Ordinary Rendition
Sep. 11th, 2008 07:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfield"Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear."
- Mark Twain
I think it's strange that we refer to September 11 colloquially as "nine-eleven." There aren't any other memorable dates we talk about like that. "Twelve-twenty-five?" "Seven-four?" "One-one?" People have suggested that September 11 was selected by the terrorists because it bears resemblance to the American emergency line, 911. Sounds like a stretch to me, but the conjured memories could have something to do with why we call it "nine-eleven."
Everyone who lived in New York or Washington DC on September 11, 2001, has a story about it. Most stories are similar. Mine is not extraordinary or unusual. But I still have difficulty describing my feelings from that day.
This was a little more than two years after I had moved to Washington DC and taken a job in the organization for whom I still work. At the time, my desk was still located in the lobby near the front door and next to the office's main file cabinet. People would often mill around the lobby and chat, oblivious to my personal preference for peace and quiet.
It was only because my computer screen faced the opposite direction that I was able to hang around on AOL Instant Messenger during the day. That Tuesday morning, I was filing something or other when I got a message from dl004d, telling me that there had been a jet accident in New York City. He sent me the link to some rudimentary stop-motion video on CNN.com that looked like it had been filmed with someone's dorm room Web cam. It looked tragic, but it wasn't yet scary.
As soon as I turned to the front page of CNN.com, the office seemed to get a little louder, nervous voices spilling out of the hall and into the lobby. The latest story read that a second plane had crashed, leading my co-workers and I to speculate that either there was some massive air traffic control malfunction or we were witnessing a concerted terrorist attack on an enormous scale.
Someone turned on a television and we all heard the news anchors groping around for answers and explanations. Terrorism seemed to be the operative assumption, as the news stations attempted to account for missing planes. Rumors started spreading -- I can't even remember where they came from -- that (for example) there was smoke on the National Mall, a bomb had exploded at the Capitol and/or there were planes heading for the White House. Eventually there came confirmation that there had been an explosion at the Pentagon -- less than a mile from my Arlington apartment, and the station through which I had passed on my way into work that morning.
By 11:30, it was still rather unclear just what was happening, but everyone was resigned to the notion that we were under attack by somebody or something. After a minimum of executive hand-wringing, our boss urged us all to evacuate the office, the city and, if possible, the country. But by that time, the Metro had closed down, there were no taxicabs taking passengers and even if you could get into a car, traffic was already gridlocked. I wasn't even certain that my apartment was safer than my office, but at least I had ice cream and painkillers at home.
My colleague, who lived in Northern Virginia like me, joined me as we made the pilgrimage across town and toward the Memorial Bridge that would get us across the Potomac River. I remember that chaos seemed to be vibrating all around us, but my most vivid recollection was how eerily quiet it was as we weaved our way through West Potomac Park. There were no children screaming, no teenagers giggling, even the birds knew to shut up.
Once we crossed into Virginia, my colleague and I went our separate ways -- her through the Arlington Cemetery and me along the George Washington Parkway, which I hoped would get me close to my apartment. As I walked along the road, though, I noticed there were no cars passing me by. This was because the road had been blocked by Defense Department police. As I stood near the roadblock with a dozen other passersby, I saw bright orange flames and dark plumes of smoke shooting out of the Pentagon's western wall. They weren't letting anyone through.
So I doubled back, with the idea of going through the cemetery. I was pleased to learn that the Metro was running again, and took the train past the Pentagon station (which was closed, naturally) and to Pentagon City. I felt like I was almost home.
I came out of the Pentagon City Metro station to find the streets packed like a parking lot. I headed west toward my apartment, but too found that the necessary pedestrian walkway was closed down as well, guarded by an unsympathetic MP. The simple process of getting home was becoming a riddle, and my overall shock at the situation was gradually giving way to frustration.
My only route home, it appeared, would be to take one of the armada of buses lining up emergency-style along the road. My only choice was to board one of the buses and wait as it serviced the entire Arlington County area at approximately 12 feet per hour.
While on the bus, I was finally able to reach my dad on my brand-new cell phone. He conveyed some of the fuzzy details he was getting from the news, and repeatedly asked for reassurance that I was okay. I'm pretty sure that "I'm okay" was the only thing I was saying. He would say later that I sounded "totally wiped," which is about as slangy as my dad gets.
Finally we got to my neighborhood. It had taken me three hours to go approximately three-quarters of a mile, starting-and-stopping on a cramped Metrobus. My only conversation was with an attractively indie-looking girl who lived across the street from me and kept talking about her boyfriend. She had big brown eyes and I could not take my eyes off the occasional flash of her tongue stud.
When I entered my vacant apartment -- my roommate, a Capitol Hill staffer, had not yet gotten home -- the answering machine had a personal-record 14 messages on it. That cheered me up until I turned on the news and didn't stop watching for 36 hours. It was like Peter Jennings was living in my home. This was one of the few nationally shared experiences I can remember participating in; it was like being transported back to FDR's fireside chats.
I didn't go into work the next day, fearful that there would be a second act to the madness. I didn't even go outside for a newspaper, though now I wish that I had, just for the keepsake. A few weeks later, feeling the walls closing in on me, I retreated home to Rochester for a weekend, only half-joking when I said that I was trying not to get blown up.
I remember e-mailing my friend CC not long after September 11 and asking if we were ever going to be able to be ironic again. Everyone was so serious and shellshocked and singing God Bless America and it was like I couldn't find my way out of the smoke.
But now, seven years later, here I am sweating irony all over the place, which is not exactly a victory we can all rally around but still gives me some hope for the American Way. I can't know how the memories of seven years ago affect my perspective of today's geopolitics when I don't even know how it affected me then.
But I can cherish today, and all the people still around today. Give yourselves a hug from me, everyone.
