My 9/11
Larry King has a "CNN Presents" on one of the firehouses devastated by 9/11. My 9/11 began when my mom woke me up to say that planes had hit (or "bombed," i can't remember) the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. It sounded impossible to me. I never wake up quickly or jump out of bed, but my mind instantly shifted into gear and I sat up, threw off the covers, and dashed into the family room.
I pretty much stayed in front of the TV all day because new information was constantly coming in and there really wasn't any more compelling thing I needed to be doing. I didn't know what the NYC skyline looked like, so I didn't know if there were supposed to be one or two towers. I didn't see the planes hit, I saw the burning buildings. Shortly after I sat down, I saw one of the towers collapse. I didn't really know what was happening, but I remember exclaiming to my dad, who was in the kitchen, that the tower was collapsing. That didn't look right, obviously, but I still didn't really grasp the entirety of the situation.
It really hit me when my parents and I were sitting in front of the TV that night, watching the coverage, and they were showing family members searching for lost loved ones. It just broke my heart, the pictures and hand-written signs and photos searching for people who were likely already dead. It was the hope, the insistence on hoping that people just might still be alive that was so poignant. Those of us more emotionally detached, who didn't know the missing people, knew that there wouldn't be any survivors, and the distance between those of us who knew and those who refused to just did something to me. It's like we knew already what they refused to accept. It was that irony, that we knew what they didn't, that hurt.
Seeing people on the edge of desperation who would have done anything to get their loved ones back. I'd never seen that kind of pain and desperation laid bare before. Raw pain; the visible anguish of those in the process of living the worst nightmares of their lives. I felt the same way when we went to Ground Zero and read all the signs and memorials that were absolutely everywhere. It became personal and I felt like I grieved a bit along with the loved ones whose words spoke from the walls their memorabilia were hung on.
I pretty much stayed in front of the TV all day because new information was constantly coming in and there really wasn't any more compelling thing I needed to be doing. I didn't know what the NYC skyline looked like, so I didn't know if there were supposed to be one or two towers. I didn't see the planes hit, I saw the burning buildings. Shortly after I sat down, I saw one of the towers collapse. I didn't really know what was happening, but I remember exclaiming to my dad, who was in the kitchen, that the tower was collapsing. That didn't look right, obviously, but I still didn't really grasp the entirety of the situation.
It really hit me when my parents and I were sitting in front of the TV that night, watching the coverage, and they were showing family members searching for lost loved ones. It just broke my heart, the pictures and hand-written signs and photos searching for people who were likely already dead. It was the hope, the insistence on hoping that people just might still be alive that was so poignant. Those of us more emotionally detached, who didn't know the missing people, knew that there wouldn't be any survivors, and the distance between those of us who knew and those who refused to just did something to me. It's like we knew already what they refused to accept. It was that irony, that we knew what they didn't, that hurt.
Seeing people on the edge of desperation who would have done anything to get their loved ones back. I'd never seen that kind of pain and desperation laid bare before. Raw pain; the visible anguish of those in the process of living the worst nightmares of their lives. I felt the same way when we went to Ground Zero and read all the signs and memorials that were absolutely everywhere. It became personal and I felt like I grieved a bit along with the loved ones whose words spoke from the walls their memorabilia were hung on.
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