On a Clear Day

Today is much like that day. The sky is crystal clear, the temperature is ideal and feels especially luxurious after a long, hot summer.  Nothing bad could happen on a perfect day like this—unless it was this day, September 11, in 2001.

I had not been in the office long when I spotted a colleague staring at a television screen with her jaw dropped.  “Someone has crashed a plane into the World Trade Center,” she said.  My first thought was of some nut flying a small plane into the building, but it soon became clear that it was an airliner and that this was going to be a disaster of major proportions.  And as an employee of the American Red Cross national headquarters, I was in the disaster business.

I went to my boss’s office and told him to turn on his TV.  When he understood what had happened, he asked me to gather the media relations staff.  As I walked from office to office, I caught a quick glimpse of another TV—just as the second plane struck.  Concern turned to alarm as it became apparent that something awful was happening.

Soon came word that another skyjacked plane was in the sky, and it was headed towards the Capitol, or the White House.  My office was on Red Cross Square, which is across the street from the Ellipse behind the White House; my home and husband were six blocks from the Capitol.

Amazingly—because few people were having any luck with their phones that morning—I reached my husband.  He had just gotten up and was unaware of what was going on, but he could hear sirens all around. We exchanged important, loving words, and then I got back to work.

Rumors flew—there had been an explosion on the National Mall (false); the Smithsonian was burning (false); Washington’s Metro had been gassed (false).  Then word came that the Pentagon had been hit.  Exasperated at the rumors, I rose from my chair, looked out the window, and was horrified to confirm that this was not another story;  I could clearly see the flames and smoke were pouring from the Pentagon, just across the river.

The rest of the day was a flurry of activity, sorrow, anger, and confusion.  There are enough stories to tell one each September 11 for the rest of my life. But finally, I decided to call it a day.  Entering the Metro was an act of courage, but just being alive would take some courage for a while.  I got onto a nearly empty car and spotted a woman who was shaking and softly weeping, clearly terrified.  I sat down next to her, and she took my hand and squeezed it.  And we sat wordlessly, holding onto each other’s hand, until I reached my stop.  As I got up to leave the train, we exchanged a quick hug, two strangers entering a strange new world.