There was much nicer weather on the east coast ten years ago than there is today. In fact, I spent the morning of 9/11 marveling at what an absolutely perfect day it was. Right now I have drizzle. Also, I spent the morning of 9/11 bitching with my co-workers about how dreadfully the New York Giants had played against the Denver Broncos on Monday Night Football. We’d all been up late watching the disaster, and we were dragging ass. Flight 175 flew directly over my workplace on its way into the South Tower, but by the time it hit, I was in a meeting. Later on, people rolled televisions into another meeting so we could watch replays of the first collapsing tower. Then we went home. Nothing was ever the same for me after that. Within 90 days, I was laid off. Before that could happen, my mail-sorting center was contaminated with anthrax, and I had to open my mail outside and wave it around before risking bringing it inside the house. Then we were told to buy bottled water and duct tape. Fighter jets could be heard in the sky overhead for months. And then the deep crazy began.

The 9/11 and anthrax attacks affected people differently. People I worked with lost brothers and cousins. Members of my parents’ church were among the victims. People in my hometown died. Friends narrowly escaped falling debris. The anthrax letters were mailed from a mailbox I occasionally used, and my mail-sorting center was shut-down for over a year.

It was personal for me. Very personal. It changed the trajectory of my life. But it wasn’t long before Rudy Giuliani had exploited the event to such a degree that I didn’t want to think or talk about it ever again. And I still don’t.

But if you want to talk about what you were doing that morning and what it means to you now, I won’t stop you.

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