Where were you on 9/11

[DiscoBiscuit]

I was in High School, sophmore year, waiting for Mrs. Coburn's AP European history class to start. We flipped on the TV for the announcements and they told us to flip to the news. I could live 10,000 years and not forget that day.

Where were you and what did it feel like?

I'll get more into my own experience, but am curious to hear yours. This should be interesting for the younger members who have no first hand memory of the event.

 

[Coriolis]

I was moving into a new house on 9/l11, having started a new job several weeks prior, spending the intervening weeks in a Homewood Suites. The moving truck came at 0800, and the crew chief sent one of the movers to a nearby gas station to pick up coffee for the crew. He came back ranting about planes attacking the world trade center, and I wondered what kind of crazy movie he had been watching. One of the first items off the truck was an old black and white TV set. We plugged it in on top of a stack of boxes, and watched events and the inevitable endless commentary proceed while our household goods were unloaded. My workplace was closed the next several days so we were able to get most everything unpacked. A colleague from out of state was in town for some training, and came for dinner.

As for my reaction, I knew nothing would be the same after this. Also that the lessons we would learn would include many of the wrong ones. We are still working to undo the damage of some of those.

A grad school acquaintance from Germany actually sent me a sort of condolence message, basically saying he was sorry we (the US) had to experience this. I thanked him for his concern, but observed that we are not exempt from such violence. Now we just had gained first hand experience of what many other nations already know.

 

[Falcarius]

Falcarius was in woodwork class when the first plane hit, then mathematics class, and the two towers came down on his way home from high school. He does not remember how he felt other than being worried that there was going to be a world war

 

[Luminous]

I was in college, at the time living in an annoying motel. I was asleep and my mom called me, and said we were at war, or something to that effect. It didn't quite feel real, and honestly, the constant tv coverage on basically every channel was really too much for me (since I have used tv throughout my life as a stress reliever #e9 and this was preNetflix days). I was really worried there would be serious risk of having camps for people of certain nationalities or races, like the camps in WWII. My psychology of religion professor had a local Muslim man come and speak to our class about how the terrorists weren't representations of his religion. My educational psychology professor tried to say that the terrorists had no values, and I was an "exception finder" (his phrase, he'd complained about students being exception finders, leading most of the kids in the class to not talk much in class at all) who argued with him, backed by one other classmate.

 

[ceecee]

Now we just had gained first hand experience of what many other nations already know.

And in the years since, protected and emboldened by The Patriot Act hastily passed 45 days after 9/11 we have warrantless wiretaps, legal surveillance and blatant 4th Amendment violations, unchecked and unaccountable, not to mention accelerated militarization of the police

The 9/11 pageantry is ridiculous, certainly in the case of COVID fatalities exceeding one million Americans. Mass death is completely acceptable. Always was. And the fucking doorknobs that scream about their "rights" never have a thing to say about living in a police state. They'd rather take the curb stomp the USG is totally capable of than criticize anything other than the "wokeness" they're unable to define.

 

[Lexicon]

(I have too much time on my hands)

My black Converse All-Stars slapped the pavement at panic's pace. The Army-Navy Surplus bread bag carrying my schoolbooks beat at my thigh, its canvas strap slung over my shoulder seemed like it was doing its damnedest to spark its best Cub Scout Campfire as it rubbed away my skin. I gripped my Walk-Man with sweaty fingers. Headphones jangling around my neck threatened to choke me as my lungs already burned.

Fuck, I thought. The thought repeated with each footfall. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

Metallic, squealing groan. Reproachful look from the driver's seat. Relief as my rubber soles gripped the rubber-coated steps, & I entered the belly of the hulking yellow beast that carried its sleepy, sullen passengers without fail to their destination. [6:46AM]​

Released at the concrete slab (some knew as a courtyard), surrounding the cafeteria, I rounded the side of the brick building & held up the wall. I liked my space. I gave my asthma inhaler another pull, as I pulled on my headphones, listening to some mix tape or another I'd spent a Saturday cobbling together. Watched the shadows cast by the throng of kids around the corner. I'd wait for that buzzing swarm to disperse & slip out of view at First Bell. I didn't always hear it with my headphones. If it's too loud- you're too old! But I could count on that movement of the shadows. I was in no rush. [7:20AM]

I can't say I recall anything about Advisory/Homeroom in my Junior Year of high school. Murmurs and noise and faces of people I didn't know & people I didn't want to know.

I read a novel through 1st period math... geometry, I think? The teacher was checked-out, & figured I'd make sense of it at home later. Rumor had it she spiked her Purple Panthers mug with Irish Creme, & I couldn't say I blamed her. [8:44AM]

2nd period was an elective. I'd elected Poetry. Clustered together in a windowless room. What a space to dream. Shared some writing aloud - with great reluctance - at Mrs. P's behest.

