Where We Were

For nearly everyone in America who was beyond kindergarten in 2001, the list of so-called “flashbulb memories” is most likely topped by the 9/11 terrorist attack on the World Trade Center.

We all seem to remember our personal circumstances: Where we were, what we were doing, whom we were with, and what we were thinking when the awful news broke.

We also cannot forget how we felt that September morning when we first saw orange fireballs erupting and black smoke streaming from the Twin Towers, defacing the serene, blue New York City sky.

By sharing individual recollections of that day, we further forge our shared identity—not only as Americans, but also as human beings.

With that in mind, staffers of The Epoch Times reflected on 9/11, 25 years later.

Several veteran reporters were then working for other news organizations, scattered from coast to coast. Younger staffers recounted being children too young to grasp what happened.

Yet each one, regardless of age or location, knew one thing for certain: That day had forever changed us all.

Janice Hisle

Inside The Cincinnati Enquirer’s suburban newsroom, where I was then a mid-career reporter, I had just grabbed my first cup of coffee. A TV image of smoke billowing from a skyscraper stopped me in my tracks.

After learning that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center, I thought a mechanical or instrument failure must be to blame—and it probably would have no impact on our part of Ohio.

Those suppositions were blown to bits as the news broke: Two, three, then four airplanes were confirmed wrecked—and more hijackings were suspected. I thought, “Dear God, they’re everywhere!”

Even without a direct hit, the Cincinnati area’s death toll reached 10—a reminder that being physically distant from a tragedy doesn’t insulate us from the human impact.

As the smoke cleared, people across the nation responded with more generosity, compassion, and patriotism than I had ever witnessed in my life—proving that the United States of America could still live up to the “united” part of its name.

Jeff Louderback

Even before the events of what became known as 9/11, my life was in transition. I was finishing work on a travel guidebook for a national publisher and preparing to move from southwest Ohio (where I had lived my entire life) to central Florida.

I was in my early 30s at the time and had worked as a reporter and editor for newspapers and magazines. I was about to embark on the unknown, a new state, and a new role as a freelance writer, author, and publicist for national publishers and clients.

When the first plane hit the first Twin Tower, I had only been asleep for a few hours after working on the book all night. The phone rang. My mom urged me to turn on the TV. I was stunned awake. I watched live when the second plane hit. “Was that a replay?” I initially wondered.

When reality set in, and then the towers collapsed, I thought about how abruptly life changes. All those people who died. All of their families left behind. Lives were forever changed in an instant; people going about their daily routine one moment, and the next moment, so many lives were lost, and the people who survived were left to keep on living amid unfathomable tragedy.

My life’s new chapter didn’t seem daunting anymore.

Savannah Pointer

I remember everyone seeming unusually quiet: my mother, when she answered the phone to a neighbor who told her she should turn on the radio; the checkers at the eerily still Walmart in our rural Texas town; even the normally rambunctious kids I saw every day. It was as though they were all muted by a blanket of fear.

I was only 12, but virtually everyone I saw that day was quiet in a way that was thick with foreboding.

It would be hard to argue that I had any concept of what this attack on American soil meant, or what the response would be. I certainly didn’t comprehend what it meant for New York City.

Amid the silence, I gathered only that practitioners of a religion I knew nothing about objected to my existence—and were willing to kill over it. Everything else was uncertain, except that life would never be the same.

Jackson Richman

I was an 8-year-old in Ms. Hirsh’s 2nd grade at Westmoor Elementary School. My mother was frantic and came to the school to pick me up even though school remained in session. My father was in downtown Chicago at the office and came home later that day. We watched the TV in disbelief and horror.

Even though I was too young to understand what was happening, our family was affected. I had family in New York, and we were concerned about our family and friends there and in New Jersey.

My mother lived in New York and had only moved to Chicago years earlier, and had many friends who lived in the Big Apple.

Although I don’t have a recollection of that day, it contributed to my interest in current events.

