I was at home when the 911 attacks occurred. I received a call from my wife, who was at work and, as was her custom at the time, had a television going in her classroom with the news. She called to tell me to turn on the TV: “A plane just flew into one of the twin towers of the world trade center. They don’t know if it was an accident or if it was on purpose.“ I turned on the TV just in time to see the second jet fly into the second tower.
Kinda removed all the questions about whether it was an accident…
As was the case with many people across the country, I spent the next several hours watching the coverage of the events as they unfolded that day.
We live right around the corner from one of the mosques in Grand Rapids, about 500 feet away as the crow flies. They called an emergency meeting in response to the attacks, and while most of the congregants were crammed inside their little building, there was a group of young men who gathered in the intersection seventy five feet from my front yard, and they were whooping it up in celebration. I don’t care what the news says, I know what I saw that day.
There were people celebrating the attacks.
In my home town.
In my neighborhood.
On my street.
I saw it with my own eyes.
That scene is burned into my memory.
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