Several decades ago people actually talked about where they were when Kennedy was shot. I remember not thinking much of it until I was older, relegating it to one of those odd instances where detailed memories of the mundane are forever implanted in the brain, based on some traumatic experience that occurred while people were otherwise engaged in the banalities of life.
I have experienced a few such seared-in memories myself, like the early September morning in 1972 when I came down the stairs, surprised to see my dad still home, until he quietly told me that I didn't have to go to school that day, because my mother had passed away during the night. I vividly recall crimping the rough wool skirt of my school uniform into my 12-year old hand as I twisted it in my fist, held my breath and bounded back up the stairs to my room, where I promptly buried my head into my pillow and let out a silent scream that arose from unknown depths. Sharing a room with 2 sisters afforded little privacy to mourn without rivals, and looking back I realize that residing in a family of 7 children carried with it (for me) the further distress of burying my pain for fear of appearing weak and helpless to my friends and family, instead of the confident, smug, almost-teenager I was certain I was. While the brain cancer did not take my mother suddenly from my midst, familial denial made the penetrating sting as sharp and immediate as if it had been thrust upon me without warning, the sheer force and momentum of which caught me completely unawares.
This is something of how I imagined the September 11th families may have felt twenty-nine years later when the collective rug was pulled out from under all of us. The horror and the pain of that day cut a hole in America's heart, even as most of us could thank God that the same knife spared our own loved ones.
On that morning we were engaged in any number of the endless ordinary actions that make up our seemingly ordinary days. Some took advantage of the glorious early autumn weather to enjoy a walk through their neighborhood. Others rushed to make a morning meeting, feeling hemmed in by the gridlock that defines rush hour in the city. Still others were home, scanning their morning paper over a steaming cup of coffee, glancing every so often at the muted news. Perhaps the only thing we held in common that day was that we were all in the process of taking life for granted, existing in the seeming autonomy of our own little bubbles of individual identity - separate lives occasionally coalescing into the stifled comfort of larger masses of humanity, usually of our own choosing. All of it was quite 'not bad' - we had so much to be thankful for, even if we failed to acknowledge it, until the fine fall morning when suddenly and without warning, the very whole of life became horribly and inexplicably far more precious than we ever dared imagine, as the rude smack of its brevity fell upon every American on the 11th of September - the day we shared our despair.
I grew up in NJ, in the shadow of the New York city skyline. When my husband and I began dating, he often took me into the city, which he knew well and could navigate like a native cabbie (which was not always comfortable!). One of my fondest memories from that time was having dinner at Windows on the World, which revolved atop one of the towers. I was quite young (20) and unused to what was to me disarmingly deferential treatment by anyone, and felt quite the princess as we dined and I tried not to drool as I drank in the gorgeous, expansive and ever-changing views of the city and beyond. Looking back at it today, I see our evening as I would view a movie - it somehow strikes a cord within me that is deeper/better/more satisfying than the reality we live on the surface, probably because the towers themselves are forever gone. Life on earth is transitory.
I have a dear old friend whose husband Paul worked for Cantor Fitzgerald, a large firm headquartered in one of the towers. Carol and I met in a young moms' group at a church in Montclair, NJ more than 20 years ago and have remained close over the ensuing years. On the morning of September 11th 2001, Paul called Carol after the first plane hit and told her that he was ok; he and his colleagues were all together in a conference room, and were totally safe. Agonizing weeks later, Carol would finally come to terms with the fact the Paul would never be coming home.
The days immediately following 9/11 were like a movie for so many of us, but I especially felt it as I watched my dear friend, as she and so many others sought desperately to find their loved ones. I viewed the news with numbing incredulity as the days wore on, first feeling immense sadness as multitudes of family and friends searched in vain for the lost, occasionally having our profound sadness buoyed by the joy of someone found alive. Except it was never Paul, and that continual turmoil took my dear friend on a roller coaster of emotions until she finally, despite the absence of any tangible evidence that Paul was among the dead, held a memorial service to try and close an indelible wound.
As profoundly sad as it is to recall the events of that day, I am convinced that hope springs from the depths of such despair, if only we have eyes to see. From whence does my help come? Most of us don't look up to see God until we are flat on our back. I believe we were all looking up on 9/11. As a result of our crushing pain, there seemed to me to arise that day a renewed acknowledgment, reverence, appreciation and reliance on God as the source of the blessings that we have heretofore received as individuals, and as a people. God is the source.
America stood taller in the aftermath of 9/11 than this 50 year-old remembers in her lifetime. The countless stories of sacrifice, bravery and compassion we have all heard, witnessed and must remember, were borne of a cataclysmic disaster that would drive lesser people to seek, and not offer, help to those in greater need than themselves. Our brothers and sisters shouldered burdens that were not theirs to carry, and gave care to those that were not their charge. This is the 9/11 that is permanently seared in my memory. I cannot help but remember with awe the amazing things that ordinary Americans did on that day, and every day thereafter, to rescue, help and care for those for whom 9/11 was a day without end.
Fireman running in when sanity dictated running out, police and security officers bravely calming others amidst tremendous chaos and calamity; EMTs, steel workers, and scores of others who worked tirelessly until they could move no more in the immense search and rescue effort...all of this is what I shall never forget. One of the most endearing memories to me personally is one that I can most relate to. Not being a fireman, EMT or any sort of technical professional, my heart was lifted each and every night for weeks on end as the news carried footage of ordinary people, just like me (only better for their presence!) - who waited at bridges, and points of exit and entry into the city, for the sole purpose of hooting and hollering as they gleefully thanked and cheered on the multitude of workers who had either just begun or just ended a hellishly long shift helping with the rescue efforts. I don't know - that just brought tears of thankfulness to my eyes, and made me feel so proud to be an American...
