Where were you when?

Watching the History Channel's "12 days that shocked the world" has got me thinking. (Goodness, who knew TV could do that?)

Last night was #2, the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. Which I'll have you know, I picked in the top 5. My pick for the top two are Hiroshima and September 11 (though we missed the first 6, so it is slightly hard to pick).

Anyway, it got me thinking about the big events in life that we talk about. For our parents, it was JFK, John Lennon, the Erebus crash.

For us?

1) November9, 1989. I was in Form One at Chisnallwood Intermediate in Christchurch. Our teacher, Mr Heath, who for the whole year I had an 11 year old girl's crush on, sat us on the mat, and told us what an important day it was. That a war had ended. That people were free. Something about a wall. That we should be happy. I was probably more interested in playing bullrush with the boys at lunchtime.

2) August 31, 1997. I was 19. In my second year at university. I was at home, at my flat at Clarence St. For some reason, I was grumpy with my friends, though I have no idea why. I was dyeing my hair. It came over on the radio that Princess Di had been in a car accident...and later that she died. We cared. Later, I'd be embarrassed that we cared, that we bought into the mass hysteria. But at the time, it seemed tremendously important. It seemed to be the thing to do to get drunk and watch the funeral, to cry. Despite the fact that I knew real people going through real grief. Later, even days later, I would be angry at myself, for letting it get to me, and would remind people of her privelege, how lucky she was, how flawed, that she wasn't a saint. But on that Sunday afternoon, yeah, I cared. Oh - and I did a crappy job of dyeing my hair.

3) September 12, 2001 (NZ time). I was in bed, watching crappy night time television. It was after midnight. Daza came in to tell me that "a plane just flew into one of the twin towers". I went into his room, and we watched the BBC, showing live footage. We were one step ahead of the commentator on the tv. "you'd find it difficult to believe that that was an accident". Two minutes before "and we don't believe this is an accident". "Hang on...is that another plane?". Watching in horror as the second plane hit. Flicking onto CNN, listening to it, because the channel was scrambled. Hearing them say that something had hit the Pentagon, and going to the lounge to watch the Sky news channels, not caring anymore if we woke up mum and dad. We watched through the night. Through tear filled eyes as the towers collapsed. In outrage as they showed footage of people celebrating in Gaza. Eventually, I gave up and slept, around 4, but not before leaving mum and dad and epistle on what had happened. Caza rang me at eight to tell me, and I was like, "yeah I know". It was surreal. I watched the news for days, first, with a voracious appetite to understand how it could have happened, and then astounded at how the US media could be so very self-censoring. That day made me want to be a journalist, because I wanted to be there, and see it. It turned me into a news junkie. And if you want to read my favourite account of that day, go here. I am incapable of reading that without crying. September 11 precipitated so much that has happened in the world since. Watching, in the dark, sitting cross legged in front of the television, with the sound down low, we already knew what was going to happen.