25 Years Later

It’s been a long time – a long time since I have written anything or even felt compelled to write anything. More than the lack of desire or lack of faith in my own abilities, I can chalk it up to just plain exhaustion. Is that an excuse? Maybe.  But, at least in part, it’s true. I thought, as I grew older, that my responsibilities would decrease, but the opposite is true. And I find keeping up with everything has left me little time to be creative,  writing and reading, once my favorite hobbies, have fallen by the wayside.

Today felt important.  Significant enough to take time to put pen to paper or the modern equivalent, fingers to keyboard. Today marks the 25^th anniversary of 9/11. I have seen a lot of discussion on social media this week from younger generations who were not there. They don’t understand why we put so much emphasis on this day. After all, there have been wars and unfortunately for them, mass casualty events, on a regular basis. So why does this day mean anything different? There are so many answers to this question, and I can only answer that from my perspective, which is one of someone who did not have anyone in the twin towers or the Pentagon and someone who watched from a state away.

I think the easiest answer was, it was on our territory. It was not the first time America had been attacked on such a scale, the loss of lives was almost equal to that of Pearl Harbor. Yet, it seemed different. It might have been because we witnessed it as it was happening. It was live coverage from the moment the plane hit the first tower. It might have been the unknown – how many planes were out there and how many targets? It might have been fear, or the eerie silence of the sky. It was disbelief and righteous anger.

More than anything else, it was grieving. We watched as innocent lives ended. Everyone in those towers, in the Pentagon, on the planes were someone’s loved one – family or friend. In those towers were mothers and fathers, on the ground were children left behind. And absolutely none of them woke up that morning and thought this was how their day was going to go. No one asked for this or expected it. They were not soldiers going into battle prepared to sacrifice their lives for a cause. They were innocent people who were victims of a mad man on an evil crusade. Everyone in the country was caught off guard.

And then we felt pride in all the first responders – the police, the firemen, medics, doctors, nurses, and everyday citizens of New York. We watched the heroism of people who did not hesitate to rush in and help. They saw people terrified and scared, injured and dying. They jumped in without regard to their own safety. In the aftermath, they came from all over the country, heroes to lend a hand – hoping to find life among the rubble or clues to the identities of those lost.

I was just a young mom, caring for a two-year old who would not look up at planes for months without hiding or ducking, because she saw the video replay so many times in that day or the days to come. We probably should have turned the tv off, but the need to know every detail or how and why; the need to hear from the survivors and the heroes; and the need for the country to come together and stand strong took over.  

I don’t think my words can convey the emotions from that day: the utter confusion and abject horror that we all felt, followed by grief – an enormous wave of grief that swept across the nation; the anger, right and just and powerful fury; concern for those who helped; empathy for the family and friends of the victims; the pride in a people that stood tall behind a city that is part of the cornerstone of the nation; and love for each other.

God willing, we will never witness another day like that.

God willing, we will never forget.