Note, ten years later: When it happened, we who were far away from the event were primarily numbed. It shocked, angered, and saddened us, but it hadn't at that point touched us personally, not yet. But time has passed, and now that the whole scenario is being replayed on the news, it brings a rush of tears to my eyes, a sense of deep mourning that I did not experience in this way ten years ago. So many were lost, so much was lost. I had lived in America's golden age, and didn't know it until it was over.
What follows is what I wrote ten years ago:
I'm still there on that morning,
that morning, the morning which so many have said will change the world forever. Now, only a little later, it seems to us nothing has changed. We still work, eat, pick up our mail. But I know our nation has been changed irrevocably, and what has changed will unfold before us, slowly at first, then quickly, like a canoe rushing toward, then over, a waterfall. Or like a burning tower, once there, then suddenly gone.
I am there, in the tower. I am a teacher, taking my children on a field trip. We have viewed the fabulous view from the top of the tower. The kids have exclaimed over this and that landmark, the lady lifting up the lamp of freedom, the waterways, the Empire State Building that once overshadowed all others; it's been a wonderful experience for all of us.
Something strange happens, a boom, a shake. I feel an urgency to leave. I try to maintain my calm as I bring the young ones, my charges, with me. We are going down the stairs, steadily one foot in front of the other, "just like a fire drill," I keep telling my students. They nod, their faith in me complete. Floor after floor after floor we descend. Minutes upon decades of minutes. Then the stairs themselves suddenly begin to move down like an elevator. A moment of terror, only a brief moment, then I know no more. But I don't know I know nothing. I don't know the sorrow of my family, my school, the grief of a nation, or even the cause of my death.
I am there, in the tower. I am a fire fighter, rushing up the stairs as fast as my clothing and equipment will let me. The muscles in my thighs burn with effort, my lungs ache for breath, as I mount floor after floor, glad to see the others going down, down to safety. There's another, and another, yet another person I won't need to worry about. I am eager to reach my goal. My lungs are fire. I push upward, upward, my buddies in front and behind. A roar fills my ears, dusty blackness fills the stairwell. There is no time for terror, for I must press on, but then . . . I know no more. But I don't know my life has ended so quickly, that I will be called a hero, that my wife, my little kids have a lifetime ahead without me.
I am there, in the tower. I am a secretary, going about my usual duties with my colleagues. Something unprecedented happens. Black smoke billows out from somewhere below us. We must get out, but we can't. The elevators don't work, the stairway is blocked. Black smoke fills our floor, black smoke our lungs. Heat, searing heat forces us to the windows. We lean out, desperately seeking to breathe, desperately seeking cool air. It is cooler, it is cooler out there. Behind us is hellfire, in front of us only the end. Behind and in front is the end -- but I breathe my last air on the outside, in the cool, free, rushing air, knowing it is goodbye.
I am there, I am so many people, so many gone, so many stories ended, so many families changed forever. But we are not the first. And we are not the last.
©LDN 2001