Darlene Sanchez

Growing up, I remember my mom talking about how people remembered where they were when John F. Kennedy was assassinated.

It was a defining moment for her generation—something they would never forget. For my generation, it was 9/11.

At the time, my husband and I worked at the Waterbury Republican-American newspaper in Connecticut.

As I rifled through my closet for something to wear that morning, his phone rang. His sister in Texas was asking about a plane hitting a skyscraper in New York.

We flipped on the TV to see black smoke billowing out of a gaping hole in the North Tower of the World Trade Center.

We were watching CNN live when the second plane hit the other tower. The building seemed to swallow it, as it disappeared off screen. Then a plume of fire and smoke punched out the other side.

Stunned, I stared at the TV. “My God,” I gasped, then realized our 3-year-old had been watching, transfixed just like her parents.

Not long afterward, as we sat having lunch, an airplane flew low overhead, its engines roaring. My little girl looked at me worried and asked, “Mommy, is the plane going to fall?”​

I assured her we were safe. But deep down, I wondered if we would ever feel that way again.

Emel Akan

On Sept. 11, I was working on one of the upper floors of a high-rise in downtown Houston. Around 8 a.m. local time, I saw the news about the first plane crash into the World Trade Center on TV. When the second plane hit the other tower, my coworkers and I began to panic.

Soon after, upper management told us to leave the building. People all over downtown Houston were worried, because the city is the country’s energy capital, and many feared Houston might be the next target.

We had to take the stairs instead of the elevators. Going down over 30 floors felt like it would never end. I felt dizzy as I tried to get out. On my way home, I saw many cars leaving the city.

A few days later, I found out that a classmate from Georgetown died in one of the towers, and another friend’s mother was on the flight that hit the Pentagon. The shock turned into sadness that lasted for weeks. I had never seen anything like this before, and I hope I never do again.

Jeremy Lott

When I first learned of the attacks of 9/11, I thought it was a replay.

I woke up in my Fonzie apartment over the garage of my parents’ home in the small town of Lynden, Washington, dialed up the AOL account with the sound effects, and saw news of a World Trade Center attack.

The first attack was in February of 1993. I assumed what AOL was showing on Sept. 11, 2001, was a historical lookback.

In my defense, this was before coffee.

Eventually, I went down into the main house.

My late mother asked if I’d heard about the World Trade Center attack. I said yes, and asked why we were replaying something that happened in the early 1990s.

“No, look,” she said, gesturing to the living room with a TV playing cable news.

That’s when I saw the towers come down.

I wish I could unsee it.

Tom Gantert

I was a reporter for the Ann Arbor News and was at work at 8 a.m. that morning. Forty-six minutes later, the first plane hit.

I was sent to the University of Michigan Diag (about two blocks away) to interview people for a story that would be published later that morning. I was on deadline. As I was interviewing one man, my cell phone rang. I was told another plane had hit the second tower.

As I left, there were more than 200 students huddled around one large TV in the Student Union watching CNN coverage in complete silence.

Within the next 24 hours, I would interview an Ann Arbor resident who witnessed people jumping off the Twin Towers to escape the flames and an expert on the Middle East who “guaranteed” there would be many more 9/11s in our future.

Jacki Thrapp

I was a 9-year-old living in Wheat Ridge, Colorado, just outside of Denver, when these attacks happened, so my memory is a little spotty.

I don’t recall the exact moment I learned about the Twin Towers being hit, but I do remember seeing a classmate of mine, Jessica, hysterically crying at Stott Elementary in Arvada because she was worried about a relative who either was a victim or lived in New York City.

I feel like half of the class was aware of the attacks and the other half (including me) did not know and/or comprehend the gravity of the situation.

When I got back from school, I discovered my mother was watching the news nonstop, which was rare because she never watched TV. She said, “If this happened here, I’d pack us up and move.”

Nathan Worcester

Sept. 11, 2001, was one of my first days in sixth grade in Chicago—a new world with new landscapes, new responsibilities. Lots of new teachers for specialized subjects; a bank of lockers that we shared with older kids, including my brother.

