My “commute” was a full ten minutes. Normally I just listened to the radio, but I’d left a book-on-tape playing last night, and just let it keep rolling through the commute. Finally, in the left turn lane into the parking lot, the audiobook hit a stopping spot and I turned it off, allowing the radio to play.
At first I couldn’t figure out what the morning DJs (at my favorite station, now defunct) were talking about. This didn’t sound like their normal zaniness.
I was especially confused when I heard something about a “second plane.”
I turned left into the parking lot and just sat for a couple of minutes, until I had at least a rudimentary grasp on situation. Then I got out and went in the office.
“Hey!” I said. “Did you hear –?”
My coworker just scowled as he passed me with a TV in his hands. He had gone downstairs to bring it up from the breakroom and put it in the conference room where we could all see.
And we did all see.
We tried to work, I guess, but we each had our radios tuned to the news all day. I don’t remember a lot of calls coming in. I don’t remember making many, either.
I think we all found out that we didn’t much like being around when History Was Being Made.
Just out of curiosity since we’re from the same state and I also found out from morning radio DJs, were you listening to 107.5 The End?
Yup, Chunga and Marcus.
Funny. Odd that those guys will always be burned into my memory due to that.
I was in an art class at college when we got the news from our professor who’d been out getting some coffee or something at the faculty lounge; the significance of her announcement didn’t sink in until later when the college announced the rest of our classes for the day were canceled. Something I recall to this day was how surreal it was to see journalists of all stripes actually doing their jobs for a brief window of time before they went back to being political propagandists. History Being Made™, indeed: I’d say the day’s historical impact on my generation was comparable to that of November 22, 1963 on my parents’.
I was at the São Paulo MTC. I’d been there for a week and had just gotten back from the São Paulo temple on our first P-Day. We get back to our rooms and our two Brazilian roommates come in and try to explain to us what was happening. It took us a few minutes to figure it out. We then went to a local restaurant and watched footage of the disaster on the news.
That evening, the American missionaries had their Monday Night Meeting with the MTC President. He explained to us what had happened, had us sing the American National Anthem, and told us to avoid aglomerations as Americans–as Brazilians might take their anti-war (knowing that we’d be bombing the hell out of Afghanistan) sentiments on the Elders. We also learned that our MTC President was a Vietnam Vet and he told us that war was the lowest level of Hell and he hoped we’d never have to fight in one.