A senior in my class had once again stolen my hoodie from the back of my chair during my presentation, & used it for a pillow for the rest of the period. C, with his dyed tri-hawk & anti-swastika tattoo on his forearm. Never could read him. We never really talked, we just shared a table. Always flippant, articulate & brief when he spoke up in class discussions. His poems were punk lyrics from his band. I'd only asked him once, why he kept taking my hoodie- he had his own if he needed a pillow. "Yours smells better than mine. I like apples. If you're cold, use my jacket." He'd gestured to the spiky painted leather thing arming the back of his seat.

I wish I could say I had some kind of witty retort chambered in my throat & ready to fire, but there was only a nervous little knot, & a flush of confused crimson creeping up my cheeks. I'd just bent over my composition book, allowing my hair to fall forward like a curtain to hide my warm face as any useful gears in my head ground to a stop.

...And so it went as routine. He appeared to doze that morning, as always, but thumped a fist down over my book as I'd sat back down. The fist jabbed its thumb out in approval. All nerves still from reading up front, it gave me a start, & I'd hoped no one noticed. I slid my book out from under his hand, propped it against it, & started taking notes. A snicker beside me. I think sonnets were next. My hoodie was draped back over my chair at the next bell. [Sometime around ten. I guess I didn't watch the clock so hungrily there].



Typical morning so far. What I’m driving at. All the trappings of a normal school day for the typical awkward 16 year-old. Only concerns of the day oscillated between missing busses, hating class, trying to understand male behavior. Looking for friends, looking for ourselves. The usual. Absolute stupid usual.


Hugging the walls to avoid the oncoming stampedes & bottlenecks along the halls.

Lunch was next, & I always thought how absurd it was to happen well before 11, even. I looked onward toward the west stairwell. Often I'd pass my ESFP friend, here. She lived across the street from me. Year behind me in school. Completely opposing social circles and interests, but proximity and a love of horror movies had bonded us. Her cheerleader friends didn’t like me, so we had this kind of unspoken understanding it was best not to make waves. Just a quick, nearly covert hello at those stairs & on our way.


Only, our stop that morning seemed to stop time itself for a moment.

Her bright eyes darted, frantic. Locked with mine. Glittered mascara forged purple rivulets against her reddening face.



That’s where the world caught up with me. Reports of the planes hadn’t reached every class, yet. However, they had reached ESFP’s. I believe a classmate had taken a call in the bathroom.

“APLANEHITTHETWINTOWERSANDMYDADCOULDBEDOWNTHERELEX!!” Her terror smashed everything into one word.

A plane hit the Twin Towers?? It sounded like some kind of horrible accident...

Her father went on business to NYC, often. He was in the towers, often enough. I have no idea what he did for a living. Consulting was a term thrown around, & my young mind consistently glazed over the rest.

ESFP didn’t own a cell phone. Hell, none of us did back then, save for the wealthy kids. We cut across the lobby to the pay phone, where a line was already forming. Wide eyes, bewildered faces. None of the usual chatter.


She tried her dad’s cell. No answer. She tried her mom. She picked up, but had no answer. Her parents had divorced a few years prior, so she had no concept of his schedule anymore. They lived 15 minutes apart in our little New England suburb, but were strangers at this point.

ESFP held the receiver to both of our ears as her mom spoke without coming up for air, giving a recap up to where the towers fell on TV. I don’t think she realized this was not any kind of comfort to her daughter. She sounded shocked, herself. Something in her reality had broken apart, and her mind was still piecing that together.


I stepped away a moment & bought a 5-pack of Big Red, feeding my lunch money into the vending machine. I handed ESFP all the change so she could continue to try her dad. She’d blown through the rest of hers, leaving increasingly desperate voicemails. DAD PLEASE CALL ME NOW. PLEASE. The next bell rang. “Fuck class— keep trying your dad.”



Time moved like molasses, but he finally picked up. Christ. He was safely tucked away in a hotel. In Chicago. Relief. Hugs. In true ESTJ fashion, he urged her to return to class, & that’s where we parted ways.​

The principal had been speaking over the intercom during some of that, but I hadn’t heard him at all. The mortal fear paralyzing my friend had all but insulated me from the sound of anything else around us.



I was due for History, next, incidentally with the same Mrs. P from poetry. I was in no mood for the past. She’d probably notice my absence. I wasn’t sure I cared. I headed in the opposite direction, as the principal said something about an assembly. Silence. And shortly thereafter, students trickled from the classrooms, mouths pursed, eyes solemn or quietly wild. Guess Mrs. P wouldn’t miss me, after all. The floe of the student body poured toward the gymnasium.

I ducked into the east stairwell, where I’d frequently find my ragtag foursome of friends cutting class. The guys. M, D1, D2, & S. M’s girlfriend joined the group this time.

​

We opted to leave. M’s house was just through the woods backing the school. No one stopped us. Our lone, ornamental security officer (installed after the Columbine massacre, along with mandatory student IDs) wasn’t at his post. I figured he was in the gym, too.

