Cultivating

feminism

The Journey - 9/11

This is an open journal about my journey exploring feminism.

9.11.23

After graduating college, one of my first jobs was working at a local newspaper. It was a mid-sized daily paper. My primary beat was covering all things with education. It was a rather dull subject, not many days of breaking news. This was partly due to the subject matter but also the community. Rural Nebraska didn’t always bring the late-breaking news.

Until September 11, 2001. I remembered getting to the newsroom early that day. I vividly remember driving to work, thinking I would have to stretch to come up with a story that day. I had no leads and needed to get something out by deadline.

I sat at my desk, going over old notes and calendars. The television in the far corner was always running national news, so I didn’t think much of it when I heard the breaking news commotion. Then I glanced up to see coworkers in ad sales and accounting slowly rising, gasping and whispering as they walked towards the small TV suspended from the ceiling. Then I looked at the screen just in time to see the replay of the first plane hitting the World Trade Center Tower. I slowly stood. I looked around to see if other reporters saw what I saw, but no one else was in yet.

As I approached the group gathering around the television, an uneasy feeling started stirring. The group was chattering and trying to devise what was happening. “An accident,” “Miscommunication,” and “Pilot error” were the first consensus. Then, the second plane hit the second tower. Silence. We all started looking at one another. Something more sinister started coming to our minds.

I hurried back to my desk and pulled up the news wire—report after the report started coming in as more details were pieced together. I was trying to make sense of it all when my sister called.

“Hey,” I said.

“What the heck is going on?” she asked. She and my parents were on their way to an annual farm show about 150 miles away.

“No one is quite sure. Two plans have struck the World Trade Center Towers. It’s chaos. People are trapped,” I try to fill her in on what I know.

I hung up just as reports showed that a third plane hit the Pentagon. I fruitlessly tried to read the stories as they came through. There was so much confusion and so many unknowns.

Who would do this? Why would they do this? I walked back to the television. One of my coworkers was crying. The crowd around the TV had shrunk as others moved back to their desks to phone loved ones. My co-worker and I stood there in silence as the reporters on the television tried to keep up with the details as fast as they could while the live coverage of the burning towers showed on the screen.

I didn’t cry until the first tower collapsed. The weight of what was happening didn’t hit me until the second tower collapsed. The World Trade Center towers, the Pentagon, and another plane crashed in Pennsylvania. This was history. Profound history unfolding on live television and coming across the news wires.

By that time, all reporters were in the newsroom. I remember the Editor calling a short meeting to talk about coverage. Most of the day was a blur of reading and watching various news sources, trying to piece together what this was, how it all happened, who did it, and what it meant for all of us.

I don’t even remember what article I wrote that day; it concerned the impact on the schools and future safety measures. I remember wondering how to sum up any of this or decipher what it meant going forward.

For the first time, I left that office that night knowing what would exactly be in the paper the next day. Each article, each picture, and each headline were all pieced together by the news team. All sifted from the endless run of images and new stories all day.

The gravity, or the fear, didn’t set in until later that night. Would tomorrow bring more? Were more attacks planned in other areas of the country? Would any of us ever feel safe again?

As each year has passed, I won’t ever forget the perspective I had that day. It was, in a way, good to know the details as they happened, but I won’t ever forget some of the images we chose not to run.

I don’t think anyone was the same after that. Indeed, specific things changed in our country and specifics in travel. But it was the first time most felt fear for just being American. We came together as a country in a way I haven’t seen since. No one cared about the differences that day. We just cared about each other. We mourned and honored those lost and supported efforts to improve our safety.

Today, there is a definitive separation in our country. Separation even in who is “American” and who isn’t. Lines define who deserves protection and who doesn’t. The unity and “protection for all” attitude seems gone. Hate appears to be given as freely as love should.

What would it take for us all to return as one again? It will take a lot of conversation and repair—apologies, admittance of wrong, and healing together. It must include listening to and acknowledging the harm done to marginalized groups. And a moment to reflect on that moment when we all came together with the commonality of living in America.

May we never have to face such atrocity again to unite and love one another.