Bones Sinking Like Stones: Never to Forget 9-11

 

Penguin in the training center

For years, I couldn't talk about it. The movies and documentaries were so painful that watching them felt like I was reliving that day. And flying for work? Not at all possible. Then there was the time I was on a 767, flying from somewhere to someplace—I don't even remember where.

What I do remember is that it was night. The aircraft was dark, and I was seated at my jumpseat at the aft left door. From that vantage point, I could see almost all of economy. The engines droned—a peaceful, almost soothing sound. The load was fairly light and the darkness was illuminated by the seatback monitors.

My mind drifted to the morning of September 11.

I thought about what it must have been like for the passengers on Flight 175. One minute in flight, the next in darkness, silence, drifting through space toward a white light like a spinning diamond, bright white sparks streaking out in every direction against the pitch-black void, as I saw in my near-death experience. To be slammed into the side of a building in New York by deranged monsters so hell-bent on hate that it seemed enough to fill the deepest chasm on our beautiful planet.

I broke down in tears and rushed into the lavatory to hide. The next day, I reached out to my local EAP and was soon in therapy, where I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress. Have some happy pills and take some time off work. This was several years later. It was also when I learned that trauma can take its sweet-ass time to manifest in some people.

Your friendly flight attendant

Oh, I cried enough at the time.

Today, I fly with flight attendants who weren't even born on 9-11. Others tell me they were something like five years old and have no real memory of it. For me, I remember it like it was last month.

I was in Annapolis visiting my girlfriend and was scheduled to fly back to San Francisco after a long weekend. I snuck out of the house early that morning so not to wake Tammy, to stop by the Harley dealership I had managed for five years.

The first thing I remember about that visit was hearing, "I bet you hate being a flight attendant today."

"Whaaa?..." was my reaction. "Oh, yeah," he continued. "They're flying planes into buildings in New York." I made my rounds quickly and went to the office of my bookkeeper, Maxine. She filled me in, telling me the airports were closed, so there was no point in even going to BWI airport.

I could have stayed longer, but the thirst for information about what was happening was overpowering. Back at Tammy's house on Spa Creek, I turned on the television in the living room. There, I watched the replay of the second plane hitting the World Trade Center.

Tammy was still in bed. I went in and sat beside her, placing my hand on her shoulder. "Wake up. Two planes have flown into the World Trade Center." As she stirred, I returned to the television. They replayed the plane hitting the tower again as she reached my side and held onto me "Looks like a 767," I said dryly. "At least they died quickly," I added.

She began to cry, which is what set me off. For several minutes—or perhaps an hour; I have no idea—she and I stood in front of the television, watching it suck the will to live right out of us. At some point, I tried calling my mom but couldn't get through. I called the rental car company to make sure I could keep the car without a problem. "No worries," I was assured. With the airport closed, so too was their facility. And when I finally got through to Mom, she broke down, "I knew you were flying home and didn't know if you were on one of the planes..."

Later that night, I was lying on the floor, still glued to the news. Having heard enough, I put on my earphones and listened to Coldplay. As I watched the towers fall time and again—from this view and that—"Don't Panic" played in my ears.

View of the towers from my flight

View from my visit to the twin towers

The song goes: 

Bones sinking like stones
All that we fought for
Homes, places we've grown
All of us are done for

And we live in a beautiful world
Yeah, we do, yeah, we do
We live in a beautiful world

And there were the towers, falling over and over on the television. 

The white external ribs of the buildings looked like bones falling, sinking like stones. The feeling, especially after the next two planes went down in Pennsylvania and at the Pentagon, was that we were done for.

I took this photo in September 2000,
one year before they fell

That afternoon, I stood on the shore of Spa Creek in Annapolis, beneath what was normally the flight path of planes landing in Baltimore. Not this day. It was silent except for the birds. Water lapped gently at the shore. It was a cool, clear day. Not a cloud in sight—just a brilliant blue sky.

We live in a beautiful world.

