This post has nothing to do with running. Apologies.
But I believe we're all united today in our remembrance of where we were 10 years ago when the U.S. experienced the terror of September 11, 2001. My Facebook friends are posting accounts of what they were doing and how they felt. I did this several years ago in a feature writing class at Xavier. To this day, it's one of my favorite pieces because it immediately takes me back to the day.
Today, I'm a much more emotional person that I was a few years ago when I wrote this. Funny how life does that. Anyway, I teared up several times this morning while watching the memorial and I'm currently glued to the "10 years later" special on CBS. Ten years ago, that wouldn't have happened, as you'll read in this story. Things are different now. Ten years of experience, joys and sorrows, loss, fear, elation and triumph. But -- while documentaries and other people's stories will help me remember the horror of the day -- thanks to this essay, I'll remember how I felt.
So, as usual, this written work is Copyright 2011 MoreToLoveRunning, so don't steal it.
Tuesday Morning Pigeons
I can honestly say that the strangest part of that day was waking up to the sound of bells wafting through the open window of my dorm room. It was at that time of the morning—when your ears are awake before other parts of your body begins to come alive—when I knew that day was going to be exceptional.
The tragic events happening on the east coast were in no way reflected in the early morning hours on the small, rural campus of Wilmington College. The bright blue sky and light breeze promised nothing more than a pleasant Tuesday. However, September 11, 2001 was fated to be more than an ordinary day of the week. Stranger than the bells that announced the beginning of that day was the difference between my response and the response of many others.
My morning of sleeping in had already been ruined by some errands I planned to run before my Marketing class that afternoon. The alarm was set for 9 a.m. but the resounding campus carillon bells woke me before my buzzing alarm clock. The eerie yet beautiful bells usually only played at Christmas, during graduation rituals, and as incoming freshman participated in a welcoming ceremony in August. Any Wilmington veteran would have noticed the unbefitting September song.
As was suitable to the Quaker heritage of the school, the chiming hymn “Simple Gifts” lured me out from under the warm covers and into the chilly dorm room. Before I could adjust to the change in temperature, my cell phone sounded for my attention. “Hey Kiddo, did I wake you? Have you had the TV on yet?” My mother’s voice was almost excited, as if she had indeed already had the TV on and had heard extraordinary news. After a stretch and a yawn, I informed her that although her call had preceded my alarm, she had in fact missed the opportunity to wake her only daughter due to the dissonant bells.
After some motherly coaxing, I shuffled to the television by way of the open window. When I glimpsed toward the Carillon I had half expected to see a mass of students circled around the noisy bell tower for some unannounced prayer meeting. I found no such thing. Actually, besides the bells, the campus was as peaceful as would be expected at an hour when students were usually either in bed or in class. With my mother still on the phone, I rubbed my heavy eyelids clean and turned on the TV.
“Something hit one of the buildings in New York and Washington too, I think,” she explained. Still groggy, I fought to understand what she was telling me. Her vague description produced mental pictures of an ill-fated pigeon bouncing off the window of a high rise building. I thought such news was unworthy of a morning interruption. “What channel?” I grumbled sleepily as I groped for the nearby remote control. However, my bitterness faded to curiosity when she replied, “Doesn’t matter—it’s everywhere.” Now I knew it had to be more than a blindsided pigeon.
When I look back, I can’t believe my lack of surprise or awe in those first few moments. I listened to the reports long enough to get the gist: airplanes had crashed into the World Trade Center in New York City and the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. Even after my mom told me that officials expected terrorism as the cause, I felt no deep concern. It wasn’t here. It wasn’t me. The bells perturbed me more.
