story643.xml
Title
story643.xml
Source
born-digital
Media Type
story
Date Entered
2002-05-17
911DA Story: Story
Poems
Where Were You?
Walking out of the bathroom, that?s what I was doing when I heard.
I was walking out of the bathroom, shaking the droplets of water off my hands,
when I saw the TV on in the conference room, when someone told me about the planes.
My sister-in-law was in a class at Bible College. They stopped and prayed.
Someone I work with was about to go in for a job interview. She sat watching TV with the secretary.
My husband was also trying to watch the TV on the secretary?s desk, though the screen was only an inch wide. It was difficult to see what was happening.
My friend was working at a nursery school. Parents started arriving, crying, whisking their children home.
My mom was in the church office. All she heard was "they bombed the Pentagon." A woman came in off the street, hysterical.
My dad was in the car listening to the radio. He was tuned into this jazz station that had a morning talk show.
They were looking for callers.
The last normal thing he heard them say was, "Now how many of you have a relative that dresses like a pimp?"
Call in and tell us.
But they didn?t, because then there was this rustling of papers, and he said there was something happening in New York.
My dad changed the channel.
?
Like Wildfire
I think of the ripple, or the tidal wave.
From East to West ? office workers to carpoolers to kitchen dwellers to those under the covers.
Someone tells someone who tells someone who tells someone.
A thousand simultaneous gasps, followed by a thousand others. Hands go to mouths and to remote controls.
The whispers: "Did you hear?" "What happened?" and varying versions of the same story echo, and overlap.
Never before: so many fingers dialing, or dancing across the keys, trying to make the connection.
A nation full of eyes entranced by the screen ? and uneaten dinners, and tears in pillows.
3/7/02
?
The Day After (September 12)
At work the TV kept playing outside of my cubicle and inside my head.
I fought fear with the mundane.
I clicked on the keys and stared ahead at the haze of white screen.
If I dared close my eyes, I saw buildings falling, fire, and airplanes ? in slow-motion; instant replay.
That day there were no planes in the blue skies; no everyday worries about traffic or bills ? just my heartbeat and cold hands.
Around noon Jenn gave me pink roses.
At first they took me by surprise.
They left me almost breathless.
I got lost in the folds of intricately carved petals, blinded by the beauty and sweetness.
In that delicious drowning time I prayed for time before life opened my eyes, and jolted me awake.
9/21/01
?
First Laugh
We stood in the hospital lobby with lights and cords and microphones.
Mark Tolosky, the CEO, stared right into the camera.
An American flag pin was fastened to his suit.
I can do this, I thought, breathing deeply.
Glancing out the window, I could see the flag, at half-mast, shifting in the breeze.
The camera rolled and soon my forehead grew sticky from the lights.
Someone passing by said, "They just found firefighters alive in the rubble!"
Please God, I choked, then swallowed it. We had to finish.
Tolosky hadn?t heard. Instead, he cracked a joke.
I don?t remember it anymore. I just remember laughing.
These unused muscles squeaked into a smile.
My stomach tickled and eyes watered.
The laughter shook my insides and spread this warmth within me that lingered with the afternoon shadows.
11/20/01
?
Saturday (September 15)
It was time to mobilize.
On 96.5 TIC-FM, in-between "God Bless America" and the "Star Spangled Banner," people were calling in and urging us to stop at Big Y or the parking lot of Kay?s Beauty Salon.
Drop off your bottled water and your blankets, your flashlights and your food. We?ll do everything we can to get it there.
I donned my yellow gloves and began scrubbing mildew from the bathroom walls, furiously scraping in tune to the music,
making the faucets gleam back my red face.
Later, on my way to Wal-Mart, I saw firefighters collecting dollars in their boots.
There was nothing we could do.
So we followed a slapped together script patched with bits of World War II films and recollections from our grandparents.
I could almost hear the narrator.
At a red light this melancholy song from the summer came on the radio.
The song spilled out from my open windows and through other open windows.
This, I calculated, would be the emotional scene.
Drifting outside myself, gazing down at the tableau, I wondered how long this would go on ? this detachment, this thin line of separation, like an egg shell.
?
Lunchtime
A week later we were sitting outside, the sun beating on our backs, eating tuna fish and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
Above us the sky was a brilliant blue; one of those almost autumn skies free of summer haze. There were no clouds.
In an instant the roar of a plane interrupted our sentences.
Every one of us looked up ?
our mouths slightly opened, squinting, expecting something none of us would ever put into words.
We?d learned so quickly, this new reflex.
The thought drained me and the flavor out of the moment.
I crumpled my brown bag, definitely finished.
1/27/02
Where Were You?
