In early 2001, I began Semi Truths as a pseudonymous venue for my political satire. Tuesday nights were my night for writing, so I would spend much of the day in my pointless job thinking about what I would craft that evening. On Tuesday morning, September 11 2001, I met some co-workers for breakfast, then drove in a little later than usual, listening to the radio on the way. That was when I first heard about the plane that had struck the World Trade Center.
I didn’t go into work right away. I sat in the car and listened. I tried to remember which of the towers I had actually been in a few years before, visiting a friend’s office. I was shocked and concerned, but I had no idea then that every minute of that day would end up burned into my memory, every moment taking on significance.
This is not “my 9/11 story”. I don’t have a story. I went about my life, went back to work the next day, carried on as before. In fact, the past eight years have been generally pretty good to me. I didn’t lose anybody that day, my life was not forever changed.
And yet. And yet…
We all have a 9/11 story. We all know where we were and what we were doing when we heard. And our lives have changed. Some days, it still feels like a bad dream, the kind you can’t shake off the next morning.
Because of various other projects, I haven’t had much time lately to post original content to this blog, so I am making an effort to republish some of my original articles and posts from the past. The link below will take you to an essay that I wrote that evening of September 11, 2001. My words may not be particularly meaningful to anyone else, but now I find them to be both curiously naive and sadly prophetic.