- Mark Twain
I think it's strange that we refer to September 11 colloquially as "nine-eleven." There aren't any other memorable dates we talk about like that. "Twelve-twenty-five?" "Seven-four?" "One-one?" People have suggested that September 11 was selected by the terrorists because it bears resemblance to the American emergency line, 911. Sounds like a stretch to me, but the conjured memories could have something to do with why we call it "nine-eleven."
Everyone who lived in New York or Washington DC on September 11, 2001, has a story about it. Most stories are similar. Mine is not extraordinary or unusual. But I still have difficulty describing my feelings from that day.
This was a little more than two years after I had moved to Washington DC and taken a job in the organization for whom I still work. At the time, my desk was still located in the lobby near the front door and next to the office's main file cabinet. People would often mill around the lobby and chat, oblivious to my personal preference for peace and quiet.
It was only because my computer screen faced the opposite direction that I was able to hang around on AOL Instant Messenger during the day. That Tuesday morning, I was filing something or other when I got a message from dl004d, telling me that there had been a jet accident in New York City. He sent me the link to some rudimentary stop-motion video on CNN.com that looked like it had been filmed with someone's dorm room Web cam. It looked tragic, but it wasn't yet scary.
As soon as I turned to the front page of CNN.com, the office seemed to get a little louder, nervous voices spilling out of the hall and into the lobby. The latest story read that a second plane had crashed, leading my co-workers and I to speculate that either there was some massive air traffic control malfunction or we were witnessing a concerted terrorist attack on an enormous scale.
Someone turned on a television and we all heard the news anchors groping around for answers and explanations. Terrorism seemed to be the operative assumption, as the news stations attempted to account for missing planes. Rumors started spreading -- I can't even remember where they came from -- that (for example) there was smoke on the National Mall, a bomb had exploded at the Capitol and/or there were planes heading for the White House. Eventually there came confirmation that there had been an explosion at the Pentagon -- less than a mile from my Arlington apartment, and the station through which I had passed on my way into work that morning.
By 11:30, it was still rather unclear just what was happening, but everyone was resigned to the notion that we were under attack by somebody or something. After a minimum of executive hand-wringing, our boss urged us all to evacuate the office, the city and, if possible, the country. But by that time, the Metro had closed down, there were no taxicabs taking passengers and even if you could get into a car, traffic was already gridlocked. I wasn't even certain that my apartment was safer than my office, but at least I had ice cream and painkillers at home.
My colleague, who lived in Northern Virginia like me, joined me as we made the pilgrimage across town and toward the Memorial Bridge that would get us across the Potomac River. I remember that chaos seemed to be vibrating all around us, but my most vivid recollection was how eerily quiet it was as we weaved our way through West Potomac Park. There were no children screaming, no teenagers giggling, even the birds knew to shut up.
Once we crossed into Virginia, my colleague and I went our separate ways -- her through the Arlington Cemetery and me along the George Washington Parkway, which I hoped would get me close to my apartment. As I walked along the road, though, I noticed there were no cars passing me by. This was because the road had been blocked by Defense Department police. As I stood near the roadblock with a dozen other passersby, I saw bright orange flames and dark plumes of smoke shooting out of the Pentagon's western wall. They weren't letting anyone through.
So I doubled back, with the idea of going through the cemetery. I was pleased to learn that the Metro was running again, and took the train past the Pentagon station (which was closed, naturally) and to Pentagon City. I felt like I was almost home.
I came out of the Pentagon City Metro station to find the streets packed like a parking lot. I headed west toward my apartment, but too found that the necessary pedestrian walkway was closed down as well, guarded by an unsympathetic MP. The simple process of getting home was becoming a riddle, and my overall shock at the situation was gradually giving way to frustration.
My only route home, it appeared, would be to take one of the armada of buses lining up emergency-style along the road. My only choice was to board one of the buses and wait as it serviced the entire Arlington County area at approximately 12 feet per hour.
While on the bus, I was finally able to reach my dad on my brand-new cell phone. He conveyed some of the fuzzy details he was getting from the news, and repeatedly asked for reassurance that I was okay. I'm pretty sure that "I'm okay" was the only thing I was saying. He would say later that I sounded "totally wiped," which is about as slangy as my dad gets.
Finally we got to my neighborhood. It had taken me three hours to go approximately three-quarters of a mile, starting-and-stopping on a cramped Metrobus. My only conversation was with an attractively indie-looking girl who lived across the street from me and kept talking about her boyfriend. She had big brown eyes and I could not take my eyes off the occasional flash of her tongue stud.
When I entered my vacant apartment -- my roommate, a Capitol Hill staffer, had not yet gotten home -- the answering machine had a personal-record 14 messages on it. That cheered me up until I turned on the news and didn't stop watching for 36 hours. It was like Peter Jennings was living in my home. This was one of the few nationally shared experiences I can remember participating in; it was like being transported back to FDR's fireside chats.
I didn't go into work the next day, fearful that there would be a second act to the madness. I didn't even go outside for a newspaper, though now I wish that I had, just for the keepsake. A few weeks later, feeling the walls closing in on me, I retreated home to Rochester for a weekend, only half-joking when I said that I was trying not to get blown up.
I remember e-mailing my friend CC not long after September 11 and asking if we were ever going to be able to be ironic again. Everyone was so serious and shellshocked and singing God Bless America and it was like I couldn't find my way out of the smoke.
But now, seven years later, here I am sweating irony all over the place, which is not exactly a victory we can all rally around but still gives me some hope for the American Way. I can't know how the memories of seven years ago affect my perspective of today's geopolitics when I don't even know how it affected me then.
But I can cherish today, and all the people still around today. Give yourselves a hug from me, everyone.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
the silence...
Date: 2008-09-12 04:33 pm (UTC)