That strange morning turned into a strange afternoon. The bells eventually stopped and I eventually moved away from the television and said goodbye to my mother after promising to keep in touch throughout the day. What now? I imagine people throughout the United States were asking themselves that same question at that very moment. After they watched minutes or even hours of riveting news coverage, others may have been frozen to their seats, wondering what would come next. However, it wasn’t until days later, when I noticed that the news coverage had been ceaseless, that I was in doubt that the world would continue routinely. Nevertheless, my Tuesday persisted as normal. I needed to get ready, run my errands, go to class, eat lunch, call a friend, meet for dinner, do a little homework, watch some TV, go to bed, and do it all again tomorrow and the next day.
My disregard and lack of concern didn’t remain the same—nor did it go away. Instead, it changed — evolved. Morning bitterness changed to midday curiosity. Curiosity changed to nostalgia. Nostalgia changed to cynicism. Finally, I ended up feeling sorry for those who were hurt and grateful it didn’t affect me. I didn’t share the deep cuts and scars that were left on the hearts of many of those around me.
I remember having my picture taken that day by a friend who was finishing a photography project. While I felt a little strange about having no problem smiling for the camera, I was not nearly as distressed as the other girl in the picture. She had been deeply wounded and argued against posing because she had spent the whole morning crying. I almost felt guilty because of my lack of hurt. To this day when I see that black-and-white snapshot I can see the stark difference between us. Our smiles are equally big, but while my eyes are cheery and squinted against the sun, hers are almost grimacing against the pain. I didn’t share that with her.
I shared other things though. I shared the urge to call everyone I know. Worry followed if someone didn’t answer the phone. I shared with other grown children away from home the desire to hang on the phone with my mom as long as possible. For independent college students, those phone calls were a substitute for curling up in mommy’s lap. I shared those moments where I found myself stopped completely. I would simply get lost in thought and find myself pondering what had happened — puzzled — and imagining why everyone else was so torn up. I shared the mixed emotions of relief, a little joy, and even more discomfort with my fellow students when we walked into my Marketing class to be greeted by a sorrowful-looking professor. “Class is cancelled today—no quiz.”
I never did experience immense fear or deep sorrow for what had happened that fateful Tuesday morning. I watched those around me fall apart similar to the besieged national landmarks while I felt like the only person in the nation who did not share those feelings. As far as pigeons go, I was not the pigeon that hit the towering window. Nor was I in the flock that dodged the window, turned to watch the collision, and landed painfully because of the distraction. Instead, I was the pigeon that watched from a distant ringing bell tower that Tuesday morning. I was sorry because so many were hurt by the incident, but I opened my unscathed wings, continued to fly, and was reminded by the chiming melody that this was my simple gift.
I can honestly say that the strangest part of that day was waking up to the sound of bells wafting through the open window of my dorm room. It was at that time of the morning—when your ears are awake before other parts of your body begins to come alive—when I knew that day was going to be exceptional.
The tragic events happening on the east coast were in no way reflected in the early morning hours on the small, rural campus of Wilmington College. The bright blue sky and light breeze promised nothing more than a pleasant Tuesday. However, September 11, 2001 was fated to be more than an ordinary day of the week. Stranger than the bells that announced the beginning of that day was the difference between my response and the response of many others.
My morning of sleeping in had already been ruined by some errands I planned to run before my Marketing class that afternoon. The alarm was set for 9 a.m. but the resounding campus carillon bells woke me before my buzzing alarm clock. The eerie yet beautiful bells usually only played at Christmas, during graduation rituals, and as incoming freshman participated in a welcoming ceremony in August. Any Wilmington veteran would have noticed the unbefitting September song.
As was suitable to the Quaker heritage of the school, the chiming hymn “Simple Gifts” lured me out from under the warm covers and into the chilly dorm room. Before I could adjust to the change in temperature, my cell phone sounded for my attention. “Hey Kiddo, did I wake you? Have you had the TV on yet?” My mother’s voice was almost excited, as if she had indeed already had the TV on and had heard extraordinary news. After a stretch and a yawn, I informed her that although her call had preceded my alarm, she had in fact missed the opportunity to wake her only daughter due to the dissonant bells.