Those lyrics inspired me to write to the band. I never heard back, but months later I flew to New York to see Coldplay live in a little, smoky venue not far from where the bones fell like stones. On that same trip, I couldn't bring myself to visit Ground Zero. At a park, however, the Orb was on display—the battered and dented sculpture that had stood in the plaza between the towers. People posed in front of it for photographs, all smiles and happy.

It made me sick. The weight of what that sculpture had been through—and there they were, smiling. My friend Gloria asked if I wanted my picture taken with it. Even if it might have let others know that the moment should be taken more seriously than a smiling photo opportunity, I wasn't interested. We all deal with grief in our own way.

So much changed after 9/11. The attitude of the country. The sense of national pride. No—the world came together for America's grief. The night before, on September 10, I had visited with my dear friend Mary, who read my astrology chart after dinner. The stars told her that there was going to be a change in my job. I took it to mean that I would get a new job.

When I got my job a year prior, I didn't want to be a flight attendant. I thought I'd use it as a stepping stone into management. But I quickly fell in love with flying around the world, so that aspiration was laid to rest.

"You must be wrong," I told her. She stood fast by her words. "Your job will soon be changing." Yes, in many ways, Mary was right about my job.

After 9/11, I was furloughed. The airline soon filed for bankruptcy. Airport security bore down hard not only on the flying public, but on flight crew. Our flying changed from one leg a day with 19-plus-hour layovers to several flights a day with 13-hour layovers.

The new World Trade Center

So here we are, at the point where those tragic events are 25 years behind us. Some of my flying partners learned about how that day affected our careers in training as if security was always like it is. The safety protocols that were new to us in 2001 are now taken for granted.

Do they understand that the see-through first-class curtain wasn't always see-through? Do they know that the reason it is mesh is so we can see through the cabin and make sure nothing untoward is happening to our fellow flight attendants in the other cabin?

One of my mixed media art pieces 

Flight attendants were among the first victims of 9/11. We are aviation's first responders. There is a gratitude most Americans feel for the firefighters who died in the Twin Towers. In the months after the four planes went down, we heard a lot of love from our passengers. And for those of us who had already started our careers—whether you were with American, United, or any other carrier—we will never forget.

We will never forget the tragedy of that day. 9-11 was like a black hole—the tragedy so dense, the gravity of what happened on that day is difficult to grasp.

We will never forget the crews who perished, the passengers, the innocent victims in the towers and at the Pentagon, and the pain carried by their loved ones and shared around the world.

This year, I leave for my final trip of the season to Anchorage. I've held this trip all season—from May through September. It's my favorite. It has taken years before I could fly on this date. This isn't the first time I've worked on 9-11, but this year is special. Not simply because of the milestone of 25 years, but because I've finally reached a point where I can talk about where I was with my flying partners. I can watch videos of the towers being pierced by our planes and of them falling. I can watch the animated play-by-play explaining the mechanics of why the towers couldn't withstand the impacts.

I'm finally ready to visit Ground Zero to pay my respects. I'm not in a rush to do so, and I'm fully aware that when I do, the floodgate of tears will open. But I'm ready.

Never forget those who left for work and never came home. 

These were the first victims of that day:

