September 11, 2001: The Day I Became a Journalist
I can remember it like it was yesterday. I was 16 years old and I had the parking lot of my beloved high school in my direct sightline. I was listening to the Dallas’ K104 and there was breaking news. In a moment that I will never forget, just before 8 a.m. - the announcer interrupted a song and shared that an airplane had just crashed into one of the towers at the World Trade Center in New York.
I froze.
Something moved my car another 20 feet and into the parking lot, but I have no recollection of controlling the car beyond that point. I sat motionless for a moment after turning the car off.
I composed myself and rushed into the school. I immediately headed into the direction of my mother’s classroom. When I arrived there, she knew that something was wrong. I insisted she turn on the television. As we tried to process what was happening, other students and teachers entered the room. We all stared blankly at the television in the corner. About five minutes after I reached her classroom, a second airplane crashed into the adjacent tower of the World Trade Center.
The room was silent.
I fell into one of the chairs at my mother’s conference table. She stood next to me and placed her hand on my shoulder. She knew that I tended to obsess over big news stories, but this one was going to be different.
How could a 16 year-old in Dallas be so impacted by events in New York?
I was 12 years old the first time I visited New York City and I’ve had an affinity for the concrete jungle ever since, making it a practice to visit as least twice per year. I can remember visiting the World Trade Center during my first visit and staring up at the monstrosities that were those towers. The heavy presence of security, the action of the stock exchange, the purposeful suits and ties venturing around with haste are all memories I have of the World Trace Center. And then I remember the elevator ride. I remember the tour guide showing us how an unbothered glass of water on the table would shake because a building that high swayed after you reached a certain floor.
About three weeks prior to September 11, 2001 – I traveled with my Academic Decathlon teacher and about 15 other students to Chicago. We flew out of Dallas Fort Worth International Airport (DFW) on a large American Airlines jet, comparable to one of the American Airlines’ aircrafts that would be hijacked and crashed that day.
On that flight from DFW to Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport, I can recall sitting in the first row outside of first class – the row with lots of legroom. In the aisle seat was my friend Brittney. I was in the middle. A large man, with a long beard and what appeared to be Islamic garb sat next to me in his window seat. He was friendly to us and I thought nothing of his attire, let alone his religious practices. As far as I knew, I was simply sitting next to another human being traveling to Chicago.
In the moments that I sat in my mother’s conference table chair, I realized that everything about the way we travel in and out of this country was about to change. As a black teenager I was all too familiar with stereotypes, but I knew that in an instant other cultures were about to feel the brute of such pain. My mother placing her hand on my shoulder told me that she realized from my expression that I had just inherited a great deal of angst and confusion.
Before I could make it down the hall to my first period class - American Airlines Flight 77 crashed into the Pentagon, the White House and Capitol were evacuated and the south tower collapsed. Still trying to comprehend the quick nature of events, I took my seat in my first class and immediately learned via the television that United Airlines Flight 93 passengers attacked the hijackers aboard their plane in an attempt to seize control. The hijackers crash the plane into a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania.
For the rest of that day and in every single classroom – the students and teachers would all watch the news coverage. By lunchtime, a substantial amount of the student body had gone home with their parents who left work out of sure nervousness.
After school I traveled to work on a pretty unoccupied Interstate 35, which is a rarity. I was a teller at Washington Mutual Bank and according to my coworkers – few customers had stopped in that day. For the two hours that I operated the drive thru, I had one customer. He was a regular customer to our branch, but September 11, 2001 was the last time I’d see him. While he was friendly to me, that day he wanted all of his money out of the bank. He was afraid that his information had been compromised during the day of terror in America. He didn’t know if he would soon lose access to his money, so he wanted it all. I did the withdrawal for him, processing far more cash through the drive thru than I was supposed to.
That customer was paranoid. In that moment, I learned the real objective of terrorism. It is meant to evoke fear and constant suspicion. All of our information was compromised that day. To see adults around me losing it, being fearful of public places and all too eager to lock themselves in their respective homes encouraged me to adapt a behavioral pattern that would never invoke fear and distrust in young people once I was older.
Today, I’m sharing my story with my students. I teach 11th grade English III. Most of the children watching me write this are 16 years old – the age I was on September 11, 2001. They weren’t born when this unfortunate day would change America forever, but their parents were. They’ve shared with me stories of what their parents describe as being a dark and confusing day.
We write essays and listen to music on Wednesdays. Today the students have to write about how September 11th and the aftermath would’ve played out differently had social media existed.
One young man just removed his earbuds and asked me, “Miss did you look at Middle Eastern people differently after 9/11?”
The truth is I can’t say that a month after September 11th I would sit as comfortably next to that man who was my row-mate on my way to Chicago.
The next flight I took in 2002 was with my family to Los Angeles. There was a Middle Eastern man at our gate. My cousin and I discussed what we could do if he were to “try anything.” Apparently the stares, the non-verbal threats and such of several people in our terminal and on that plane made the man very uneasy. The flight attendant had to deliver several vomit bags to him during that flight.
In the fall of 2003 I began college. My roommate, a beautiful young Persian woman and I talked about September 11th. She shared with me stories about her father, who physically met the description of the stereotyped Middle Eastern man. The loving, working and harmless man was discriminated against following that day.
When I discuss September 11th with my peers, I get many different reactions. Some people suggest that as a black woman, I should concern myself with other issues more directly pertaining to black culture. Others have remained fixated on the actions or lack thereof from then President George Bush. Several people have uncomfortably normalized tragedy in America and insist they won’t be surprised when another attack or the next shooting occurs.
Concerning the events of September 11, 2001 – my intentions are the same at 34 as they were at 16. I wanted to know who was involved. I wanted to know what happened. I wanted to know when every plane departed. I wanted to know where everything transpired. I wanted to know why America was under attack. I wanted desperately to know how the country and the powers that be were going to respond.
Almost 3,000 people were killed that day and more that 6,000 others were reported injured. Many survivors still walk this earth coping with survivor’s remorse, as they hadn’t quite made it to work that day. Several people have since died after being stricken with various illnesses and cancers. Children have grown up without their parents who perished in the terror. Some native New Yorkers chose a new home. Others can’t quite make force themselves into another skyscraper.
I’ve always been interested in attaining information, in sorting facts and in disseminating truth. I adore the photographers, reporters and videographers who followed alongside the brave rescue teams in the direction of disaster. Had they not captured photographs and interviews, I would not be able to share still images and actual video footage with my students today.
“As a photographer, would you have stuck around and taken images of the aftermath?” one young lady just asked me.
Without any doubt in my mind I do believe that my storyteller spirit would have insisted I capture moments that would outlive me.
September 11, 2001 was a painful, yet enlightening day. That day revealed so many cruelties about this country. It was the day that I became a journalist.
