although for
all the talking you hear when people are reporting on catastrophic events, it’s
amazing how little people actually seem to know. They often look like idiots up
there, volleying the screen time back and forth, getting info from people who
weren’t even at the scene, turning the cameras to people to end up not even
being at their posts. I suppose this morning will be no different.
It
takes a little while to make sense of everything being shown on TV, but we
learn soon enough that the Pentagon is not even the half of it. The Pentagon is
hardly any of it. Because it turns out a plane crashed into the World Trade
Center. No, wait, a plane was crashed
into the World Trade Center. At this point in my life, I’ve never been to
New York City, and until today, I don’t know that I’ve ever even heard of the
World Trade Center. That might make me unfortunate and horribly sheltered, but
let’s table that for now. Because the images on TV are becoming increasingly
more disturbing. The second plane’s impact as it goes into the south tower, the
buildings on fire, the streets later filled with smoke and ash and debris.
As
the news channels piecemeal their stories, the details come together. A plane
in the north tower, a second plane in the south tower. A separate crash into
the Pentagon. A fourth attempt foiled by passengers and crashed somewhere in
Pennsylvania. All this initiated by terrorists who hijacked these planes and orchestrated
this horrific series of events. These are the facts, yet I find myself getting
caught up in the details.
Like
the phone call a woman on one of the planes made to her husband. They’ve been
talking about it all morning, because he’s some sort of big wig. A politician,
maybe? She called to tell him what was happening, even though there was nothing
that could be done, and there was no doubt some sort of goodbye exchanged
between them. It is perhaps the saddest thing I’ve ever heard about. Not
because a man lost his wife, because that happens every hour of every day,
surely. But because this woman sat on a plane that was doomed. Her life taken
from her in the most sinister and horrific of ways, and there must have been a
moment when she realized she would never get off that plane. Maybe that’s the
moment she called her husband.
The
plight of this woman—and all the other flight victims—is a detail I can’t get
past this morning. I know a large part of this is the fact that flying already
makes me uneasy. It always has. I can imagine almost nothing worse than the
pandemonium that must immediately precede a plane crash. And in addition to
that, this morning’s victims had to deal with the prolonged knowledge that
their flights were doomed. And they were helpless.
The
footage from New York City is now showing people actually jumping from the
towers to their deaths, victims who are trapped on the floors above the impact
and have no way out. It strikes me as the worst possible option, the long
freefall followed by skull-crushing cement. Wouldn’t they want to hang on in
case a way out surfaced? Maybe the smoke would clear, maybe a path through the
wreckage could be opened, maybe a helicopter could hover next to the building.
Wouldn’t you wait it out for the maybe? It isn’t until years later—once I’ve
had experience with a substantial burn that involves flame and flesh—that I
understand why these people jumped. If the other option was burning to death, I’d
jump too. Still, images of tiny figures falling alongside the tower will haunt
me for a long time, I know this already.
Our
other roommate, Beth, is on the phone with her mother, who tells us that the
terrorists’ next action will likely be to poison our water supply. She suggests
we go get as much water as we can, and so we do. The three of us drive to the
supermarket, and I’m picturing a scene from an Apocalypse movie as we pull in.
Surely everyone has the same idea we do, and the place will be crawling with
people grabbing whatever they can find amongst the almost-empty shelves. While
some items are perhaps slightly more picked over than usual, in reality the
store seems like it would on any other day, and we are the only people leaving
with several gallons of distilled drinking water.
Back
at the apartment, there’s a girl in the dorm across from us who has been
sitting outside her door on the cold cement walkway all morning. One hand is
holding a phone and the other supports her head, which is hung low and facing
the ground. Turns out her father works in one of the buildings, the Pentagon I
think, and no one has been able to get a hold of him all morning. She stays
there for hours, perhaps even all day, rarely taking the phone away from her
ears. At one point the head resident of the dorm approaches to console her, but
she will not be moved.
It’s
hard not to stare out the window at her and the anguish and uncertainty that she’s
been forced to bathe in this morning, and I find myself wondering who she’s
talking to. Is she simply dialing her father’s number over and over hoping he’ll
pick up? Is she talking to various family members and clinging to their
collective optimism and hope? Is it just a ruse so people will leave her alone?
Whatever
the answer, she is the most disturbing part of this whole day. Because here’s
the thing about terrorism. While certainly scary for anyone, anywhere, it’s
easy to think of it as something far away from you. Something that surely won’t
directly confront you and yours as you go about your business and live your
tiny little lives. I know today that my family is safe. That, in fact, everyone
I know is well out of harm’s way. But seeing this girl weep for her father
makes it impossible to not remember those who have been directly affected by
today’s events. And maybe, in a way, we all have. Maybe if I look hard enough, I'll see myself crying with her. Maybe there’s a spot on that
cement out there for me.
