I woke up cranky that morning, dissatisfied with everything in my life. I had to drag myself away from my coffee to get dressed and leave for work; I was late. A coworker nabbed me in front of the newspaper building. "A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center," she said.
I did not comprehend any of it as I made my way to the newsroom. The TV in the editor's office was on, and people were gathered around it. Within minutes the second plane hit its target; phone began to ring. The old wire machines would have been clacking and ringing away, but this was 2001, and Associated Press quietly moved its stories over the Internet.
It all happened so fast, one event after the other. We gathered and re-gathered in the editor's office, splitting the assignments. I called a former reporter we knew, a Congressional staffer, who spent a good 20 minutes on the phone with me so I could chronicle his exodus from Washington.
In between I called my mother: Yes, she'd heard from both my brothers, frequent travelers who were safe in Chicago and Los Angeles. Everyone did the same: Called family members. It was a symbolic circling of the wagons.
By noon the paper was on the street and we gathered in the editor's office for more assignments: I was to cover an ecumenical service that night in the park and gather reaction from area officials.
It was my day to teach journalism at our local university. I brought papers for all, and shared the morning's experiences and emotions with them. But mostly I let them talk: Many were exchange students in the United States for the first time. I left class as early as I could and raced back to the newsroom for more assignments.
When I returned home later that afternoon my husband and I watched television in silence. He surprised me when he offered to come to the candlelight memorial service with me. When we got there, I found most people did not want to talk, so I listened closely to the priest, minister and rabbi and once back in the newsroom, carved out an atmosphere piece. On the way home, I listened to Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings on the radio.
My job that day and in the days after was to bring the story home, interviewing people I knew in New York and Washington, working with another reporter to tell the stories of three young career girls living in Manhattan. I interviewed the sister of a fire-fighting family from New York, and covered regional efforts to collect items for Ground Zero cleanup crews.
For the first time in a long while I felt a sense of purpose in my work. I worked harder on my writing than ever before, finding ample feature stories to engage me in between routine assignments. My writing output in those days was tremendous, and my new, invigorated approach seemed to carry over into my teaching. I was always happy to be home in the evening, and I spent a good deal of time in the kitchen.
Although I did not realize it at the time, the events of 2001 changed me, even though I had no personal connections to them. But soon after that, I began living life more fully, enjoying myself more, indulging myself again. My husband and I began to travel more, and though we grouse about the new regulations and precautions, we have logged more miles since 2001 than in the decade before.
Making thoughtful and right decisions means more to me now. I take pride in taking the high road, and I strive to be honest and objective in all my dealings.
Perhaps this is just simple maturity. I've never really connected these changes to any single turning point.
Yet I know that I began the process of becoming a new person on Sept. 11, 2001.
I did not comprehend any of it as I made my way to the newsroom. The TV in the editor's office was on, and people were gathered around it. Within minutes the second plane hit its target; phone began to ring. The old wire machines would have been clacking and ringing away, but this was 2001, and Associated Press quietly moved its stories over the Internet.
It all happened so fast, one event after the other. We gathered and re-gathered in the editor's office, splitting the assignments. I called a former reporter we knew, a Congressional staffer, who spent a good 20 minutes on the phone with me so I could chronicle his exodus from Washington.
In between I called my mother: Yes, she'd heard from both my brothers, frequent travelers who were safe in Chicago and Los Angeles. Everyone did the same: Called family members. It was a symbolic circling of the wagons.
By noon the paper was on the street and we gathered in the editor's office for more assignments: I was to cover an ecumenical service that night in the park and gather reaction from area officials.
It was my day to teach journalism at our local university. I brought papers for all, and shared the morning's experiences and emotions with them. But mostly I let them talk: Many were exchange students in the United States for the first time. I left class as early as I could and raced back to the newsroom for more assignments.
When I returned home later that afternoon my husband and I watched television in silence. He surprised me when he offered to come to the candlelight memorial service with me. When we got there, I found most people did not want to talk, so I listened closely to the priest, minister and rabbi and once back in the newsroom, carved out an atmosphere piece. On the way home, I listened to Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings on the radio.
My job that day and in the days after was to bring the story home, interviewing people I knew in New York and Washington, working with another reporter to tell the stories of three young career girls living in Manhattan. I interviewed the sister of a fire-fighting family from New York, and covered regional efforts to collect items for Ground Zero cleanup crews.
For the first time in a long while I felt a sense of purpose in my work. I worked harder on my writing than ever before, finding ample feature stories to engage me in between routine assignments. My writing output in those days was tremendous, and my new, invigorated approach seemed to carry over into my teaching. I was always happy to be home in the evening, and I spent a good deal of time in the kitchen.
Although I did not realize it at the time, the events of 2001 changed me, even though I had no personal connections to them. But soon after that, I began living life more fully, enjoying myself more, indulging myself again. My husband and I began to travel more, and though we grouse about the new regulations and precautions, we have logged more miles since 2001 than in the decade before.
Making thoughtful and right decisions means more to me now. I take pride in taking the high road, and I strive to be honest and objective in all my dealings.
Perhaps this is just simple maturity. I've never really connected these changes to any single turning point.
Yet I know that I began the process of becoming a new person on Sept. 11, 2001.
