In the 14 years that I've been a traffic reporter for WSB Radio and WSB Television there has been only one morning where I neglected my traffic duties. That was the morning of September 11th, 2001. Once it became apparent that our country was under attack, I left the traffic center and went into the newsroom to help the news team cover the story. I stayed in the newsroom for the better part of the next two weeks. During that time I wrote this column for wsbradio.com on September 17th, 2001. I wanted to share it with you.
"Tuesday, September 11th 2001″
By Mark Arum
WSB Radio
As I readied for work this morning I quickly scanned my small cluttered apartment and almost immediately eyes were drawn to the makeshift desk in my bedroom. There amidst the clutter stood my calendar. The date still read September 11th. Both my desk calendar and my mind were in agreement. Since Tuesday I have yet to turn the page of my life. Minutes, hours and days have run together and while in reality it was a bright, sunny, Sunday morning, to me it is still Tuesday, September 11th.
In the past six days clothes have gone unwashed, bills unpaid, and whiskers unshaven. Food has lost taste, sleep has lost importance and normally pressing needs their urgency.
And through this tragedy I hear everyone talking about the need to move on, to get on with life, the necessity of sports and entertainment to divert us from the horror of Tuesday. To me these words have no meaning. Life is not the same, will not be the same and I shudder to think of what lies ahead for all of the world's people.
I often spent time in the shadows of the Twin Towers soaking up the atmosphere of the world's capital, worrying about important things like girls and baseball.
For those of you that have never been, the area around the world trade center was such a vibrant place. All sorts of sights, sounds, tastes and colors. People of all backgrounds, religions, and ethnic origins, basking in the glow that was lower Manhattan.
And now the area that was once pulsating with life and color, is gray. An evil gray. That grayness has spread from the southern tip of Manhattan, down the East Coast to my heart. The gray lives there now, as well as on the crumbled streets of New York.
The towers were a certainty. A meeting place. A navigational tool. A point of reference. And while the death toll grows and will certainly reach unfathomable proportions I cannot yet consider the human loss. I have never known a Manhattan skyline without the twin images towering over all, like the stern yet comforting parents of New York. The sight of the skyline now, without these parents is all together foreign, unsettling and frightening. I am left with no feeling other than nausea. The grayness grows.
Soon after the maddening events of Tuesday I found myself frantically trying to contact family and friends in the New York area. I even tried to get a hold of people that I haven't spoken to or even thought about in years to determine their safety. Most are fine. Some are hurt physically, all mentally. Others still have yet to be located.
While you may have been born in Atlanta, Macon, Birmingham or Los Angeles it matters not, because New York is everyone's hometown. It has long served as the entryway for masses, huddled or otherwise, into the hearth of this idealistic nation. It has been the booster chair for capitalism and freedom, allowing both to blossom in a way never before seen on the face of the earth. Almost all of us can trace our roots to New York and certainly all of us have been affected by this tragedy.
As I continued with the trivialities of life these past few days, I found some comfort in the unity shown across the nation. The abundance of flags everywhere you turn, the tremendous generosity and the unbridled patriotism that is flooding our streets, emails and airwaves is certainly uplifting. But through the sea of red, white and blue…the gray remains. And my calendar still reads: Tuesday, September 11th.
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