American Airlines Flight 11 — Boeing 767
Struck the North Tower

• Capt. John Ogonowski — Pilot

• First Officer Thomas McGuinness

• Barbara Arestegui — Flight Attendant

• Jeffrey Collman — Flight Attendant

• Sara Low — Flight Attendant

• Karen Martin — Flight Attendant

• Kathleen Nicosia — Flight Attendant

• Betty Ann Ong — Flight Attendant

• Jean Roger — Flight Attendant

• Dianne Snyder — Flight Attendant

• Madeline Amy Sweeney — Flight Attendant

United Airlines Flight 175 — Boeing 767 
Struck the South Tower

• Capt. Victor J. Saracini — Pilot

• First Officer Michael R. Horrocks

• Robert John Fangman — Flight Attendant

• Amy N. Jarret — Flight Attendant

• Amy R. King — Flight Attendant

• Kathryn L. LaBorie — Flight Attendant

• Alfred Gilles Padre Joseph Marchand — Flight Attendant

• Michael C. Tarrou — Flight Attendant

• Alicia Nicole Titus — Flight Attendant

I painted this on a cruise

American Airlines Flight 77 — Boeing 757 
Struck the Pentagon

• Capt. Charles F. Burlingame III — Pilot

• First Officer David M. Charlebois

• Michele M. Heidenberger — Flight Attendant

• Jennifer Lewis — Flight Attendant

• Kenneth E. Lewis — Flight Attendant

• Renee A. May — Flight Attendant

United Airlines Flight 93 — Boeing 757
Crashed in Shanksville, Pennsylvania

• Capt. Jason M. Dahl — Pilot

• First Officer LeRoy Homer Jr. — First Officer

• Lorraine G. Bay — Flight Attendant

• Sandra Waugh Bradshaw — Flight Attendant

• Wanda Anita Green — Flight Attendant

• CeeCee Ross Lyles — Flight Attendant

• Deborah Jacobs Welsh — Flight Attendant

 Like poetry? Get signed copies of my books at www.PenguinScott.com

Follow along and leave a comment. Where were YOU on 9-11?

Grapes of a Lesser God: It's all in the ask

 

After the last dinner tray was set down in first class, the purser left me alone to finish up while he went to help the two flight attendants with the service in back. It’s rough for them back there, serving 130 people a hot meal and drinks, with many wanting complimentary wine as well as a soda or water. And with more seats than spaces for trays, some of the trays are double stacked, meaning we have to separate the two trays and then divvy up the dinner components from the top tray to the bottom one before handing them to starving passengers.

As the last person in row four got their dinner, Andrew joined the cart in economy, which was near the exit rows, not quite halfway to the back of the plane. I began picking up trays from the first couple of rows, every now and then walking to row four to see if anyone needed another drink or was finished eating. After a few minutes, I had collected most of the trays from my first-class passengers when I heard the familiar chime of the call bell. I peered around the corner from the galley to see who had pressed this offending button. I jest. I’m glad to help make someone’s day, but the way most flight attendants feel about call lights, it has the rap of being offending. The guys in back were about a dozen rows from being done; the call light was illuminated over row 7ABC.

When I passed through the sheer curtain that does little in keeping economy passengers from coming forward to use the first-class lavatory, and I reached row seven, which is the first row of economy, a nice man in his sixties smiled at me, raising a mostly empty cup. “Would it be possible to get more wine?” he asked. “Sure,” I said, asking, “Red or white?” His eyes rounded, I’d like red,” and he looked to the woman seated at the window next to him, “Would you like some more white, Dear?” She responded positively, and in a friendly manner I obliged, promising to be right back.

In the galley, I obtained 2 plastic cups. I was amused thinking about the way the man smiled at me knowingly. He seemed aware of the crew’s proximity in the rows behind him, as if assuredly the guy from first class would answer his call light for more wine, and not the ones now serving passengers in the back. We have a much higher caliber of wine in first over what we serve in economy. Smart guy—innocently asking for the good stuff. I liked him. It’s something I would do if having fly in cattle class.

I poured one white and one red, my standard heavy pour...I’m such an enabler. I placed them on my silver lined serving tray and delivered them with a smile, asking the man in the aisle seat if I could get him anything. He was still eating his dinner and denied wanting anything. I smiled at the man and his wife as they toasted one another with their wine and returned to the fancy side of the curtain.

It’s all in the approach. Had he pressed the call light and demanded a glass of wine, I would have walked to the beverage cart in economy and filled a cup with wine from lesser grapes. But he was kind, smiled, and asked ever so nicely for a refill—my kind of people. I was happy to make his day. Hopefully, the good Karma will come back my way.

If you enjoy poetry, be sure to check out signed copies of my 3 books at

www.PenguinScott.com

Free bookmark and button badge with each order.

Thanks for reading. Leave a comment below and follow me for more great adventures. My contact information is in the link above, at www.PenguinScott.com.