"Day of Terror"
September 11, 2001, mid-morning
GC’s alarm went off for the fourth and final time. It was 6:06 AM, Pacific Standard. GC groaned pitiably and fumbled to silence the incorrigible, grating BEEP-BEEP sound. Finally she found the switch and proceeded to get ready for school.
As GC was making breakfast the local smooth jazz station, The Wave, had important news to say: a plane had crashed into the New York World Trade Center. GC stared at her mother in disbelief as she stopped moving. An accident, GC thought, still not fully informed. A small private plane. Little lives lost, little damage. GC listened as the news continued, and soon her world died.
GC listened with horror as she found out what really happened. It wasn’t a private plane; it was a commercial jet. It wasn’t just one plane, it was two, each crashing, quite deliberately, into each Tower, with innocent passengers, innocent crew. This was no accident. The family ate in silence.
When they were getting ready to go, GC’s mom stopped her and her brother. “Do you guys want to go to school?” Brother was not going to let this keep him from going to school. However, he had a friend who may stay home. He stepped into the family room to call said friend.
GC, however, needed to think. Her school was the closest to a freeway, closest to any more danger. “We’re on high alert now, Mom,” GC finally decided. “I don’t think anything more is going to happen.”
Mother nodded and took them all to school.***GC trudged into her first period, English, just like everyone else in her class. There was no class instruction today. No, here was a lesson in conspiracy theory, a lesson GC did not need: her teacher brought up that “terrorist” came into the conversation immediately; “Osama bin Laden” followed. The teacher brought up that maybe it was not terrorists; maybe it was someone inside. Maybe it was someone within the government. This put GC at unease like nothing else. She always had a ‘love of country’ mentality, and now this man, her English teacher, was debunking this love! Honestly, GC was quite ashamed that George W. Bush was her country’s president, and now, with this problem . . . GC tuned her English teacher out. If he was right, she did not want to know. Let her cling to the hours she had before this tragic event.
Reg. Room came. Students rose and said the Pledge while a muted television showed a scene from “Independence Day,” or something very close to it; GC did not speak the Pledge, knowing she would collapse into tears if she tried. However, the patriotic spirit had not left her; she spoke the Pledge in her mind.
One of GC’s friends asked her what had happened so far.
“The Towers are gone,” she answered monotonously.
“Both of them?”
“Yeah, both. Just gone, crumbled to the ground . . . See?” GC gestured to the television.Later that morning
Second period passed in a hushed silence. There would be no class time here today, either. Only the glow of the television offered any light, and it was anything but consoling or warming.
Then came Nutrition. It was obvious GC’s so called “Lunch Crew” would not be the same, crazy, rambunctious collective it had been just twenty-four hours ago, especially one in particular.
“Be nice to Brian,” Josh warned GC as soon as they came up to their little space near to S-Building.
“Nice? Why? What happened?” she asked, obviously concerned.
“Brian’s aunt was on top of the World Trade Center when the planes hit.”
GC’s eyes went wide. “Oh my . . .” She had no clue that the disaster would ever hit so close to her world, or someone else’s.
Brian, the most rambunctious of the group, arrived. GC felt the need to do something, no matter how small the gesture was. She knew the pain of death, had felt it three times too many. She had no clue if her friend knew of it too, but she would feel better knowing that she had offered Brian company in misery. She walked over to him. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“You doin’ okay?”
“Okay enough . . .”
“Hey, do you have my phone number?”
“I think I do . . . Yeah, I do.”
“Then if you ever need someone to talk to, my phone-line’s open.”
“I think I’ll be okay, but --- thanks.”
GC knew he would probably never call; she usually never talked to her friends on the phone. To her, giving out her actual phone-number was a sign of true empathy, true friendship. But there was always the Internet, and besides, Mother was usually on the phone anyway, tying that line up. In any event, Brian had her number, and if he needed or wanted to, he would call her. GC smiled, nodded, and hugged her friend.
Third period, AP Government, passed with a mixture of television and the teacher’s own views. She, like GC, was quite scared of just how badly Bush would display this country.
Fourth period, Creative Writing, was spiritually invigorating. As one poor soul was led outside while he awaited a call from his girlfriend in NYU the teacher told them of their “assignment”: as writers, as first-hand observers, it was their job to record these events, to make sure the voices of the past would be heard. It was a job GC was ready, willing, and able to undertake.Later that afternoon
Lunch came. GC sat, subdued, with her “Lunch Crew” friends. ‘RiftWar’ was still continuing; GC tried to incorporate real life events into the story. This would not, could not, be incorporated. She glanced between Josh and Blake and declared, “I don’t think this should be in ‘RiftWar’.”
She was answered with nods of approval.
Lunch ended; fifth period came and went; no television in that class. GC made her way to her locker after her AP Spanish Language class, dumped and added the book she did and did not need into and out of her backpack. She hoisted her backpack onto her shoulders with extra caution as a new, heavy burden weighed her down. Then she trudged outside to meet her ride home.***The event affected everyone, GC easily realized by the end of the day. Even Bethany’s mother, who is usually a caring and sympathetic individual, had something to say: “All those people should be destroyed; they’re all evil.” GC, for the moment, could not help but agree. All those people “over there” deserved to die. But there was a problem. All those people “over there” were not the people who were most likely responsible. All those people “over there” were those that celebrated the death of 6000 Americans and foreigners. GC wanted those people “glassed,” a term she gleaned from a movie of long ago, meaning to nuke a planet to the point where it was inhospitable to any life whatsoever. However, she knew such anger was directed towards the wrong people; she wanted whoever supported these “pilots” actions destroyed, but something would have had to be done about those terrible people who passed out candy to children upon word of New York’s tragedy. For the moment, she had no clue who supported the attack, but she would find out in a few days.
When GC arrived at her house she quickly turned on the news, quietly and depressingly nursing the day’s water bottle. As usual, the news was doing its job; winning the hearts and minds of America, and the world, with repeated showings of the Towers crumbling to the ground; people caked in dust, looking dazed and confused; groups of people mourning, grieving, hoping. GC needed to see these ghastly shots, she needed to cry and grieve with those in New York, and the television did its best to bring her there. She would continue to do this for a few days.
The time came to go online. GC wanted to see if her online friends were all right, especially “Marie” of ‘RiftWar;’ she lived in Pennsylvania, where another plane had crashed. As soon as she logged onto her ICQ messaging system she was greeted by none other than “Jackson,” her co-GM (Game-Master) for ‘RiftWar.’ Within minutes, she was talking to everyone, letting them know she was okay, asking others how they were. At least GC had the Internet, her place of refuge and normalcy, a place to be while the world crumbled around her. The world would rebuild, of course, but it would take time; time GC was willing, but also afraid, to let pass.