Through the bike trails. My friends collectively pondered the possibility of more planes hitting other targets, like nuclear power plants. We lived within 50 miles of one. D1 argued they were fortified. I tuned out the discussion, & listened to the river beside us, staring off at the changing leaves backed against the most vibrant blue sky. You’d never know so much fear & death had shared it just a few hours ago. It’s so clean. I wondered about the window-seat passengers for a while.​

M flicked on the TV in his basement. Nearly every channel covered the attack, & I can’t remember which we’d settled on. He activated closed captions & muted the audio. He fed a CD into his stepdad’s stereo. The Ramones exploded from the Dolby speakers, & he turned it down just enough to talk over it. But, I don’t think we did.

He pawed through his stepdad’s liquor cabinet & emerged with a bottle of nearly untouched Jose Cuervo. He won’t miss a few shots. He hates this shit.

I shared the sentiment, as I tipped back the bottle & passed it on. Oily. Something oily about it. I pulled out the gum I’d bought. I still hate tequila.

I guess we didn’t know what may happen. Might as well share a drop of liquid courage & face it together. We watched on as the timeline unfolded, & replays of the tower attacks continued, the constant playback felt like some macabre sporting event no one asked for tickets to. Super Bowl recap. Pentagon’s hit, too. And there’s a crater out in PA.

My friends talked again about future attacks. Sleeper cells or something. D2’s parents were devout Mormons, & their cellar was essentially its own supermarket. It’s common to prepare for The End. So there was talk of going there. S mentioned going to the White Mountains. Just drunken worst-case-scenario stuff. Bravado, illusion of control. Planning. Something with coherent steps and easy fixes to focus on.

We waited. Nothing happened.

I walked home around 2:15PM. The streets weren’t gridlocked with the stricken masses. They seemed deserted.

I caught up with ESFP as she headed home from the bus stop. She was calmer, though a bit farther away. We waited at her house. Nothing more happened.

My mother told me over dinner that my grandparents knew one of the pilots. He was from their town & lived close by. Nothing more of note was said. I think she went on a hateful rant, mostly to herself, about fucking ragheads.
I fell asleep early that night, re-reading The Mist.

​

More assemblies at school the next day. Shock and tears and patriotic music and Moments of Silence.

While I was disgusted & saddened to my core by the attacks, I distinctly remember feeling wholly unsurprised. I think some part of my psyche had accepted a long time before, that humans are capable of extreme destruction, violence, and cruelty. This was par the course.

My dad was an officer in the US Navy. Served on destroyers in Operations Desert Shield & Desert Storm in the Gulf War. He died in ‘94, only a couple of years after returning home. I was 9. I had a vague understanding early on that The Middle East was in near constant conflict, & that the US was Part of That. Of course, I couldnt comprehend it all in any complex way. My mind had nonetheless filed away that there were Problems Over There. All manner of Bad Things happened across the world. But we’re all human. Bad Things happen anywhere humans exist.
With this in mind, years later, I was not surprised.


We had our own home-grown terrorism on the news throughout the late 90s. Oklahoma City Bombing. The Unabomber. Their trial coverage. Columbine was still particularly fresh in our minds....
So I was not surprised.

And I don’t mean for that to sound pretentious or smug, though it probably does. I felt disconnected, in a way. Sad, vaguely afraid. But the shock and despair that had spread over everyone didn’t seem to touch me the same way. Felt... weird.


I spent those assemblies under the back stairs, reading or just counting bricks. Waiting for the outrage to die down as it always did. For everyone to move on. People would be different, now, but not in the way you’d like to see. And I knew that. I expected more ornamental solutions on a broader scale, similar to our school’s guard & the student ID lanyards after Columbine. I expected those different to be targeted. More of the same Us v Them. So I just waited. Not for any lack of caring, mind you. There was just nothing to do or say. No reason for me to be there. We’d go on. And go on murdering eachother. Make grand, ugly demonstrations for change. Rinse repeat.


Right or wrong, I just opted to keep away.​

​

 

[GoggleGirl17]

Elementary school. We could see the smoke from the classroom window. I was fascinated that something so unusual seemed to be happening. Then we got to go home early which I remember being happy about. I didn't have anyone to be worried about, so I don't think I was personally affected very much.

 

[Maou]

I was in school, and I remember all the teachers tuning the the ancient ass TV's that hung in every classroom. I believe in I was in 3rd grade. School ended early that day, as parents panickily came and picked up their kids. I clearly remember people saying we were going to war. I believe I walked home, after school was released, and only then did I get to see the full news coverage. I understood what was going on, and I realized it was a big deal.

 

[Kephalos]

I was also at school (middle school not high school) that day, although I don't remember exactly at what moment I myself first heard about the attacks. What I do remember very vividly is that it wasn't until I returned home that I actually saw what had happened -- and the first time I ever heard the name and saw an image of Osama bin Laden and the first time I ever heard the term "Al-Qaeda". I also remember how the teachers would go back an forth the teachers' lounge between classes, where they were listening and watching radio and television broadcasts for information, and would then come back to tell us students what was going on. It was (not technically "was" since it still exists) a Catholic school run by the Oblates of Mary Immaculate, and the next day our school held a Mass.

 

[Doctor Cringelord]

At my girlfriend’s house.

her dad was a civilian contractor at the pentagon