I woke up late the morning of Sept. 11, 2001. Instead of switching on the TV to catch the national news a time-honored tradition until that hurried moment I washed my face, dressed, downed my coffee and drove to the Intermountain Jewish News on Sherman Street.
My car raced through traffic. Intent on arriving at work in one piece, I neglected to turn on the radio. Nothing seemed out of place that Tuesday morning in Denver, Colorado. Horns did not honk. Frantic arms did not wave. It was just another day until I walked into the office.
Memory is a strange beast, either crouching for the odd opportunity to unmask itself or curling at your feet like a reliable pet. All I know is that by the time someone pulled me into the conference room to watch the news, I was aware of the reason.
Katie Couric was speaking, but her words paled in comparison to the flaming images on the screen behind her. It was 10 a.m. in New York City.
A colleague filled me in. At roughly 8:45 a.m. Eastern Time, American Airlines Flight 11 crashed into the north face of Tower I of
Ithe World Trade Center. Twelve minutes later, another plane United Airlines Flight 175 crashed into Tower II.
The entire IJN staff gradually entered the room, listening intently as journalists tried to make sense of unprecedented madness in real time.
Journalists are trained to permeate the experiences and emotions of their subjects without sacrificing objectivity. Yet I was a participant on Sept. 11. This was my country. It was happening to me.
I realized the passengers on the two planes were dead. I imagined their horror as they grasped their fate. And I knew people were trapped on the floors of the WTC screaming, panicking, desperately trying to find a way out.
The rest of this article is available in the IJN’s print edition only. Contact Carol to order your copy at (303) 861-2234 or email carol@ijn.com.
