9/11

2001 had been a tumultuous year for me from the start. 200-2001 was my Freshman year in college, and despite earning a full ride to Union College in Upstate New York it was clear that I was not cut out for the Engineering program. Perhaps not even ready for college at all. My grades had been poor, and my scholarship reduced to where I'd had to drop out of college.

That summer I'd tried to get back on track, and gotten a job working long hours at Willow Tree Poultry Farm, which specialized in (rather pricey) chicken pies and salad. Despite the name, it was no farm. Our chickens were delivered on palettes delivered by tractor-trailer. It was mindless work, but with no debts, I saved enough to buy my first car, and while I was taking the fall semester off from school, I decided to register for a single night class at nearby Fisher College. I signed up for Anatomy and Physiology, which met for 4 hours on Tuesday evenings. The first class was set to begin on September 11th.

The morning of 9/11 was like any other day at work. I should start by telling a little about the process. Chickens were cooked by the hundreds in massive boilers. When they were finished, the basket of chicken was unloaded by a lift, and dropped onto one of a series of stainless steel tables, where they would be deboned by hand. This was an easy task, and was performed almost exclusively by retirees. There were dozens of these old guys who worked a few hours a day. It was a social atmosphere where they could get out and chat while they worked. Or instead of working. The place was pretty lax. When I say this crew were retirees, I don't mean 65. Most of them were in their 80s, and nearly all were WWII vets, with lots of stories to tell about military service, if not about combat.

So on that Tuesday, I had started work at 7:00 AM. As a youngster, I came in early and helped pack up frozen pies for shipment. After that the chicken started cooking, and when the first loads came out of the cookers, I started helping debone chickens with the old guys. Once we had enough trays, I could start my main job, which was running a device that used liquid nitrogen to chill the chicken rapidly down to where it could be used for chicken salad. Anyway, I was at the stainless steel tables with the old folks when the plant foreman, an Armenian with the unusual name of Bob Arabian came in and made a general announcement that a plane had hit one of the World Trade Center towers. No more.

In absence of any details, this was big news...but not shocking. In my mind, I was picturing one of those little Cessnas. Probably an errant pilot had bounced off the side and crashed into the street below. At once, the oldsters on the crew started talking about the B-25 that had hit the Empire State Building in 1945. Lots of reminiscing, lots of hot air. We plant workers were cut off from everything, but periodically Bob had to visit the office for a phone call, and would bring us updates. When the second plane hit, it was clear it was no accident. And no, not just a plane, two jumbo jets. At one point Bob said the news showed the buildings burning, and in his opinion anyone on the top third of either building was probably dead. We continued working, but the news came in a flurry. The Pentagon had been hit. There were rumors that there had been a car bomb found near the capitol building, that turned out not to be true. I don't remember when we heard about flight 93, downed in Pennsylvania. I do remember one of Bob's updates: "The twin towers are no more." Both had collapsed. Monuments that I could clearly remember seeing in person, all gone.

At lunch I went home. Every station on my car radio was carrying live updates from NYC. Mom had the TV on, showing horrible footage. Not necessarily satisfying...lots of dust and rubble...but horrific. I think the worst was people jumping before the towers fell. My views on suicide are complex, and I do not judge...but those images will stay with me forever.

That night, my first A&P class was cancelled. I stayed home and watched more news. The rest blurs together.

After the tragedy, Christians all over sought solace in prayer and scripture. It was a long time before I questioned any of it, but looking back the games we played with ourselves to try and bring together the doctrine of God's omnipotence and his perfect goodness in light of the tragedy were astounding. I heard sermon after sermon. I read books. I even believed...but was never really satisfied. It wasn't the 9/11 tragedy specifically, but the question of how God can be both all-powerful and all good that helped destroy my faith later.

It feels insignificant to write what I just did. I've come a long way. From a pliant nineteen year-old, praying in bigoted fashion for our country to wake up, to an angry 29 year-old atheist, trying to avoid the jaded edge of nihilism. The tragedy of that day, however, remains unabated. We will never forget.