After some motherly coaxing, I shuffled to the television by way of the open window. When I glimpsed toward the Carillon I had half expected to see a mass of students circled around the noisy bell tower for some unannounced prayer meeting. I found no such thing. Actually, besides the bells, the campus was as peaceful as would be expected at an hour when students were usually either in bed or in class. With my mother still on the phone, I rubbed my heavy eyelids clean and turned on the TV.
“Something hit one of the buildings in New York and Washington too, I think,” she explained. Still groggy, I fought to understand what she was telling me. Her vague description produced mental pictures of an ill-fated pigeon bouncing off the window of a high rise building. I thought such news was unworthy of a morning interruption. “What channel?” I grumbled sleepily as I groped for the nearby remote control. However, my bitterness faded to curiosity when she replied, “Doesn’t matter—it’s everywhere.” Now I knew it had to be more than a blindsided pigeon.
When I look back, I can’t believe my lack of surprise or awe in those first few moments. I listened to the reports long enough to get the gist: airplanes had crashed into the World Trade Center in New York City and the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. Even after my mom told me that officials expected terrorism as the cause, I felt no deep concern. It wasn’t here. It wasn’t me. The bells perturbed me more.
That strange morning turned into a strange afternoon. The bells eventually stopped and I eventually moved away from the television and said goodbye to my mother after promising to keep in touch throughout the day. What now? I imagine people throughout the United States were asking themselves that same question at that very moment. After they watched minutes or even hours of riveting news coverage, others may have been frozen to their seats, wondering what would come next. However, it wasn’t until days later, when I noticed that the news coverage had been ceaseless, that I was in doubt that the world would continue routinely. Nevertheless, my Tuesday persisted as normal. I needed to get ready, run my errands, go to class, eat lunch, call a friend, meet for dinner, do a little homework, watch some TV, go to bed, and do it all again tomorrow and the next day.
My disregard and lack of concern didn’t remain the same—nor did it go away. Instead, it changed — evolved. Morning bitterness changed to midday curiosity. Curiosity changed to nostalgia. Nostalgia changed to cynicism. Finally, I ended up feeling sorry for those who were hurt and grateful it didn’t affect me. I didn’t share the deep cuts and scars that were left on the hearts of many of those around me.
I remember having my picture taken that day by a friend who was finishing a photography project. While I felt a little strange about having no problem smiling for the camera, I was not nearly as distressed as the other girl in the picture. She had been deeply wounded and argued against posing because she had spent the whole morning crying. I almost felt guilty because of my lack of hurt. To this day when I see that black-and-white snapshot I can see the stark difference between us. Our smiles are equally big, but while my eyes are cheery and squinted against the sun, hers are almost grimacing against the pain. I didn’t share that with her.
I shared other things though. I shared the urge to call everyone I know. Worry followed if someone didn’t answer the phone. I shared with other grown children away from home the desire to hang on the phone with my mom as long as possible. For independent college students, those phone calls were a substitute for curling up in mommy’s lap. I shared those moments where I found myself stopped completely. I would simply get lost in thought and find myself pondering what had happened — puzzled — and imagining why everyone else was so torn up. I shared the mixed emotions of relief, a little joy, and even more discomfort with my fellow students when we walked into my Marketing class to be greeted by a sorrowful-looking professor. “Class is cancelled today—no quiz.”
I never did experience immense fear or deep sorrow for what had happened that fateful Tuesday morning. I watched those around me fall apart similar to the besieged national landmarks while I felt like the only person in the nation who did not share those feelings. As far as pigeons go, I was not the pigeon that hit the towering window. Nor was I in the flock that dodged the window, turned to watch the collision, and landed painfully because of the distraction. Instead, I was the pigeon that watched from a distant ringing bell tower that Tuesday morning. I was sorry because so many were hurt by the incident, but I opened my unscathed wings, continued to fly, and was reminded by the chiming melody that this was my simple gift.
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