I don't think I've ever talked about where I was on that day to anyone, to be honest, except possible The Muse. The emotion is still so raw-- like an open wound, and not because I knew anyone personally that died. It feels more like the violation of being assaulted: your perceptions of humanity change, your view of your world shifts. Nothing is ever the same.
I was in the car on my my way to teach at a local private school when I heard about the first plane. I actually heard the "thump" on the NPR station when the plane hit the Pentagon. When I got to school, the teachers were all nervous, but the decision had been made not to tell the children individually because so many had parents that worked at the Pentagon (many military kids there). The teacher I was working with sat at her desk crying-- her husband's flight home from one of the originating airports had been rescheduled earlier that morning, so he was safe. I knew before I heard the news that the first tower had collapsed.
My husband had a quite different scenario-- he was driving to a gig in Arlington through the city. His car had no radio, and we never turned on the morning news (that changed after that day) and he couldn't figure out why everyone was crowding out of DC. He called my cell phone, but before he could get me, a DC police officer turned him around, saying "No traffic through here, sir-- the Pentagon has been attacked,". He could see the smoke out his window as he drove home.
So we rejoined each other at home an hour or so later, and held each other on the couch as we watched Peter Jennings until late, late that night. I woke up screaming at 4 AM.
For the next four days the only noise we heard outside our apartment window was patrolling fighter jets, and I cringed as each one passed.
The rawness of the attacks makes me feel insulted at how soon the movies have come out. I won't see them, now or ever. I'll wake up screaming again, and anyway my heart is a walking memorial.
Where were you?
