September 11th, 2001. It was a day that touched so many lives in so many different ways. If you were even of elementary school age you remember this day. People heard it on the radio and saw the breaking news on television. Schools turned it on in the classroom.
A commercial airplane had hit one of the World Trade Center towers in New York City. Disturbing, but not enough to jolt us out of our daily routine. I was on the way to work in the Dallas metroplex. My then husband called me on my flip phone while I was halfway from Lewisville to Allen. Because this was using precious cellular minutes on our very small monthly plan, I knew it was going to be something important. He told me about that first plane as he watched the news unfold on television.
As he explained what he was seeing back in our apartment living room, and we tried to make sense of why an airplane pilot would get so off course, he suddenly began yelling, “Oh no, oh no!” But he was unable to articulate what he was seeing on the television.
“What is it?” I’m trying to pry it out of him. “Tell me…” I continue to drive.
There was silence for a moment except for the faint sound of the news anchor voices on TV in the background. I cannot imagine what was going through their heads as they had to comment on this tragedy while it happened before their eyes and in their own city. And here my husband, who is normally very verbal, was able unable to speak for several seconds, finally spitting out “I can’t believe it, It’s another plane. They have hit both the Twin Towers now. There’s no way this is a mistake. They planned it.”
I was having a tough time making sense of it while still driving a minivan on my commute, now somewhere in Plano, Texas. We hung up the phone for what seemed like an hour conversation, but it was just a couple minutes. I turned on the radio to get more news.
8:46 a.m. – Flight 11 crashes through the North Tower of the World Trade Center.
It’s on fire and crumbling.
9:03 a.m. – Flight 175 crashes into the South Tower of the World Trade Center.
Everett person in America that has the TV or radio turned on now knows we’ve been attacked.
9:37 a.m. – Flight 77 hits The Pentagon.
When will it end? What is the goal? Who is behind this? What’s the next target? I’m in a large city. Am I in danger?
10:03 a.m.: Flight 93 crashes into a field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania.
Thankfully, that was the final plane. But the damage was done in the aftermath was unreal.
I worked in video production at the City of Allen, and my office had two televisions that were always on. We didn’t get any work done that day because we were just watching it all and trying to solve the mystery of what could possibly be happening to our country.
Thousands of heroes emerged in the form of first responders – firefighters, police officers, EMTs, military, the emergency dispatch, and just regular people who wanted to help. The search for survivors lasted for days. America watched in shock as helpers sorted through the rubble in the streets.
For days afterward, there were all sorts of new security policies being put into effect. At my City employment, they installed more cameras and protocol to get in the building. There was a sense of alert for every little thing that might seem out of place.
For years afterward, operations were changed on so many levels of business and government. I recall being back in Arkansas a year or so later, arriving at my job with the Highway Department (ARDOT). I stood waiting for the elevator, looking at a chart on the wall, showing different colors for what terrorist level it was for that day in the United States. This alert was decided on daily by a new federal agency created for “Homeland Security.”
Our country has changed in many ways but and small since that day, but one thing won’t change. We will look for the helpers, we will look for our own ways to help, and we won’t forget.