I saw this on fark, so I thought I’d add my own story.
On the morning of 9/11/2001, at around 8:50am, I was at home, just waking up. The day before, I had flown from BWI (Baltimore/Washington International) to Tampa, and after a long weekend I was catching up on sleep.
At that time one of my biggest fears was flying. In fact, I almost didn’t go on the trip due to my paralyzing (sp?) fear of flying. When I woke up that morning, the first thing I heard was a news person saying something along the lines of “an air plane crashed this morning…” and I silently thanked God it wasn’t my flight. Selfish, I know, but there it is.
I walked to the living room to catch the news on TV. My dad had been watching the news in his room, with the volume a bit on the loud side, as usual. I turned on the news and saw the live pictures from the WTC. After getting over the shock just enough to pick up the phone, I immediately called my mom, who had been raised in New York. I told her what I knew and while on the phone, the first tower fell. I remember saying “Oh my God, Oh my God…”
“What,” she said, still shocked, “what is it?”
“The tower,” I stammered, “It just… fell. The tower just went down. Holy F**k’n God!”
Later that day, as we headed to that evening’s special mass, she told me, “I’m glad your grandmother died when she did. She wouldn’t have wanted to see this.” My grandmother, who lived with us pretty much all my life, had died just a couple of weeks before. She had lived in New York — mostly Manhattan, Queens, and the Bronx — for a good portion of her life, as had my mother.
I was supposed to go to class that day — music history with Dr. Robison — but I couldn’t move. In fact, for the next week, it was all I could do to watch the news and listen to every report possible, to try to understand. I’ll be willing to bet even the CIA didn’t have someone as attentive to this as I. Guess that’s what you get when you have an addictive personality.
Eventually pulled myself away from the TV, radios, and newspapers. Actually, my family sorta pulled me out by force. In either case, after about a week I finally started to get back into the groove of life, but I remember for a long time asking the questing “Where were you on 9/11”. I stopped asking after I asked a friend of mine who had just moved down from there. “Watching my cousins die,” was his answer; turns out he had family there that morning, on the 91st floor.
It being 5 years later, I’ll again open the book. Where were you on that morning?