I will forever remember at what point on September 11th, caused me to completely break down, what part totally crushed my soul.
The attacks as watched from my basement room at my parent’s house were frightening yet somehow distant in the beginning. All were seen thru the view of CNN and ABC World News.
I awoke to the buzz of my first cell phone, that chunky old original Nokia that everyone had. My Best friend Jamie called. She said "turn on the T.V. RIGHT NOW" at about 9:10, and that a large commercial plane had “accidentally” crashed into a massive tower in downtown NYC. I’m from Kentucky so the WTC’s were not all that familiar to me in my teens. Little did I know that they were clear symbols of our nation’s economy which I would watch plummet to the ground in the minuets soon to come. We watched “live” as the second plane quietly came onto the screen and caused the most horrific mass destruction that I have ever witnessed. All on live T,V. later I could see people jumping from the broken windows of the tower as they decided that they would rather hit concrete 90 stories below than be boiled alive by burning jet fuel. We at this moment realized what everyone else was realizing. This was no accident.
Over the ensuing hours, and eventually days, Peter Jennings became a member of the family. He sat in our living room with us and told us stories, and related the latest info. We took our bathroom breaks together. We got coffee together. We got emotional together. No news anchor has ever stepped out of the “talking head“ roll as much as Peter did during his 24/7 coverage of this tragedy.
Throughout my life I have talked a lot, a whole lot, but on that day there just wasn’t anything to say. I knew that this was a time to listen. Listen to reporters. Listen to survivors (what few were there). Listen to rescue workers who only offered tears streaming down ash caked faces. Every inch of me felt magnetized to ground zero. My soul needed to be there, to help, to witness first hand the unbearable chaos, and to pick up where those fallen heroes had left off. Someone had to continue sorting thru the piles, and I would have done it till I couldn’t move. I felt a drive I’d never felt before and I wouldn’t have known how to stop...or what to do with myself when the task was done. I never have made it to NYC post 911, never stood amidst the rubble, and will forever have a longing in my soul to rest my feet, and be in the place where the towers fell, where so many bodies separated from soul. But my heart had not yet shattered. Not until that evening as the sun set on this city forever changed, blanketed in smoke and ash. The evening when the media turned it’s focus to massive crowds of citizens all clinging to a desperate hope, holding missing persons signs with pictures and descriptions of their missing and probably dead loved ones, that no one was ready to believe to be gone. All signs through my eyes read “This is my big sister, she took the subway to work this morning and her 2 children and husband will never see mommy again.”, another read “Here is my 24 year old fire fighting son, have you seen him”. I lost it...totally and completely lost it. Every poster and missing person was another angel gone now into the graceful hands of God, and that offered me absolutely NO comfort at all. I wept until my face hurt. How does one deal with such mass suffering on their door step. The idea of rallying around the flag and marching off to war only serves to smear this horrific event with the hate of our own and endless revenge. But how do you forgive for an event like this? Benefit concerts and T-shirts and media...soon Kroger will have a sale on burgers for Patriot day cookouts. We will have to explain to our children what happened that day, and I will never have the same thoughts when I stand downtown and see a plane in the sky. The words “September 11th” will hold no meaning to my children. But I can never forget, will never forget, what happened on a beautiful sunny fall morning when tragedy struck, and New Yorks finest rushed into where everyone else was running out.
The attacks as watched from my basement room at my parent’s house were frightening yet somehow distant in the beginning. All were seen thru the view of CNN and ABC World News.
I awoke to the buzz of my first cell phone, that chunky old original Nokia that everyone had. My Best friend Jamie called. She said "turn on the T.V. RIGHT NOW" at about 9:10, and that a large commercial plane had “accidentally” crashed into a massive tower in downtown NYC. I’m from Kentucky so the WTC’s were not all that familiar to me in my teens. Little did I know that they were clear symbols of our nation’s economy which I would watch plummet to the ground in the minuets soon to come. We watched “live” as the second plane quietly came onto the screen and caused the most horrific mass destruction that I have ever witnessed. All on live T,V. later I could see people jumping from the broken windows of the tower as they decided that they would rather hit concrete 90 stories below than be boiled alive by burning jet fuel. We at this moment realized what everyone else was realizing. This was no accident.
Over the ensuing hours, and eventually days, Peter Jennings became a member of the family. He sat in our living room with us and told us stories, and related the latest info. We took our bathroom breaks together. We got coffee together. We got emotional together. No news anchor has ever stepped out of the “talking head“ roll as much as Peter did during his 24/7 coverage of this tragedy.
Throughout my life I have talked a lot, a whole lot, but on that day there just wasn’t anything to say. I knew that this was a time to listen. Listen to reporters. Listen to survivors (what few were there). Listen to rescue workers who only offered tears streaming down ash caked faces. Every inch of me felt magnetized to ground zero. My soul needed to be there, to help, to witness first hand the unbearable chaos, and to pick up where those fallen heroes had left off. Someone had to continue sorting thru the piles, and I would have done it till I couldn’t move. I felt a drive I’d never felt before and I wouldn’t have known how to stop...or what to do with myself when the task was done. I never have made it to NYC post 911, never stood amidst the rubble, and will forever have a longing in my soul to rest my feet, and be in the place where the towers fell, where so many bodies separated from soul. But my heart had not yet shattered. Not until that evening as the sun set on this city forever changed, blanketed in smoke and ash. The evening when the media turned it’s focus to massive crowds of citizens all clinging to a desperate hope, holding missing persons signs with pictures and descriptions of their missing and probably dead loved ones, that no one was ready to believe to be gone. All signs through my eyes read “This is my big sister, she took the subway to work this morning and her 2 children and husband will never see mommy again.”, another read “Here is my 24 year old fire fighting son, have you seen him”. I lost it...totally and completely lost it. Every poster and missing person was another angel gone now into the graceful hands of God, and that offered me absolutely NO comfort at all. I wept until my face hurt. How does one deal with such mass suffering on their door step. The idea of rallying around the flag and marching off to war only serves to smear this horrific event with the hate of our own and endless revenge. But how do you forgive for an event like this? Benefit concerts and T-shirts and media...soon Kroger will have a sale on burgers for Patriot day cookouts. We will have to explain to our children what happened that day, and I will never have the same thoughts when I stand downtown and see a plane in the sky. The words “September 11th” will hold no meaning to my children. But I can never forget, will never forget, what happened on a beautiful sunny fall morning when tragedy struck, and New Yorks finest rushed into where everyone else was running out.
Graham E. Bain
09-11-2008
