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People often start out 9/11 telling their “Where I was” stories. I’ve never told mine publicly, so here it is.
I was in my mid-20’s, just out of the Air Force, working for NSA. My now-husband, then-boyfriend was an Air Force Sergeant stationed at Ft. Meade. We were both Arabic linguists.
At the time, I was not driving due to a medical condition, so I relied heavily on friends and colleagues to help get me places.
That morning, I had a dentist appointment. My husband drove me there. He was in uniform, as we would be heading straight to work after the appointment.
As we were sitting in the waiting room, I heard what I thought was a radio bit. The DJs, who had been joking around up until this point, were talking about a plane flying into the World Trade Center. I thought it was a “War of the Worlds” bit; I scowled, thinking it was in really poor taste.
Then I realized: This is real. But in those minutes, there was still the sense that it was one plane, maybe a private plane; an accident—not a coordinated attack.
After a bit, I was laying back in the dentist’s chair, with my husband next to me. All of a sudden, the dentist burst in, looked at my husband, and said, “They hit the Pentagon.”
My husband jumped up, looked at me, and in a tone I hadn’t heard before and haven’t heard since, said, “Let’s go.” I flailed, heaving myself out of the reclined chair and tearing off my bib.
The dentist stepped aside and we rushed out. The road was empty as we raced to NSA. I don’t remember talking much, but we both had the sense that this was going to be a situation involving Arabic translation no matter what the origin of the attack was.
We drove onto base and parked. I ran up the stairs of a building as people were flooding out of it. The guard stopped me and said something about evacuating.
Me: “Arab linguist.”
He stepped aside.
It was weird, being the only one heading into a building that people are rushing out of. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be a firefighter, doing that every day; doing that on this day.
When I arrived to my office, all of my colleagues were there. Like the rest of the world, none of us knew definitively what was going on. We couldn’t watch television, so we hadn’t seen the images yet. I only knew what I’d heard on the radio.
One of my colleagues told me that a close friend, the only friend with my work number, had called. Later, he and I laughed about it because when my colleague told him, “She’s at the dentist,” my friend thought it was some kind of cover or code.
We were briefed a bit as we waited anxiously. Before being released, we were instructed to bring a go-bag when we came back into work, with a few days’ worth of underwear, medication, toiletries, etc., in case we’d ever need to spend the night in the office.
When we were being released, I called my husband. He wasn’t being released yet, so one of my colleagues offered to drive me home. We sat in standstill traffic. Cell lines were jammed (which I didn’t even know could be a thing), so we couldn’t call people to let them know we were okay or where we were.
Eventually, I made it to my apartment, where I sat glued to the TV. I don’t know why watching the footage over and over was so compelling, but it was. My heart was broken for the firefighters lost that day. I imagined what was going through the heads of the people who jumped. I wondered what I would have done.
I returned calls to everyone who had left voicemails (there were a lot). I waited for my husband to come home. It was hours.
Meanwhile, I’d had a reunion planned for that week, with one friend driving down from PA, one cross-country, and one supposed to fly up from Florida.
The friend driving cross-country had overnighted in a motel. He was still asleep when housekeeping pounded on the door and signaled for him to turn on the TV. He got into his truck and drove straight through to my apartment. He was exhausted when he arrived.
The friend in Florida couldn’t fly up because flights had been suspended. In fact, the lack of planes overhead was eerie, as we lived close to BWI and there was usually constant flight noise.
In general, wherever you went, things were quieter and emptier. Anywhere we went when my husband was in uniform, someone thanked him for his service.
The first time I heard aircraft overhead, days later, it was startling.
I vividly remember, and can still feel, the emotions of that day and the days that followed: the fear, the sadness, the camaraderie, the shock, the gratitude, the patriotism.
What I don’t remember is that thing people say about the feeling that we were all Americans that day—Black, White, or Brown. People were definitely Brown that day, and to say otherwise is disingenuous. Non-Arab Americans were giving Arab Americans (and anyone they thought looked Arab, ahem) the side-eye. That “total unity” is not an accurate memory, and I ask people to reflect before saying it.
But also there’s this……
Yesterday, the morning of the 20th anniversary of 9/11, I saw one of those posts that look like a solemn, patriotic remembrance of that day–but it ended with “We vowed to never forget. Unfortunately, so many have.”
Well, to that, I say, “Bullshit.”
No one who was old enough to understand the day forgets it. No one. No one is like “9/11? OMG I forgot all about that!”
Sure, lots of people disagree about how the government handled the aftermath—the Patriot Act, military invasions, TSA, Islamaphobic rhetoric, etc. But literally no one forgets.
We couldn’t forget it if we wanted to.
The only purpose for such words is to create some holier-than-thou image of your patriotism to hold over others.
So how about taking that bullshit off your post and stop using 9/11 as a dig on those you don’t find patriotic enough by your definition. It’s shameful.
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