Ten years ago Sunday was one of the worst days of my life; it was for sure the worst day of my professional life as well.

I remember that I was the only reporter in the newsroom at about 20 minutes before 9 a.m. on September 11, 2001. I had just finished welcoming my boss back from his vacation and I was slowly sipping an extra large Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. The hot beverage was my routine, but I specifically remember that cup because during the walk to my office I observed that is was such a beautiful day; warm but not hot. And the combination of a blue sky and brilliant sunshine that, on any other day, you would think you could only write about.

The first reports were of a small aircraft errantly slamming into one of the Trade Towers, about 50 miles from my hometown of Stamford, CT. Then there were scattered rumors/stories on the wire about possible other airline incidents and the possibility that all flights would be grounded, as a precaution. Those of us in the newsroom gathered around the television, keeping an eye on the news wires, and called loved ones and friends who worked in lower Manhattan. Then the second plane slammed into the other tower. And I’ll never forget my reaction.

It was not a laugh of humor; my colleagues knew that. My laugh was well known in the newsroom.  My desk was out of sight from most corners of the large room; my laugh found every nook and cranny. 

It was a laugh of disbelief. A laugh to express incredulousness.  A laugh of uncertainty.

As we watched history unfold, we all knew we had a job to do. But we didn’t know how to do it. What questions do we ask? To whom do we ask them? For about 20 or 30 minutes, we just sat and watched.

An hour later I was dispatched to the Darien, CT offices of Cantor Fitzgerald, the company we knew occupied several upper floors of one of the towers. Keep in mind, we had no idea the extent of life lost that day – whether as of 10 a.m. we were even speculating on what that number could be – or whether we would be under attack all day.

I parked my car in the lot outside the office building in Darien. I took a deep breath, trying to articulate either in my head or my narrow reporter’s notebook just what questions to ask. I sat for a minute.

Then I cried.

Within view of that building was a residential neighborhood. Did any of those houses belong to the men and women of Cantor Fitzgerald who were surely lost just 120 minutes earlier? Who would tell their children that Mommy or Daddy wouldn’t be home tonight. Or ever again.

Doing my job that day wasn’t easy. The emotional and patriotic aspects aside, there were simply no answers that day. My job was to find local angles associated with a truly international event. In an ironic sense, news gathering was difficult on the biggest news day of my life.

We planned, we brainstormed, we thought about the angles. Mostly we wondered. Who? Why? 

It’s 10 years later. Life, as we knew it, has forever changed, and yet nothing has changed. We remain under attack. But our greatest attack comes from each other.

The events of that day sparked two wars. Two expensive wars. Our economy has suffered and so many people we know are unemployed or underemployed We are debating the very nature of government spending and priorities. They tell us we are in a crisis.

Wall Street, so fundamentally affected that day 10 years ago on a human level, tells us daily how we should feel. On a financial level. Which enables us to direct our anger, frustration or dissatisfaction to whichever party, institution or office that would make us feel better.

We call each other names and use nasty language. Liar. Socialist. Dangerous. Ponzi scheme. We don’t show footage of the planes crashing into the buildings on TV because the images are upsetting. Yet our talk, our tone, our attitudes toward each other and those who hold differing opinions are designed specifically to upset. To bait our enemies; to embolden our foot soldiers. To get a reaction, or a headline.

The security guard that day did turn me away. “Tom,” he said. “You can understand it’s a horrendous situation here and we don’t know much. I just can’t help you. Not today.”  He looked me in the eye with true respect and sincerity. I did something I’ve never done after being turned away. I shook his hand. I wished him luck. Told him I would say a prayer for him and everyone there.

“Thank you, Tom,” he said. “Let’s all pray for each other.” And he nodded.

I got in the car and cried again. As I drove back to work, I wondered if that security guard would have used my name on September 10. Or, instead, did we have a new found respect for one another?

I never want anything even close to the events of that day to transpire again during my lifetime. But I do want that respect back. A handshake, a nod, an unspoken gaze from a man I would meet just one time in my life. Prayers from a man who had no idea who I voted for, in which income bracket I belonged, or even whether I believed in God.

As people we are the same. It is our choice to separate ourselves from one another. Ten years later, can’t we honor those who died that day, and the thousands that followed, by questioning that choice? They deserve at least that from us.

Be Sociable, Share!

•