Fourteen Years Later

Some thoughts on the anniversary of September 11, 2001.

Fourteen years ago, I was in college, living with my girlfriend and two roommates in an off-campus hovel.  It was my practice at that time to schedule my classes as late in the day as possible- I am not, and never have been, a morning person.

So, I was asleep when my girlfriend shook me awake to say that something was happening in Washington, something about a bombing.  We didn’t have a television, and this was the era before smartphones.  It took most of the morning, making calls to friends and family, before we pieced together what was happening.  My dad was traveling, and I remembered him talking about a meeting he would have in the World Trade Center.  I was very worried until I called my mom, who reassured me that my dad was stranded in Canada, which, all things considered, was not a bad place to be.

Looking back on that day, what I recall most strongly is the lack of finality.  We didn’t know that it was over, that the four planes were the entirety of the attack.  We spent the entire day fearing that there was more to come, that it wasn’t over yet.  That feeling persisted for several days.  I skipped class on September 11.  I think the other students did, too.

Of course, living in Lexington, I was far from the places directly impacted.  In the weeks that followed, my friend Dimitri and I drove to New York to see what had happened and find a way to help.  This was prior to the construction of the visitors’ dome: New York had not yet learned how to properly host a disaster.

When I returned to Kentucky, I wrote a personal narrative about the experience.  It was for a writing class, a “Noticing” assignment that was focused on senses other than sight: I threaded observations about smell throughout the piece.  At the time, and for several years after, I considered it my strongest writing, but somewhat atypically I did not retain a copy, and that piece is lost; each year on this day I wish I could revisit it.

Since moving to New York three years ago, my perception of September 11 has changed.  I see the way it has left a legacy on the city.  People tell with muted voices about where they were, what was happening that day, people they knew and lost.  Every fire station is a memorial to the first responders who died.

This past year, I visited the museum, a jarring look back at the events as they unfolded.  I know there have been many controversies about that museum, but I found it compelling.  I left feeling sad, but with a sense of perspective that makes me appreciate how far we have come from that time.

On the morning commute today, the bus pulled over, and the driver said, in typical barely-understandable announcement fashion, that we would be stopping for a minute of silent remembrance.  I looked at my watch- it was the very minute the first plane hit the towers.

September 11 means different things to different people.  I lived far from the tragedy, and I did not know any of the victims.  It still impacted my life, as it did, in some way, the lives of everyone.  Its effects rippled across the globe, across the next decade.  It is still felt today, in our policies and our national memory.  I write this post to lay down my own personal marker: I remember that day.

-Andrew

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Published in: on September 11, 2015 at 9:21 am  Leave a Comment  
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