I may well have been one of the last humans on the continent to know about the events of September 11, 2001. At that time I was a stay-at-home-mom to two small boys; Zak was a busy 3-year old and Andrew was not quite 3 months. That particular morning looked like so many others - my husband Ryan leaving for work in the early pre-dawn hours, the boys and I settling into a day filled with snacks and books and cartoons. Our television may as well have had only two channels - Disney and Nickelodeon. As it turned out, those were the only two channels in the free world not airing footage that was changing the world. In our cozy little home, we were blissfully unaware that our nation was under attack.
Around 11am Pacific time, Zak was engrossed in "Dora the Explorer" and Andrew was asleep, so I took that opportunity to call my mother. Another adult voice was a welcome respite in the preschool world wherein I dwelt. This particular morning, however, my Mom's voice was sharper than usual, and her words were blunt: Haven't you seen the news? Don't you know what is going on? Immediately I felt goosebumps raise on my arms as I glanced around at my small boys. I half listened as my mom quickly filled me on events, letting my mind wander to what exactly I should be doing. Should I call my husband? Are we safe? Even though the attacks on the Twin Towers happened 3,000 miles away, that felt too close. It was so personal, so invasive. I began the bargaining with Zak over the control of the TV. "Mommy needs to watch the news, it's kind of important." Apparently, Dora was important too. We finally reached a compromise, and once Dora and Boots arrived at whatever destination they were seeking, I was allowed to change the channel.
I naively thought I'd have to flip around to find a news station. To my surprise, I found coverage on just about every channel we had. Almost instantly I was greeted with video of one smoldering tower, the unbelievable image of a plane flying directly into the the second. I couldn't breathe. The goosebumps continued and the images just kept coming: Smoke, flames, and interviews with eyewitnesses on the street. As if out of some crazy movie, they flashed grainy images of little black specks falling from the building, that upon zooming closer were obviously people. People were jumping. My heart stopped.
Finally, the second tower started to fall. It didn't tip, it imploded downward like it was on a crazy elevator ride to hell. Smoke and debris bubbled up and the scene on the street was that of panic as people fled for safety. Eventually, the first tower came down as well, and the people being interviewed on the street were covered head-to-toe in ash, their eyes huge with shock, their voices shaking. My viewing self, all these miles away on my safe sofa in my safe home, was equally in shock, my voice equally as shaky as I called my husband. Soon I learned the Pentagon was also hit, and another plane was taken down in Pennsylvania. None of it made any sense. Not one little bit.
Eventually I put the TV back on cartoons for my impatient child, but later on that night I was able to revisit the horror over and over as the images were replayed into the wee hours. I don't know when I finally tried to go sleep, but I remember very clearly that when I closed my eyes, all I could see was the plane flying into the tower, the smoke, the debris. I finally got up and turned on a light. For the first time since I was a small child, the dark frightened me. Even though all commercial flights had been grounded, the quiet of night was broken by military jets traveling along the coastline. It was both comforting and ominous.
Over the next few days, new images and new information came over the TV.....we found out details about who committed this terrorist act, met some of the survivors and family members of the victims. We heard individual stories of heroism, heartbreaking tales of loss, and rousing speeches by politicians who wanted to assure us that we were stronger than ever. I wanted to believe that. But I also have a very vivid memory of wondering if we would soon see truckloads of terrorists driving into our little rural community, guns blazing. It was a ridiculous thought, but once I had let myself imagine it I found it hard to shake. Any feeling of security had been shattered.
Over the next few days and weeks and months, a new "normal" evolved. It wasn't the same world, but in some ways it seemed more vibrant. I think a lot of folks were shaken out their complacency and realized life is precious and fragile. Some used the events of that day to reach out and find ways to help others. Some used the events to strengthen their hate and bigotry. Our nation showed its best AND its worst to the world. We each had to choose a way to move forward.
All these years later, a lot has changed and yet much remains the same. I work with children who were born years after 2001 and the stories of that day are as far removed from their reality as black and white World War II images are to mine. Concepts like "terrorism" and "Homeland Security" are commonplace to us now, but they don't seem to make the sky any less blue or the sun any less bright. In the last couple of weeks I have read lots of first-hand accounts of that day, seen many in-depth stories of lives lost or forever altered on 9.11.01 and I feel guilty. A decade ago it seemed as if the horrors of that day happened to us all. It felt like we, as Americans, had been dealt a blow that would forever change our lives. Now, I know that it was an atrocity that indeed impacted us all, but most of us were able to move on, turn the page, change the channel. What I hope this anniversary will commemorate is not our national experience, but the sacrifice and strength of the true victims of that day. And, maybe, we can reflect a little bit on the beauty of life and the resilience of the human spirit.
