My 9/11

Now's there's tears on the pillow

Darlin' where we slept

And you took my heart when you left

Without your sweet kiss

My soul is lost, my friend

Tell me how do I begin again?

My city's in ruins

My city's in ruins

My City of Ruins -Bruce Springsteen

 
Sometimes I wonder if 9/11 shouldn't have affected me as much as it did since I didn't lose anyone nor did I know anyone that lost someone.  This is hard to believe since I grew up only 20 miles outside of the city in a town where a lot of parents commuted there.  But I guess, we were all blessed.

But still, I remember much of this day as though it was yesterday.  I can't believe it's been 10 years.

Had you met me prior to the fall of 2001, I would have told you something about me.  Something that typically now takes years for me to build up the trust to tell you. Although after only a few short weeks, I will be telling you here.

I am half Arabic. Half Palestinian to be exact.

Half Palestinian. Half Euro-Mutt. All American.

When I was growing up, I used to tell everyone that fact.  I thought it was cool because it made me different.  I wasn't raised exposed to the culture so I wasn't telling everyone because I necessarily identified myself as an Arab.  But for me, it meant I could stay in the sun longer with little-to-no sunscreen and I rarely met anyone else that could say the same thing.  I was raised in NJ.  Pretty much I was surrounded by Italians, Jews, Irish, and Indians.

I left for college at the end of August 2001.  I was only 17 miles from home (still only 25 miles from NYC), but I made the decision to stay on campus to get the "full" college experience.  It was the first time I would ever be away from home (I never even went to camp growing up). By Tuesday, September 11, we were only through Freshman orientation and the first week of classes.  I had made some friends by this point--roommate, classmates, and floormates.

For some reason, I chose a Women's Studies class for my freshman seminar.  Now, I believe in women's rights--hell, I was raised by a female police officer.  But, I'm far from the stereotypical liberal arts college feminist.  I stuck out like a sore thumb in this class.  Maybe I was there just to make it interesting.  Lord knows, I argued with everyone about every topic.

On Tuesdays that semester, I only had one class.  It was that women's studies class (something about women in literature, I can't remember the exact course name now) at 9 AM.   On this morning, like many others, I rolled out of bed, brushed my teeth, and threw on a bra under my pajamas to head to that class.  I didn't turn on the TV and I didn't wake up to a radio alarm.

We sat there for 50 minutes "talking"--well, mostly I was talking and the majority of the rest of the class was whining--about how fairy tales affect female children.  The damsel in distress role taught our young girls that they needed a man to save them, blah, blah, blah.  Listen, I enjoyed a LOT of fairy tales as a child.  And yes, I wanted my Happily Ever After. But I was also surrounded by really strong gifted women growing up.  I knew I could be happy and never have to compromise who I am.  Sure, my prince may have to kiss me to wake me up but if it was too early, I was going to tell him off.

My friend (a floormate that I had only known for about 2 weeks) and I walked back to our dorm.  We huffed about how we felt everyone had overreacted.  She went into her room and I walked just a few more doors down to mine.  My roommate was still asleep--she didn't have an early class on Tuesday.  The dark room was very inviting.  I got into my bed, the low bunk, curled up under the covers, and planned to go back to sleep (the truth was this was the whole reason I went to class in my pajamas, so I could go right back to sleep after).

I didn't turn on the TV.  Didn't even turn on my computer.

Just as I was closing my eyes, that friend of mine that I just "dropped off" at her room started banging on my door as hard as she could.  ::BANG BANG BANG:: I opened it to find her hysterically crying.  It was hard for me to make out what she was saying.  There was something about planes and the Towers. She told me to put the news on.

By this point, my roommate was awake too.  We turned the TV on--it didn't matter what channel.  They all had the same thing on.  The first Tower had already fallen.  My friend and I sat on my lower bunk, jaws open in disbelief.  Our eyes filled with tears.  My roommate sat up in her top bunk and did the same.

We soon learned that this had been going on the entire time we were in class.  I have guilt to this day for that reason.  People were suffering, people were dying and I was in class listening to a room full of 18-year-old know-it-alls complaining about fairy tales.

They played the image of the planes crashing into the Towers over and over. Even today, this image doesn't just evoke emotions from me but my eyes instantly swell with tears.

We watched the second Tower fall.

After that, much of the day is a blur.  I don't remember speaking with my parents but I know I did.  I don't remember leaving the room--not until the evening, at least.  I spoke to all my friends to make sure their families were okay but I couldn't tell you which ones I spoke with that day and which ones I spoke with during the rest of the week.  I remember at some point in the day/evening trying to call my now-husband and not being able to reach him.  He was in Atlanta so it was safe to assume he was okay but I still wanted to hear his voice.

The only thing I do remember from that foggy period is that I was horrified that I would see my last name appear on the list of attackers.  My maiden name is a very common Palestinian name.  Just as a coincidence, I hadn't told anyone what my ethnicity was during the short time I was at school.  Surprising, since prior to that day, it was something I bragged about.

I wasn't concerned that I knew anyone that could do this.  I was concerned that people would find out what my last name was.  People would know that I was Arabic.  With the way the world was in that moment, I didn't trust anyone to know my secret.  In fact, my roommate that I remained close with wouldn't find out my truth for another year and a half.  You see, I was raised in NJ and have olive skin.  Everyone thinks I'm Italian.  That was fine by me.

It's nice to think that everyone lives in harmony, but no one knows how people will act in a moment of tragedy.  I wouldn't blame anyone either.  It's nice to run around and pretend we're blind to race, creed, gender and ethnicity.  But we're not.  People do awful things when they're afraid.

So for years to come, this was my secret.  It was never really a burden.  It was just something that I didn't share.

Recounting 9/11 today made me realize one thing.  It was the day I lost my innocence.  I remember so many details leading up to that moment, and then suddenly it becomes as blurry as any other memory.

My heart is still heavy for those who lost someone they loved that day.  I still have so much respect for the men and women that ran toward the smoke, into the fire, into the falling buildings when everyone else was running out.  I still cry when I really sit down and think about this or see images from that day.  It's a moment that changed my life.  Not for the better and not necessarily for the worse. But it changed.

During a week when just about everyone is reflecting, this is my story.