September 12, 2001
Yesterday morning, September 11, I drove Jessica to school as usual, drove to the little store as usual, got coffee and a paper, and headed for work. I had NPR on the radio; it was the usual Great Lakes Radio Consortium story about poison groundwater or toxic fish or something. Got to work, turned on the radio; the BBC News Hour was just coming on. Lead story: a plane had just crashed into the World Trade Center. What a freakish thing, I thought. It was a clear day in New York; how could the pilot not have seen it? Then, a few minutes later, another plane hit the other tower. I felt suddenly sick at the realization of the obvious: a deliberate hit.
I asked Scott if they had a working TV upstairs; he produced one from a back room and plugged it in. The picture was disconcerting, strangely serene, choreographed; a tall building, smoke rising from its top, a plane arcing around behind, disappearing from view, then flames shooting off to the left in slo-mo, like John Woo special effects. It was a ballet dance of carnage.
I went back downstairs to try and get a little work done. The next thing I heard was that the Pentagon had taken a direct hit from yet another plane. Then unconfirmed reports that the White House or the Capital was burning. Then, one of the twin towers had fallen over. Fallen over? I went back upstairs to gawk at the TV. About that time, the other tower was collapsing in on itself. My mind was refusing to accept what I was seeing. They repeated the scenes over and over: one tower pouring smoke, a plane crashing into the other tower, one tower collapsing, the other one collapsing, the Pentagon burning.
Bush was speaking. I’m not his biggest fan, but I felt glad that it wasn’t Clinton, trying to milk it for smarmy political advantage, as he did after the Oklahoma City bombing. Some may question George’s intelligence or articulateness, or disagree with his policies, but at least he’s real. After his speech, he was off to some unknown destination, perhaps the only airplane in the sky, as the FAA had grounded all air traffic nationwide. The swirl of news, rumors, hysteria became a blur. I spent most of the afternoon staring numbly at the wall, trying to absorb it.
Scott called me from his cell phone to tell me that gas prices were going crazy, were expected to hit $4.00/gallon by Wednesday. I got off work, drove to the nearest gas station, but it was too jam-packed for me. There was a gas panic on. I kept driving east on Columbia, then East Michigan, eventually winding up at Speedway on 11 Mile Road. Gas prices were the lowest I’d seen, and the line was huge. Armed police were directing traffic. It looked like some sort of martial law situation. Faces were grim. I was stuck in a long line, so I just waited it out, got my gas, and drove home. I sat there and stared at the TV screen most of the evening. I went to bed late, and woke up this morning thinking that something was vaguely wrong in the world, then – oh, yeah, I remember - feeling sick.
There is talk of war on terrorism. It’s sad and frightening to hear all of this militaristic talk again, but what can we do? Sit there and take it?
It’s especially sad to see, as happened in the Iran hostage crisis, the ugly side of humanity, as Arab-Americans, and even Indian-Americans, find themselves targets of racist attacks. When I see New Yorkers going out of their way to help each other out, displaying extraordinary compassion in the wake of an unimaginable disaster, and contrast that with such provincial, petty, redneck behavior, I am filled with a rage equal to what I feel towards the terrorists. I want to put them all on a desert island and let them have it out. Then nuke the island.
I try to imagine how New York could ever recover from a disaster such as this, with it’s skyline altered by crude surgery, people of all nationalities vaporized, whole corporations erased out of existence. I guess we just have to move forward as always, absorbing the tragedy, incorporating it into our collective consciousness.
Will we go to war? Will the draft be reinstated? Will my son have to fight? Questions I don’t want to ask, but they ask themselves anyway.
Yesterday morning, September 11, I drove Jessica to school as usual, drove to the little store as usual, got coffee and a paper, and headed for work. I had NPR on the radio; it was the usual Great Lakes Radio Consortium story about poison groundwater or toxic fish or something. Got to work, turned on the radio; the BBC News Hour was just coming on. Lead story: a plane had just crashed into the World Trade Center. What a freakish thing, I thought. It was a clear day in New York; how could the pilot not have seen it? Then, a few minutes later, another plane hit the other tower. I felt suddenly sick at the realization of the obvious: a deliberate hit.
I asked Scott if they had a working TV upstairs; he produced one from a back room and plugged it in. The picture was disconcerting, strangely serene, choreographed; a tall building, smoke rising from its top, a plane arcing around behind, disappearing from view, then flames shooting off to the left in slo-mo, like John Woo special effects. It was a ballet dance of carnage.
I went back downstairs to try and get a little work done. The next thing I heard was that the Pentagon had taken a direct hit from yet another plane. Then unconfirmed reports that the White House or the Capital was burning. Then, one of the twin towers had fallen over. Fallen over? I went back upstairs to gawk at the TV. About that time, the other tower was collapsing in on itself. My mind was refusing to accept what I was seeing. They repeated the scenes over and over: one tower pouring smoke, a plane crashing into the other tower, one tower collapsing, the other one collapsing, the Pentagon burning.
Bush was speaking. I’m not his biggest fan, but I felt glad that it wasn’t Clinton, trying to milk it for smarmy political advantage, as he did after the Oklahoma City bombing. Some may question George’s intelligence or articulateness, or disagree with his policies, but at least he’s real. After his speech, he was off to some unknown destination, perhaps the only airplane in the sky, as the FAA had grounded all air traffic nationwide. The swirl of news, rumors, hysteria became a blur. I spent most of the afternoon staring numbly at the wall, trying to absorb it.
Scott called me from his cell phone to tell me that gas prices were going crazy, were expected to hit $4.00/gallon by Wednesday. I got off work, drove to the nearest gas station, but it was too jam-packed for me. There was a gas panic on. I kept driving east on Columbia, then East Michigan, eventually winding up at Speedway on 11 Mile Road. Gas prices were the lowest I’d seen, and the line was huge. Armed police were directing traffic. It looked like some sort of martial law situation. Faces were grim. I was stuck in a long line, so I just waited it out, got my gas, and drove home. I sat there and stared at the TV screen most of the evening. I went to bed late, and woke up this morning thinking that something was vaguely wrong in the world, then – oh, yeah, I remember - feeling sick.
There is talk of war on terrorism. It’s sad and frightening to hear all of this militaristic talk again, but what can we do? Sit there and take it?
It’s especially sad to see, as happened in the Iran hostage crisis, the ugly side of humanity, as Arab-Americans, and even Indian-Americans, find themselves targets of racist attacks. When I see New Yorkers going out of their way to help each other out, displaying extraordinary compassion in the wake of an unimaginable disaster, and contrast that with such provincial, petty, redneck behavior, I am filled with a rage equal to what I feel towards the terrorists. I want to put them all on a desert island and let them have it out. Then nuke the island.
I try to imagine how New York could ever recover from a disaster such as this, with it’s skyline altered by crude surgery, people of all nationalities vaporized, whole corporations erased out of existence. I guess we just have to move forward as always, absorbing the tragedy, incorporating it into our collective consciousness.
Will we go to war? Will the draft be reinstated? Will my son have to fight? Questions I don’t want to ask, but they ask themselves anyway.
posted by Ron at 6:50 PM
