Like so many others, I watched in horror as the second plane hit the South Tower of the World Trade Center in New York City on September 11, 2001, live on national television just under 17 minutes after the first plane struck the North Tower.
It was incredibly shocking, so much so that I questioned whether or not I was watching an action movie but of course it wasn’t fiction. When all was said and done, 2,977 people lost their lives because of the terrorist attack that horrific day, including 343 firefighters and 72 law enforcement officers.
It’s hard to believe it’s been 25 years, and I can’t even begin to imagine how the loved ones of the those who died feel to this day as they continue to wade through their deep grief. It’s one of those defining moments in history where you know exactly what you were doing and where you were when you first heard about it, like JFK being assassinated and the Space Shuttle Challenger exploding midair.
It was four days shy of my 25th birthday and I was all alone setting tables in the members dining room at Sterling Country Club, where I worked at the time. I remember thinking how gorgeous it was out that day, the kind of late summer, early fall weather that’s a bit chilly in the morning and then the sun comes out and warms everything up.
The sky was incredibly blue with fluffy white clouds scattered across it, and someone had turned on the television in the restaurant. I glanced up at it when I heard them saying something about a plane crash and then everything seemed to go into slow motion. I stood there for several minutes in shock, glued to what was happening on the screen and feeling my heart racing, and then all I could think was “I need to get home to my mom.”
I left work and that’s exactly what I did, and my younger brother came home shortly after I got there. The three of us watched the news together for hours, consumed by needing to know what was going on and wavering between crying and staring at the television in disbelief. We were sickened to hear about the other two planes and panicked when the newscasters said there could be more out there and when we learned that the two planes that hit the Twin Towers in NYC had departed from Logan Airport in Boston, that local connection felt brutal.
In the aftermath of 9/11 — the days, weeks, months, and even years following the attack — everyone in the country and across the world uniting and coming together to lift each other up and the resilience shown by so many was incredible. Hearing the countless stories of rescues by first responders and citizens, people helping their neighbors and strangers, how the Pennsylvania plane was bravely taken down by passengers who overtook the terrorists on board, ultimately saving other lives, and so much more was inspiring in a bittersweet way.
Those in the middle part of Gen Z and my three children were not born yet when 9/11 happened. They learn about it from stories and history books and recollections of those who were there and survived, from the heartbreaking images and videos and media from that day.
Whenever my kids have asked me questions about 9/11, true to my parenting style I give them honest, age-appropriate responses. When it was coming up a few years ago and we were talking about what happened that day my twins asked to see photos. We looked at some, but we are not at the point where I would show them everything. It’s just too horrific and while I hope to keep them innocent for as long as possible, I know the day is coming when they’ll ask to see and hear more.
I was on a high school history trip in October of 1992, my junior year, when I snapped a picture of the New York City skyline that included the Twin Towers. When I came across the photo after the attack, it took on a whole new meaning and I couldn’t believe how the ethereal the towers look in it, almost ghostly.
My high school boyfriend ended up becoming a firefighter as a result of 9/11 and got a tattoo with the numbers 343 in honor of the firefighters who perished. He worked in Washington, D.C. for many years and now serves in Alexandria, Virginia, the same state we went to boarding school together and where he lives with his wife and their daughter. Every year text him the photograph I took of the towers with the same message – never forget.
Leading up to this somber anniversary I couldn’t help but think, if only we could tap into that solidarity today. If only our country’s leaders were committed to bringing people together and taking care of each other instead of dividing us with political and moral stakes. If only we never did forget what that felt like to come together as one. If only.
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