September Mourn

This was the one day I regretted my gift of empathy. I didn't want to feel what I knew they were feeling.


I had just been fingerprinted at the headquarters of the Atlanta Public Schools. It was the last step to becoming a member of the long roster of substitute teachers who stepped in when full-time teachers needed to step out. The much ballyhooed azure blue canopy gleamed above a picture-perfect September morning, gleefully absent of Atlanta's legendary humidity.

On my always-on radio, Tom Joyner's usual goofy patter was interrupted by his news reader. "An incomplete report has just come in from New York City. It appears that one of the Twin Towers has been struck by a plane." I remember slowly shaking my head in the way that means "what a shame. Somebody's day has gone horribly wrong." My eyes glanced briefly at the dashboard clock. 8:49 a.m.


As I navigated the short trip to my home, I imagined the wife of the plane's pilot going about her business at home. She had just dropped the kids off at school and was settling down at last to sip her tea and watch The Today Show. She listened as Ann Curry made a similar announcement about the plane mishap. She assumed, as I had, it was a small, probably private plane that had somehow lost its bearing and slammed into the tower. Her heart skipped a beat in fear for her mate.


When I had closed the garage door and entered my kitchen, I went straight for the remote. It's a habit I've developed to stave off the blaring silence in the house since my son had left the nest. And there it was.


I was stricken by a terror I had only felt once before, when I struggled to stay on my feet at the 1989 World Series during the catastrophic earthquake in San Francisco. I backed my way onto the sofa. I watched as a jetliner flew itself, with great purpose, into the second tower.


My stomach lurched at the same time a scream bubbled up from the depths of my being. "This is no accident. What the hell is happening?" I had said it out loud.

A camera trained on the plume of jet black smoke pouring from Tower 1 stayed there for minutes at a time. At first I thought I was seeing parts of the plane and/or the building falling to the ground. It wasn't. When I realized I was witnessing the suicide of desperate office workers, I nearly vomited.


Now I'm imagining myself being on the 96th floor of the first tower. Terrified. Coughing and gagging from the smoke and fumes from spilled jet fuel. Concluding that I was to die that day and scrambling to find a working phone. Attempting to dial my son's number and not being able to remember his number because it's programmed into all the phones I use.


Feeling the heat, hearing the screaming, smelling the stench of burning human flesh. I call my mother, who I know is watching TV and try to make her stop screaming so I can tell her I love her and goodbye. And finally running to the gaping hole in the wall where the windows used to be and deciding in an instant to save myself from the flames.


I imagine the point at which I am filled with an inexplicable sense of peace. I even smile. And I jump.

Rest in peace. We will never forget.