I was at my locker when he came up to me. He said that a plane had slammed into the Twin Towers in New York City.

“Really?”

We were kids. We both messed with each other. It seemed like a strange thing to make up, but I didn’t fully believe him, either.

By the time I reached the lunchroom, where they had set up a row of TVs showing the news, I knew it was real.

I was too young to put every childish thing away, but something had changed. The unbelievable had happened. A new world was ready to swallow us up.

Allan Stein

I was a freelance writer in western Massachusetts, making breakfast when I turned on the television and saw ABC News anchor Peter Jennings, grim-faced, his voice strained as he described the first plane striking the World Trade Center.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing—the enormity of the explosion, the scenes of people running in panic, covered in white dust, people jumping off the buildings to avoid the flames, the final collapse of the twin towers.

I would later learn that the 30-year-old daughter of a local school superintendent, Jim Shea, whom I had interviewed many times while a reporter at the Westfield Evening News, was aboard American Airlines Flight 11 that struck the North Tower of the WTC.

Later that week, I walked into the nearest fire substation and donated blue jeans for firefighters pulling people from the wreckage.

On Sept. 11, 2002, I boarded an Amtrak train bound for Penn Station in Midtown Manhattan and walked two miles to attend the first anniversary remembrance of the attacks. The sadness was palpable. The tightness in my throat preceded the tears that followed.

I can honestly say Sept. 11 was the defining event of my lifetime—a day that changed the course of world history forever.

Aaron Gifford

I was working for the Syracuse Post-Standard, preparing to interview the new president of Colgate University, when my wife called and said to turn on the TV.

Peter Jennings was still talking about the first Twin Tower when the live footage of the second one appeared on screen.

I had never experienced such disbelief—nothing with family, school, sports, or a career in current events—before. My supervisor called to say Colgate cancelled the president’s interview, but to go there anyhow to talk to students.

The shock wore off as I drove to campus, but I could see it was still fresh on the young faces of students who gathered for an impromptu memorial. Many of these kids hailed from the tri-state area and awaited word on their loved ones who worked in the financial district.

I couldn’t imagine what they were feeling. I still can’t.

Jacob Burg

As one of the younger reporters, I was just one week into 4th grade in Chelsea, Michigan, when I first heard the news.

Before any teachers told us what was going on, an administrator at the front office called for me over the intercom. My mom was there to pick me up from school, less than two hours after the bus had dropped me off.

I was confused. “Did something happen to Grandma or Grandpa?” I asked my mom when I noticed the look of fear on her face.

“No. The country has been attacked, and it might happen again,” she replied.

Right after the second plane hit the South Tower, my mother hurriedly climbed into our red minivan and raced off to my and my sister’s schools, fearing the worst.

For hours, we worried that what had already played out on television that day might only be the beginning.

I will never forget seeing the footage of the towers crashing down into the streets of Lower Manhattan and the poor souls who jumped to their deaths to avoid the scorching flames.

Ryan Morgan

I was 5 years old. My father was a Navy officer, doing a stint as a recruiter in San Diego at the time. He had the TV on as he prepared for work that morning. That’s when we saw the smoke rising from the first tower. By that point in my life, I wasn’t much of a news watcher. As I saw the second plane hit, I struggled to comprehend.

“Is this a movie?” I asked.

“No!” My father shouted. “This is serious!”

That sharp correction was the last I remembered my father saying before he left for work that day. Instead of going to kindergarten, I stayed home with my mother. We watched the fire and the smoke, the towers falling, and the people fleeing clouds of dust. I didn’t realize then, but that was the day I became a newsman.

Shortly thereafter, my father was reassigned to the aircraft carrier USS Abraham Lincoln. He deployed in July 2002. At 6 years old, I was already obsessed with the news, eager to know what was happening in the far-flung places my father was heading.

Now, I report out of the Pentagon; one of the buildings hit that day.

