Dear readers: Where were you on September 11, 2001? This is my story:
I’d just returned from visiting family in South Carolina. It was the last day of a two-week vacation, and I was getting ready to leave my apartment to go to a 9:00 a.m. hair appointment, several blocks away.
I live in the city with restricted parking, so I had to move my car from the “Tuesday” side of the street to the “Monday” side. Around a quarter of nine, I had the remote in my hand to turn off the television. I’d been watching Matt Lauer. (Yes, I once watched the Today Show.) interviewing someone when I saw him pause mid-sentence and look off-camera.
Then he said he’d just been told that smoke was coming from one of the World Trade Center buildings. Somebody left the microwave on too long. I turned off the T.V. and left.
While circling the block to find a parking space, I listened as a broadcaster on the radio yelled over and over about a fire in the building and something about a plane. What is his problem? I still didn’t get it.
I finally found a space. I’m late. Man! I hustled down the block to the hair salon and wondered if anyone else had heard about a fire at the World Trade Center. Everyone looked oblivious. Several minutes later, I was standing in the salon. The radio was blaring, but it wasn’t Anita Baker’s sweet voice I heard. Two planes had crashed into the towers and the buildings were burning. We realized we were under attack. Then the Pentagon was hit. One of the sylists said her husband worked there.
I don’t remember asking any questions. I numbly walked to my stylist’s chair and sat down while she went to work. I was trying to recall a name. What’s the guy’s name, the one on the FBI’s Most Wanted list? Bin-something? He was behind it. I knew it.
Before I went under the dryer, one of the women suggested we all pray. We walked to the lobby of the salon, stood in a circle and held hands as someone prayed aloud. We prayed for the families whose loved ones had been killed. We prayed there’d be no more attacks. We asked God for mercy.
I can’t recall what I was thinking or feeling after that. My stylist canceled the rest of her appointments. Most of the women had children they wanted to get to, so they decided to close up shop early and hustle us clients out of there. At 11:00 a.m., my stylist was done. Record time. As some of you ladies know, a mere two-hour hair salon visit is rare.
I spent the rest of the day flipping between FOX, CNN, MSNBC — whatever news station I could find. I couldn’t get through to family on the phone because the lines were jammed, and my cell phone was useless. Whenever something happens in D.C., even across town, miles from where I live, my mother wonders if I’m OK (my father, less so). On September 11, 2001, she had to wait for what must have seemed like ages.
The most vivid memory I had on that day wasn’t the towers going down or the national mourning. It was hearing the lock turning behind me as I left that salon at 11 o’clock in the morning.
America is burning.
