On Sept. 11 at exactly 7 a.m., my alarm went off; I promptly rolled over and hit the snooze button. Nine minutes later I hit it again, and again. At 7:20 my mom came in and told me that I needed to leave for work soon. I nod groggily. “Guess what happened in the last few hours?” she says.
“Hmm?”
“New York City was attacked by terrorists. They crashed planes into the World Trade Center, and the Pentagon.” She starts crying. “Stop crying Mom, it’s fine.” “It’s scary!” she says.
I drive to work in a daze, not really comprehending what I’m hearing on the radio, trying to piece everything together. Everyone at work is somber, muttering that this is unbelievable. We listen to the news, even watch a few snatches of it on TV, seeing the planes arch towards the towers, smashing, and immediately exploding into a billowing inferno. The towers collapsinng, sending clouds of dust and rubble into the air, coating this part of the country in two to three inches of sheer terror. This is not real. We’ve been making movies about stuff like this for years; it belongs in Diehard, not my breaking news.
All day it doesn’t sink in, nor all that night. On my way to work the next morning it finally starts to sink in. Hard. About the time I hear that New York City ordered 6,000 body bags.
I am a person who values human life very highly, and 6,000 body bags represent a lot of life that is now gone – forever. Just like that, people’s lives were snuffed out by senseless acts of violence. Hello. This is about much more than a few buildings falling down. This is about the American citizens that died. This is about 6,000 body bags; 6,000 body bags that represent people like you and me.
People on the four airplanes, some of whom obviously tried to stop what was happening, perhaps even gave their lives so that further deaths could be prevented, they should be commended.
Firefighters and police officers who gave their lives trying to save others – New York’s finest – should be commended. People who were just expecting another day at the office. People frustrated at their computers. People drinking their morning coffee. People who were engaged, perhaps planning a wedding. People who had a date that night. People reminding themselves to make reservations for that date.
Six thousand body bags represent people who had just finished trading their stocks. People who had just made money, people who had just lost money. People with wives, husbands and children. People with girlfriends, neighbors and pets. People with hopes and dreams and plans. People with futures. People who were one moment contemplating stopping by Starbucks on their lunch break, and the next minute racing for the nearest window because they would rather take their chances jumping than burning to death. People.
Am I mad? Yes, I am. I am upset at the waste of life. Am I sad? Of course. Do I feel that those responsible should be dealt with? Definitely.
The important thing to me, though, is this: The rubble may take months to clean up, airlines may take time to get back to normal, security may always be tighter, Sept. 11, 2002 may come and go with a one-year anniversary memorial, but one thing will be with me forever – the 6,000 body bags that hit me like a prizefighter’s Sunday punch. They will always haunt me, reminding me that human life is precious; let us value it and never waste it.
Arlington
Talk to us
> Give us your news tips.
> Send us a letter to the editor.
> More Herald contact information.