Walking out of the bathroom, that?s what I was doing when I heard.
I was walking out of the bathroom, shaking the droplets of water off my hands,
when I saw the TV on in the conference room, when someone told me about the planes.
My sister-in-law was in a class at Bible College. They stopped and prayed.
Someone I work with was about to go in for a job interview. She sat watching TV with the secretary.
My husband was also trying to watch the TV on the secretary?s desk, though the screen was only an inch wide. It was difficult to see what was happening.
My friend was working at a nursery school. Parents started arriving, crying, whisking their children home.
My mom was in the church office. All she heard was "they bombed the Pentagon." A woman came in off the street, hysterical.
My dad was in the car listening to the radio. He was tuned into this jazz station that had a morning talk show.
They were looking for callers.
The last normal thing he heard them say was, "Now how many of you have a relative that dresses like a pimp?"
Call in and tell us.
But they didn?t, because then there was this rustling of papers, and he said there was something happening in New York.
My dad changed the channel.
?
Like Wildfire
I think of the ripple, or the tidal wave.
From East to West ? office workers to carpoolers to kitchen dwellers to those under the covers.
Someone tells someone who tells someone who tells someone.
A thousand simultaneous gasps, followed by a thousand others. Hands go to mouths and to remote controls.
The whispers: "Did you hear?" "What happened?" and varying versions of the same story echo, and overlap.
Never before: so many fingers dialing, or dancing across the keys, trying to make the connection.
A nation full of eyes entranced by the screen ? and uneaten dinners, and tears in pillows.
3/7/02
?
The Day After (September 12)
At work the TV kept playing outside of my cubicle and inside my head.
I fought fear with the mundane.
I clicked on the keys and stared ahead at the haze of white screen.
If I dared close my eyes, I saw buildings falling, fire, and airplanes ? in slow-motion; instant replay.
That day there were no planes in the blue skies; no everyday worries about traffic or bills ? just my heartbeat and cold hands.
Around noon Jenn gave me pink roses.
At first they took me by surprise.
They left me almost breathless.
I got lost in the folds of intricately carved petals, blinded by the beauty and sweetness.
In that delicious drowning time I prayed for time before life opened my eyes, and jolted me awake.
9/21/01
?
First Laugh
We stood in the hospital lobby with lights and cords and microphones.
Mark Tolosky, the CEO, stared right into the camera.
An American flag pin was fastened to his suit.
I can do this, I thought, breathing deeply.
Glancing out the window, I could see the flag, at half-mast, shifting in the breeze.
The camera rolled and soon my forehead grew sticky from the lights.
Someone passing by said, "They just found firefighters alive in the rubble!"
Please God, I choked, then swallowed it. We had to finish.
Tolosky hadn?t heard. Instead, he cracked a joke.
I don?t remember it anymore. I just remember laughing.
These unused muscles squeaked into a smile.
My stomach tickled and eyes watered.
The laughter shook my insides and spread this warmth within me that lingered with the afternoon shadows.
11/20/01
?
Saturday (September 15)
It was time to mobilize.
On 96.5 TIC-FM, in-between "God Bless America" and the "Star Spangled Banner," people were calling in and urging us to stop at Big Y or the parking lot of Kay?s Beauty Salon.
Drop off your bottled water and your blankets, your flashlights and your food. We?ll do everything we can to get it there.
I donned my yellow gloves and began scrubbing mildew from the bathroom walls, furiously scraping in tune to the music,
making the faucets gleam back my red face.
Later, on my way to Wal-Mart, I saw firefighters collecting dollars in their boots.
There was nothing we could do.
So we followed a slapped together script patched with bits of World War II films and recollections from our grandparents.
I could almost hear the narrator.
At a red light this melancholy song from the summer came on the radio.
The song spilled out from my open windows and through other open windows.
This, I calculated, would be the emotional scene.
Drifting outside myself, gazing down at the tableau, I wondered how long this would go on ? this detachment, this thin line of separation, like an egg shell.
?
Lunchtime
A week later we were sitting outside, the sun beating on our backs, eating tuna fish and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
Above us the sky was a brilliant blue; one of those almost autumn skies free of summer haze. There were no clouds.
In an instant the roar of a plane interrupted our sentences.
Every one of us looked up ?
our mouths slightly opened, squinting, expecting something none of us would ever put into words.
We?d learned so quickly, this new reflex.
The thought drained me and the flavor out of the moment.
I crumpled my brown bag, definitely finished.
1/27/02
Collection
Citation
“story643.xml,” September 11 Digital Archive, accessed January 1, 2026, https://www.911digitalarchive.org/items/show/15601.