Sept. 11 taught me history doesn’t start the moment I begin paying attention. I’ve been paying attention ever since.

T.J. Muscaro

I was in Mrs. Keel’s second grade class when it happened.

I don’t really remember much except seeing the television image of the two towers bleeding thick smoke from where the airplanes made impact, having this primal understanding it was a bad thing, and that my mom picked up my sister, who was in Pre-K at the time, and me at school.

I grew up in Tampa, Florida. My classroom was about five miles north of MacDill Air Force Base. Five miles north of CENTCOM. Back then, I had no idea what that was or why that would have triggered my mom and apparently several other parents to call the school asking about picking up their kids.

My mom told me that the school was not closing down for the day but that she could pick my sister and me up if she felt compelled to. She came and got us just in case.

I don’t remember details of any conversations I had with her or my dad about the attack on or around the day, except that they made it clear bad guys did this, we were going to make them pay for it, and everything was ultimately going to be okay.

What I really remember was what happened in the days, months, and years that followed. I remember seeing footage of the early fighting in Afghanistan and Iraq on TV and the pictures and videos of Osama bin Laden.

I remember watching those first Yankees games and the reactive surge in both country and alt rock music. I remember debates about oil prices, the TSA, and surveillance.

I remember my middle school social studies teacher—a conservative retired Army captain—devoting 15 minutes of his class time to teaching us the basics of Islam to ensure we could speak intelligently on the matter, and I remember learning as I grew up why and how people at home and abroad claimed to love and hate America.

Stacy Robinson

The first thing I saw was the second plane striking the World Trade Center in real time.

I was a junior at the University of Nebraska in Omaha, and I had fallen asleep with CNN on the night before. Bleary-eyed, I couldn’t quite process what was happening.

I dressed and walked across campus, mind swirling, to attend music theory class. I was five minutes late, but it didn’t matter because it was canceled.

I don’t remember the next several hours, except to say that I was not psychologically equipped to handle a world-altering event like that. None of us were, maybe.

I went to work my shift at Ted&Wally’s ice cream parlor. My co-workers were in a daze. We closed up shop after an hour—no one was in the mood for ice cream that day.

I ended up at my grandmother’s house with my dad. None of us were thinking clearly. I remember saying, “We need to figure out who did this, and nuke that country into a parking lot!”

It was Grandma’s birthday—we forgot until around 9 p.m., but she didn’t mind.

Michael Clements

On Sept. 11, 2001, like many Americans, I woke up focused on myself.

The previous two years had been tumultuous. A divorce in 1999 and a period drifting between jobs was seasoned with a general sense of failure.

But things were turning around. I was hired by the Galveston County Daily News and in a serious relationship.

On that September morning, change wasn’t so scary, at least for a little while.

I made coffee and checked my email. The television provided background noise. The talking heads’ serious tone soon got my attention.

I turned and saw the smoking gash in the North Tower of the World Trade Center. I felt the color drain from my face as the second plane sliced into the South Tower.

Suddenly my petty changes were put in perspective. Though I didn’t immediately realize the depth of that event, I knew that on that day everything had changed for everyone.

Matthew Vadum

At The Bond Buyer’s DC bureau two blocks from the White House, we stared at the TV overhead as the second hijacked airplane hit the World Trade Center. Not much was said in the newsroom.

Management was in shock. They sent us home either because they feared more attacks or weren’t sure what else to do, or maybe a combination of both.

I wandered outside in the direction of the White House, but didn’t get far. That was the only time in my life when I saw a police officer with his weapon drawn and ready for action.

I took an empty Metro train to the State Department at Foggy Bottom because there was a report that the building had been hit. A security guard said he’d heard the same thing, but it was just a rumor. In the distance, we could see smoke rising from the vicinity of the Pentagon across the Potomac River.

I remember having difficulty sleeping in my prison cell-sized apartment in Adams Morgan, not just because it was a gut-wrenching day, but because of the unsettling deep rumble of fighter planes guarding the airspace above.