Sooner than later, I’m pretty sure 9/11 will turn into another weekend sale extravaganza at the most popular department stores, where you can buy the softest pillow cases made from the idea that popped into the mind of some Italian designer who lives in New York. Or maybe I am a ridiculous cynic. I can’t help but wonder when Memorial Day stopped being Memorial Day and instead became the day for me to capitalize on a $10 discount on my favorite pair of shoes. Of course, I’d be nuts to give up the opportunity to buy those uncomfortable (but sexy) shoes at already outrageous prices that were probably made cheaper than the sale price I’d end up paying.
Ten years ago, at almost 9 a.m. on September 11, Vincent and I were stuck in rush-hour traffic to get to our classes at San Antonio College. We were (at the time) big KTSA talk radio fans and were tuned in, listening to whatever pompous conservative comments were being made about the immigrants in Texas. Suddenly, Elizabeth Ortiz came on the air to announce that one of the towers at the World Trade Center was on fire from some sort of unknown explosion. Moments later, she came back on the air to advise that it seemed like the explosion was caused by a small aircraft, air carrier unknown.
Vincent and I weren’t as stunned as we would be when almost 20 minutes later, Elizabeth came back to frantically explain that a second plane had crashed into the other tower. Vincent and I were quiet until she finished her last report. By the time we reached the campus parking lot, we were wondering if it was safe for us to be anywhere near downtown since the city is surrounded by several military bases. We reluctantly got out of our truck and parted company to enter our classrooms.
I was surprised to see that many people had no idea of what was going on, and the ones who heard the news were already suspicious that Bin Laden had something to do with what was now being referred to as “attacks.”
“It’s him—I know it’s him,” said one classmate.
Another one quickly chimed in, “How the fuck would you know”?
“Who the fuck else would be crazy enough to do this shit”?
A third classmate who was obviously irked said, “Where the hell is the president”?
Suddenly, the door swung open and another classmate walked in. “They’re saying that the Pentagon was hit and the next target is supposed to be the White House”!
Now, I was literally quivering, wondering if my 16-year-old brother was okay since he was clear across town at school. Then I felt a chill, thinking about how Guam was so close to China—expecting the worst to happen (as ignorant as that seems now). My mind was racing, and before I knew it, it was time to go to the next class—Cultural Anthropology.
Luckily, Vincent and I had this class together so I was relieved to see him walking my way. The halls were quiet; people were stuck in their thoughts. When we got settled in class, my instructor thought she’d educate us on the Taliban since the word was going around that they were responsible for the attacks. She told us about the ultra-conservative movement in the Middle East that was spurred by the Taliban and how Al Quaeda was this and that. Some people were trying to link the date with the day that the Camp David Accords were signed (September 17, 1978).
All the questions were raised, but no one in the classroom had answers…
How many planes are there?
What or who will they target next?
How come the military wasn’t activated yet?
Why doesn’t anyone know what’s going on?
How could three planes have already hit these landmarks without a trace?
How will this change our security?
Those fuckin’ Arabs—why can’t they just leave us alone?
Our class time ended, and the announcement was made that classes were cancelled for the rest of the day. We walked outside the building and met up with some friends who were completely dazed and confused—they just witnessed footage of the twin towers collapsing, before the buildings were cleared.
I looked around to see many people with their faces buried in their hands. I had a classmate who was an Air Force Reservist, and I could tell from the look on his face that he knew he was about to be activated.
People were softly crying to themselves, while others comforted them. We all knew… we all knew that this day would change everything.
Vincent and I headed home, and I was still afraid for my brother, Charlie.
He finally came home from school just as Vincent and I were getting ready for work. Charlie explained that their campus was on a complete lockdown. Shortly after the attacks, every person on campus at his school was instructed to stay put; no one was allowed to neither enter nor exit the premises. They remained in lockdown until the city gave the all-clear.
Vincent and I both worked as Customer Service Representatives at a call center for Travelocity.com. We were wondering how travel plans were going to be affected, and we were preparing ourselves for the madness on the phones that we were sure would overwhelm us for the rest of the evening.
But when we walked into the building, we noticed that our co-workers were sitting still, staring at the headlines across their computer screens. For once, the phones were not ringing, and people had time to browse the internet. Just about every screen was logged on to Yahoo and CNN websites with horrifying images from the day’s events.
I plugged in my headset, sat there, and waited a long time till my first call came in (hours after my shift started). When I got the whisper tone, I was startled—it was so quiet that I had just about forgotten where I was. The caller called just to let us know that she knows that all aircrafts were grounded and that she’s willing to wait for as long as it takes to be re-accommodated. I documented her account, and that was the last call I received that day.
September 11 lasted for about three to four days at the call center and everywhere else around us.
Almost no one called in to the call center, and when they did, it was to either tell us to hang in there or to let us know that they were okay with the flight schedules that were held up.
About a week later, the rumor went around the office that some of the highjackers might have purchased their tickets from our websites. (The FBI apparently came to retrieve whatever information they could find, and with the sensitivity of the situation, it was never divulged to us whether or not that story was true.)
After September 11, our coursework in college took a drastic turn towards domestic/foreign relations, warfare, and social conservatism. We studied the controversial Patriot Act and the Sneak and Peek Clause, and we critiqued the five color codes for the alert system. Everything changed, and eventually, the White House tried to justify an invasion in Iraq with the deaths of over 3000 people and the trauma of survivors and surviving family members.
Ten years later, and we still don’t know the truth about why the reports of terror threats were ignored, why the president didn’t activate NORAD, or why we went after Hussein and not after Bin Laden.
But soon… we might be able to buy fancy bedding, made in Pakistan, at a discounted price.
September 11 is not for anyone else but for the people who lost their lives that day, the survivors who now suffer from respiratory illnesses, and the surviving family members who still struggle to cope with their loss. I think it is most proper that this day belongs to them; there are other holidays and days of remembrance for the events that followed that horrific day.
