September 11, Part I
Blah, blah, blah.
I've been sitting here all morning attempting to put something suitable, appropriate and meaningful together to mark the fifth anniversary of the hijackings.
Where was I? At work, in London. Because of the time difference (5 hours) it was already early afternoon. A nearby colleague was the first person to become aware of what was happening; he mentioned a plane had flown into the World Trade Centre. He showed me the CNN window he had up. It was impossible to gauge the scale. I wandered off under the mistaken impression that a light aircraft had flown into the building due to pilot error or illness.
Within ten minutes perceptions changed and I spent the afternoon listening along with colleagues to news from the east coast of America. We heard rumours that London might be a mirror target. I walked through the city that evening, through London's financial heart to Liverpool Street station. I walked eerily quiet, unusually empty streets, people huddled in doorways talking in hushed tones. From the upper level the concourse of Liverpool St looked like bedlam, I plunged in and caught a train that took me most of the way home then got a lift with a friend the rest of the way.
My little girl then was three years old, too young to understand the nature or the scale of what had happened, only that she didn't like the look of it. The Fat Bastard was away that week; I only got confirmation of exactly where he was this week.
I stayed home the day afterwards and the next day went into work to learn that a colleague, the Lead Partner on a client of mine, was among those on Flight 175 which ploughed into the south face of the south tower. He was travelling home after a holiday with his partner and their three year old son. They died at 9.03am on September 11, 2001.
This is when it all becomes blah, blah, blah. Discovering that I knew an individual who'd died did alter my appreciation of events subtly. It isn't that I couldn't already see how vast and terrible the events were. But knowing about Dan, and particularly with his son and my daughter being of an age, rendered it all that bit more personal. And I don't know how to articulate any of this because the truth is I didn't know him at all well. I didn't lose a huge part of my life. I can't write personal memories of him because I don't have them. He was a voice on the end of the telephone, the sender of emails that would turn up overnight.
He's a conduit for me to the pain and suffering of everyone who lost someone or who in some other way was immediately and directly caught up in what happened that day.
So I remember, and I remember on all sorts of occasions and not just on anniversaries. But I remember particularly today.
I've been sitting here all morning attempting to put something suitable, appropriate and meaningful together to mark the fifth anniversary of the hijackings.
Where was I? At work, in London. Because of the time difference (5 hours) it was already early afternoon. A nearby colleague was the first person to become aware of what was happening; he mentioned a plane had flown into the World Trade Centre. He showed me the CNN window he had up. It was impossible to gauge the scale. I wandered off under the mistaken impression that a light aircraft had flown into the building due to pilot error or illness.
Within ten minutes perceptions changed and I spent the afternoon listening along with colleagues to news from the east coast of America. We heard rumours that London might be a mirror target. I walked through the city that evening, through London's financial heart to Liverpool Street station. I walked eerily quiet, unusually empty streets, people huddled in doorways talking in hushed tones. From the upper level the concourse of Liverpool St looked like bedlam, I plunged in and caught a train that took me most of the way home then got a lift with a friend the rest of the way.
My little girl then was three years old, too young to understand the nature or the scale of what had happened, only that she didn't like the look of it. The Fat Bastard was away that week; I only got confirmation of exactly where he was this week.
I stayed home the day afterwards and the next day went into work to learn that a colleague, the Lead Partner on a client of mine, was among those on Flight 175 which ploughed into the south face of the south tower. He was travelling home after a holiday with his partner and their three year old son. They died at 9.03am on September 11, 2001.
This is when it all becomes blah, blah, blah. Discovering that I knew an individual who'd died did alter my appreciation of events subtly. It isn't that I couldn't already see how vast and terrible the events were. But knowing about Dan, and particularly with his son and my daughter being of an age, rendered it all that bit more personal. And I don't know how to articulate any of this because the truth is I didn't know him at all well. I didn't lose a huge part of my life. I can't write personal memories of him because I don't have them. He was a voice on the end of the telephone, the sender of emails that would turn up overnight.
He's a conduit for me to the pain and suffering of everyone who lost someone or who in some other way was immediately and directly caught up in what happened that day.
So I remember, and I remember on all sorts of occasions and not just on anniversaries. But I remember particularly today.
posted by Enyo @ 8:57 am
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