It was a relatively sunny September morning, and I was sleeping in as usual. Suddenly I was rudely awakened by my roommate. This was an odd occurance as Andrew (the roommate in question) and I rarely spoke. The two of us lived in a campus apartment just across the street from the dorms. While we got along well, we really had nothing in common and seldom took notice of the other beyond simple courtesies. He gently but urgently shook me awake. I threw a glance at the clock, normally I would not be rolling out of bed to stumble slovenly into class for another hour or two.
"You've got to see this Jake."
Sensing his mood, I arose without response, threw on token clothing, and followed him into the livingroom. The TV was on and a newscaster was screaming his report, but I didn't notice. My world was silent as I was captured by the image on the screen: an airplane hanging out the side of an office building. The World Trade Center to be exact. For a moment we two college boys with nothing in common felt a bond as we stared in shock. Not a word was spoken. Not a breath stirred.
I quietly left the room and got dressed. The ride was a short one and five minutes later my beat up old station wagon came to a rest on Jack street. I walked up to Misha's apartment and saw that the gang was already there. There were no smiles, no cheerful greetings for a friend, instead there was a silent acknowledgement as they met my gaze with wizened eyes. There were many there but I only remember the presence of a few: Chris, Morgan, Adam Bires. I don't remember if Justin was there, I'm sure he must have been. Chris and I sat in silence on the porch for a time, and when we talked it wasn't with anger or hate or worry, but with regret. The two of us mourned an era.
I remember Morgan because she empathized with our attackers, a stance many of us considered inappropriate at the time. But she wasn't being radical, or anti-establishment; she was merely reminding us that the opposition had a story, and that the majority of those who would recieve blame were blameless, that an entire culture would take the fall for a group. She had odd ideas about things, did Morgan, and her perspective was often viewed as bizarre. Maybe she intuitively saw what was to come. Maybe not.
I can remember being angry with her. She had spent the majority of her life in Africa and I was certain that she was so far removed from contiental American thinking that she could hardly be considered a citizen. She didn't understand what I felt, what I could feel in those around me. And in hindsight I truely don't know if she understood our grief, our terror. But I do know that she cared, that she was moved.
The day wore on and we all began to go our seperate ways. As Adam Bires walked out he stopped and clasp my hand. Adam has always had an air of tradgety about him. Few of his stories flatter himself, rather the contrary, and failure haunts him in his own mind to this day. And this man, this tragic man, clasped my hand on his way out and paused to meet my gaze. And a sad smile crept on his face. It was gone in an instant, but that instant was all I needed. It could only have come from a man like Adam Bires, a man who saw himself as tragic; a man who lived under a self-imposed cloud of guilt and failure. My world had been sent rocking, and Adam reached out and steadied it. With that one sad smile he said: tomorrow is another day.
In idle conversation today, September 11th was brought up. The original topic was the current catastrophe, hurricane Katrina, and conversation had wandered about the calamities of the past decade until arriving at 9-11. A common question for my parents generation is "Where were you when you heard JFK had been shot?" So in eery tradition the same question has been oft posed to my generation concerning 9-11. And so it was today. When asked where I was on 9-11, I am proud to quietly repy:
In the company of friends.
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