Jack's Day

Do you know what day it is, the only other inhabitant of the computer lab asked me. Yes, I knew. It was September 11th. The day Jack felled the Giant. I didn't want to discuss things with him. I wasn't interested in his story or his politics.

It's Saturday, I told him.

The eleventh of September, my friend, he said to me. I nodded, waited to see if he would say more, and continued with my typing. His eyes had been clouded and red, and upon my realization of this I guiltily wondered whether or not he had been seeking the only conversation available to him.

I remember the day it happened. Who doesn't? Half the world, American or not, were watching their televisions that day to see what would happen when the Giant stood up.

Class, I need your attention, Mr. Burden had said to us, rubbing at the stump of his amputated arm the way he did when he was deep in thought. He pointed out that, though we were in history class, probably nothing else in our lives would be burned into our collective memory to the extent that this day would be. One of the world trade centers had been struck by a hijacked plane, and a TV was set up for us in the library. History, he said, is in the making now.

As I stood in the library, staring at a small television on a rolling cart, I did not move. I absorbed the words of the newscasters as I watched smoke and debris fall from the first building. I did not know until much later that the debris I was seeing were actually live humans, throwing themselves from the tower in desperation.

Still, I showed no emotion. The shaky film crew made it seem like I was watching a low-budget horror movie, and it was not until I saw a shadowed plane emerge from the right of the screen that my eyes widened. Flame leaped from the second tower, off-level from the first. There were a few whispers from the crowd of people gathering behind me in the library, then total silence. All eyes were on the trembling newsanchor.

The first tower had fallen, and it was not long afterward that I thought "Dear God!" I leaned forward unnoticeably. Dear God, it's leaning. It's going to fall. It's going to fall. The second tower is going to fall.

I almost said so out loud, as if pointing it out might prevent it from happening. Instead, I simply stared, having yet to blink, barely breathing, as the tower did indeed fall. We were told a few minutes, a few eternities, I don't know how long later, that we could go home for the remainder of the day.

The following day in Mr. Burden's class, we were told that Vox magazine wanted to publish some student's sentiments on what had happened in their next issue. I was published, being the only voice in the magazine speaking against America.

I knew the other girl who was published. She wrote about getting up that morning, having coffee, driving to school.

I wrote that the first tower falls, I think of Hiroshima. The second tower falls, I think of Nagasaki. We call our loss a tragedy, and the loss of others a victory. Had I said such things after people had time to clear their minds, I would probably have left school with a number of bruises.

But I did not regret saying those things. I haven't ever regretted saying those things. With friends overseas and what seems like senseless casualties on both sides of the fence, I think I become more justified in the beliefs that I have held. But with friends oversees and the word "terror" being thrown about like lightning in a storm, I managed this year to do something I had previously not done on any of the elevenths.

I managed to care about the poor, short-sighted Americans. Their end is coming so fast.