911 remembered. It was our generations Pearl Harbor, but it was different. It was not an attack on a military installation by a nation state, it was an attack on civilian aviation and buildings of commerce. Orchestrated by, if you believe the 911 commission, a bunch of well financed lunatics drunk on their religion. Or, if you follow other more skeptical lines of enquiry, anyone from the MOSSAD and Larry Silverstein, to nebulous cells within our own nations governance. Heavily cloaked and hidden from scrutiny, hopped up on a desire for revenge and control of far flung oil fields and their black gold. No matter how you slice it and dice it, what you choose to believe, or choose not too believe, it was a gob smacking human tragedy, especially for the children orphaned on that bitter day.
A beautiful clear morning, full of promise 10 years ago, turned into fire and hatred that endures and intrudes daily into our lives a decade on. We all have that “where were we” moment etched into our memories and thankfully for most of us they are remote and not personal beyond the impotent rage of seeing the nation attacked. This is my memory, of that ill fated day. I had just moved in with Graces mum and our future was bright and hopeful. I was working on a luxury condominium conversion in the Peoples Republic of Berkeley. Grace's mum was working as an architectural designer doing work for financial leviathan Morgan Stanley. I hit the radio in the shower and heard the first reports of the attack. Quick i said. "Turn on the TV, a plane has crashed into the World Trade Centre." (The Television was all snow as we were waiting for the cable guy who was scheduled to come sometime between 12 & 6 PM.) Gracie’s mum says to me. “Oh, they are not going to be happy with me, I did not Fed EX my plans to the WTC yesterday.” “Honey”, I said, divining the scope of the unfolding emergency from the snowy TV screen. “They have bigger problems than your FED EX boo boo.”
We drink some coffee and eat some cereal, without saying much, probably just like all the folks whose lives have just been devoured on the East Coast, had done a scant few hours before us. It was scheduled to be a busy day on the job, so I kissed my girl goodbye and went about my business. There really was not much else one could do in far off Berkeley, California except try to glean some perspective and carry on. The news on the car radio is not good. The South tower had just collapsed, the Pentagon is on fire and it is obviously an overt act of war. Confusion and speculation that planes are missing over the pacific bound for the West Coast is being reported as fact. I arrive at the jobsite and it is mad confusion, outrage and anger. The guy I work for, Seth, is an interesting mish mash of personalities. Part hard nosed businessman, with a portion of mystical Buddhist by way of Berkley yoga dude, with a splash of sinister sauce.
He is arguing with Pat Downs an old Vietnam Vet as the Nth Tower crumbles into oblivion. Pat wants to fly Old Glory above the building and is already talking about “fucking rag heads” and payback. Seth does not want to fly the flag as, in his mind, it would appear nationalistic and perhaps be offensive to the uppity, yet progressive neighbors. The ones who have already had enough of this awful construction nonsense intruding into their specialness. Seth, with an eye, as always, on the clock and the dollar, is trying to rally his shell shocked troops. “We don’t know that it was terrorists, let’s just do a good days work men” No one is buying it. This is a national tragedy. We can already see that it is right up there with the Kennedy shooting and Pearl Harbor. Some of the crew have family on the East Coast and Levon Carters Dad even works at the Pentagon. All of a sudden the boss mans phone rings; he steps aside to take the call. He is quiet, and this is the first time I have ever seen motor mouth Seth with no words tumbling from his lips. He calls my name and throws me the keys. He says. “I don’t care what you do, just lock up the building.” He has a strange sad frown and takes off running at a good clip. We don’t see him for days and only find out later that his best friend and neighbor has been killed on flight 93.
We agree to call it a day and head home to our loved ones. Just in case our dose is still coming I stop for Gas, which has already spiked 35 cents in a matter of hours and get last into line for groceries at Andronicos. I make sure too buy beer, for today we will drown a lot of sorrows. I get home and there is no cable guy and we are stuck with sleet on the screen while history is smacking us hard in the face. Grace’s mum is worried about her colleagues working for Morgan Stanley at WTC 1. Not surprisingly they are not answering their phones. Beers are cracked and I am happy to be sitting safely in our house, on our purple couch with the woman I love.
We have KTUV 20 on, as it is a little less hyper than the networks. A nice lady is interviewing a man I do not know, but he is calm and reassuring. He is talking about how the POTUS will immediately have to re task satellites over global trouble spots to gather intelligence. The need to get the air corridors on both Coasts secured. He yalks of the strategic capabilities of carrier strike groups, air wings and the scope of the various cabinet portfolios and the critical roles the will play in the dark days we have ahead of us. I say to my girl. “Hey this guys on top of it, he should be in charge. He should be POTUS” ( At this point George W Bush was MIA in Nebraska.) He sounds so poised and resolute, some how hardened. The interviewer concluded the broadcast. “Thank you Mr. Vice President. “ And advises viewers that her interview subject, the engaging and wise in the way of international affairs and the nation’s governance, former Vice President Dan Quayle, has cancelled his speech at the Commonwealth club in San Francisco in light of the day’s tragic events. My girl and i who have both been paying rapt attention say as one did she just say Dan Quayle? Yes she did, and on September 11, 2001 the nation could have done far worse than have him in the oval office based on what i heard with my own ears.
The day wears on and the unfolding horror of the event begins to shut down the senses. The catastrophe and its consequences, and hopefully the TV picture, will surely be clearer tomorrow. The cable guy never comes, we’ve given up on him, but do not bother too call a complaint in to his bosses. How could you? It is obviously a small inconvenience that can wait until tomorrow. A new day whose challenges and frustrations I am yet to aspire too, and I realize that thousands of the yet uncounted dead will never know its promise. About 11pm the phone rings and it is Graces mother’s MIA colleague. Some folks are still not accounted for, but he has temporary offices in mid town Manhattan and wants his plans. Hell, he wanted them yesterday, and he’s in no mood for left coast slackers. The sun rises, life goes on and a bruised nation endures. But for some, the widowed, the orphans of 911 and the wars that will soon follow that day of rage, nothing will ever truly be the same again.
The day wears on and the unfolding horror of the event begins to shut down the senses. The catastrophe and its consequences, and hopefully the TV picture, will surely be clearer tomorrow. The cable guy never comes, we’ve given up on him, but do not bother too call a complaint in to his bosses. How could you? It is obviously a small inconvenience that can wait until tomorrow. A new day whose challenges and frustrations I am yet to aspire too, and I realize that thousands of the yet uncounted dead will never know its promise. About 11pm the phone rings and it is Graces mother’s MIA colleague. Some folks are still not accounted for, but he has temporary offices in mid town Manhattan and wants his plans. Hell, he wanted them yesterday, and he’s in no mood for left coast slackers. The sun rises, life goes on and a bruised nation endures. But for some, the widowed, the orphans of 911 and the wars that will soon follow that day of rage, nothing will ever truly be the same again.
