Memories of Sept. 11th

Ten years ago, I was a fresh-faced teenager, one month into my final year of high school. At that point in my life, my biggest concern was if any of my friends would see me behind the wheel of my father’s black, 1975 Pontiac Grand Prix—aka the “Batmobile”—my mode of transportation at the time.  

I was so concerned with appearance that fall, I would drive into the senior parking lot just before the final bell for classes, park in the back and dash out of the car. Once, I got out of the car so fast, I forgot to put the darn thing in park and spent the rest of the day wondering why my keys wouldn’t come out of the ignition.

On Sept. 11, 2001, I was a student helper in the front office of my school, in Florence, S.C. Every morning we watched our student-produced morning show. After the show went off around 9 a.m., the regular cable channels began broadcasting. Before I could reach up and turn off the TV, a live newscast came on, reporting a plane strike at one of the towers. Just two months before, I’d visited the World Trade Center during a family vacation to New York.

“Oh wow! I was just there,” I told someone in the office.

Right then, our assistant principal, Mrs. Sweeney, walked in and said,” That looks like another plane!”

I never actually saw the second plane hit the tower, I don’t know what I was doing, but I remember thinking, “No, Mrs. Sweeney, that’s probably a news helicopter or something related to putting the fire out in the high rise.”

When my eyes focused back on the television, I realized the world as I knew it had changed—for good. My young mind already understood the strikes were intentional and that we were under some type of siege. I left the office and started toward the classroom of Ms. Ammons, my U.S. History teacher, the heels of my Candies echoing loudly as I walked across the school’s empty commons area.

“Turn on your T.V.!” I said when I arrived. I wasn’t interrupting; it was her planning block.

She, in turn, told me to tell her friend and fellow basketball coach, Ms. Talbot who was teaching a world history class.

“Turn on your T.V.,” I told her.

Even then, I yearned to the bearer of information, so I went from classroom to classroom, telling them to turn on the TV. I don’t ever remember being scared, but rather I had this overwhelming feeling that history was being made right before my eyes and I was a part of it. I was a living being; a creature who was a part of this event.

Soon the soft chime, that indicated class was over, sounded indicating the beginning of second block. The first tower fell as we were changing classes, the second tower fell right at the beginning of third block, I believe. By the end of school, that beautiful, cloudless September Tuesday know seemed dark and dank. I remember walking to my embarrassing car with my friend, Paige Northern, who was surmising what would happen next now that America was “under attack,” as the newscasts we’d been watching all day put it.

“Maybe they will reinstate the draft!” she said in her southern drawl. She was worried, because her new 18-year-old boyfriend could be drafted. I could tell in her 16-year-old mind, the idea of her love being taken away by a draft was somewhat romantic. 

My thoughts after on that Tuesday weren’t exactly romantic, but they weren’t particularly worrisome either. I was captivated by all the news coverage and the photos from Ground Zero and the Pentagon, but the full gravity of situation didn’t become apparent until much later, as the footage of that day was replayed. I cry every single time when I see video of the of the twin towers tumbling down. That plume of smoke and debris moving down the streets of lower Manhattan, like a thousand terrible things.