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It feels odd to use the word “easy” when writing about that day, but it really is easy to remember exactly how things were on 9/11.
I was a senior at Wellington High School, and a few months away from turning 18 years old. At that point, my future was pretty well planned out: Studying at KU the next fall, with a handful of my weekends spent serving in the Air National Guard. Despite having most of my senior year still in front of me, in my head, I was already gone.
The way my class schedule was set up, I spent the first few hours of every day helping out in the fifth grade classroom at Washington Elementary. That morning, I happened to be running an errand for my mentor teacher when it came over my car radio that the Twin Towers had been attacked.
I’ll admit, at first, I had no idea what that meant. At the time, New York City was so far disconnected from what I knew that the newscaster might as well have been speaking about the Land of Oz or some other imaginary place.
It wasn’t until I got back to the school and actually saw news footage from Ground Zero that the severity of it all sank in. I sat next to the Nancy Drew mysteries and other children’s books in the school library, watching as the chaos unfolded.
For several hours, no one knew anything except for the fact New York City and Washington had been attacked, leaving time for everybody’s thoughts to turn to the worst.
“Are there going to be more attacks?”
“What if something happens here?”
“Am I next?”
The elementary school provided a unique atmosphere to experience everything. I was surrounded by children who didn’t understand what was going on and adults who could only wait on whatever was coming next.
Nobody was in control, and it was an all-together terrifying situation.
News reports finally started coming in. The facts were slowly pieced together, forming a picture of something more widespread than anyone could’ve imagined. These attacks weren’t isolated, and the damage wasn’t just physical.
The days following 9/11 were a blur of buzzwords and what’s become iconic imagery. Everyone, including people who had never been especially socially conscious, now had opinions and they were making sure every last person within earshot heard them.
The big topic was, of course, “reprisal.” Even as rescue workers were still busy pulling people out of the smoldering rubble, a large portion of the American public wanted—- it could argued, needed—- to hold someone accountable. They had to have the pictures of people in zip-tie handcuffs being led by American soldiers. And, understandably so.
As that mentality spread and gained even more momentum, it became clear my future had been decided for me. This was going to be my war.
And, in a way, it has been. Not in a physical way. Thanks to some health issues, I was unable to enlist. But, that’s never excused me from fighting.
Like a lot of people, my war turned out to be one of ideas. And, more often than not, it’s been a war against myself. In the ten years since 9/11, it’s been a constant struggle to not give in to panic. To not blindly hate. To not contribute to our developing culture of fear.
Really, it’s been a war to not turn into the kind of person directly responsible for the tragedies of 9/11.
It feels odd to use the word “easy” when writing about that day, but it really is easy to remember exactly how things were on 9/11.
I was a senior at Wellington High School, and a few months away from turning 18 years old. At that point, my future was pretty well planned out: Studying at KU the next fall, with a handful of my weekends spent serving in the Air National Guard. Despite having most of my senior year still in front of me, in my head, I was already gone.
The way my class schedule was set up, I spent the first few hours of every day helping out in the fifth grade classroom at Washington Elementary. That morning, I happened to be running an errand for my mentor teacher when it came over my car radio that the Twin Towers had been attacked.
I’ll admit, at first, I had no idea what that meant. At the time, New York City was so far disconnected from what I knew that the newscaster might as well have been speaking about the Land of Oz or some other imaginary place.
It wasn’t until I got back to the school and actually saw news footage from Ground Zero that the severity of it all sank in. I sat next to the Nancy Drew mysteries and other children’s books in the school library, watching as the chaos unfolded.
For several hours, no one knew anything except for the fact New York City and Washington had been attacked, leaving time for everybody’s thoughts to turn to the worst.
“Are there going to be more attacks?”
“What if something happens here?”
“Am I next?”
The elementary school provided a unique atmosphere to experience everything. I was surrounded by children who didn’t understand what was going on and adults who could only wait on whatever was coming next.
Nobody was in control, and it was an all-together terrifying situation.
News reports finally started coming in. The facts were slowly pieced together, forming a picture of something more widespread than anyone could’ve imagined. These attacks weren’t isolated, and the damage wasn’t just physical.
The days following 9/11 were a blur of buzzwords and what’s become iconic imagery. Everyone, including people who had never been especially socially conscious, now had opinions and they were making sure every last person within earshot heard them.
The big topic was, of course, “reprisal.” Even as rescue workers were still busy pulling people out of the smoldering rubble, a large portion of the American public wanted—- it could argued, needed—- to hold someone accountable. They had to have the pictures of people in zip-tie handcuffs being led by American soldiers. And, understandably so.
As that mentality spread and gained even more momentum, it became clear my future had been decided for me. This was going to be my war.
And, in a way, it has been. Not in a physical way. Thanks to some health issues, I was unable to enlist. But, that’s never excused me from fighting.
Like a lot of people, my war turned out to be one of ideas. And, more often than not, it’s been a war against myself. In the ten years since 9/11, it’s been a constant struggle to not give in to panic. To not blindly hate. To not contribute to our developing culture of fear.
Really, it’s been a war to not turn into the kind of person directly responsible for the tragedies of 9/11.
