September 11

I don't know anyone who was hurt or killed in the September 11, 2001 attack on the World Trade Center in New York . I don’t know anyone who lost loved ones in the attack. I don't know what that could possibly feel like. No idea what they might possibly be feeling. I thank God for this, but somehow I feel guilty, too.

I was driving to work when I heard the news. I thought hard about whether I knew anyone who was in New York at that time and I came to the thankful conclusion that I didn’t. I arrived at my office and watched the news in a conference room with about fifteen co-workers. I doubt my version of that day is unique.

My secretary spent half the morning hysterical about an aunt and uncle who work in Washington D.C. , but she soon received the news that they were fine. The rest of us shook our heads and dropped our jaws as the towers in New York fell. We commented on the tragedy in predictable and appropriate ways.

I watched from half a country away that morning and didn't know what to say or do.

My children and family members were safe, so I said nothing – there was nothing to say. I didn't even give blood. I intended to and intended to, but I never actually did it. I did the two things I felt I could do well: I prayed and I talked to my kids, and I prayed and I talked to them some more. I made it okay for them. I made it mostly okay for me.

Then one morning on my way to work, a different kind of morning, a safe and comfortable morning, I listened to my regular local morning talk show – the same station, in fact, that had brought the news of the attack to my ears months before. The show is hosted by two people I have, along with my daughters, met in real life at some new restaurant promotion or other. They thanked us for listening, gave us some pizza, and autographed my daughters’ jean jackets. Point being, their voices and faces are familiar to me; while I don't KNOW them, they aren't just disembodied news-reporter sounds coming from my speakers.

Anyway, one of the hosts was talking about his trip to New York the previous weekend. He had visited Ground Zero and he described it from the Everyday Guy's point of view -- not someone who was mourning a loved one or embracing this political view or the other. Just a guy who saw it with his own eyes, with his family safely next to him. It was the first time a familiar voice had spoken to me about the attack.

For the rest of that commute I wanted very much to be there at Ground Zero, just to be there. Just because. Because it's a part of my history, a part of my children's history. I have no great love for New York , in and of itself. Sure, I'd like to go someday just to see the big city, grab some culture, blah blah blah. But I wanted to see the damage for myself – not in some traffic-accident-rubber-necking sort of way, but to see it and absorb it and know in my heart that it was real. To feel the energy of that place and take it with me everywhere else I would go. I think what I wanted – what I needed – was for the tragedy to leave a part of itself on me.

And I wanted to leave something of myself there, too, though I’m not sure why. Who would care? Who would know? Yeah, yeah, "I would know." Big deal, it does nothing. It helps no one. But I wanted to leave something – I don't know. Maybe to prove that yes, I’m aware, and I’m scared, too.

I think I also wanted to see the work being done. The 24-7 efforts being made to make it as right as possible again.

And I'm reminded of the dormitory fire during my sophomore year of college, when nothing was damaged, really, but smoke was everywhere, and our clothing stank. Of how we all collectively forgave our floor-mate for dropping her match on her folders rather than in the ashtray. Of how we all banded together to wash every wall, every floor, every door, every shower stall, every inch of ceiling on that dorm floor in a 24-7 effort to make it as right as possible again. The dorm fire was ironically one of the most meaningful and memorable experiences of my college career.

It has only recently occurred to me that I am not the only member of my household who will always remember where she was and who she was with as the towers collapsed. For me, personally, this is different from the other global events that are forever carved into my memory:  the 1981 attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan, the 1986 Challenger explosion, the Gulf War – the very year I became a parent. This time, in 2001, my children were there. Here. Part of it, part of this world. This time, the 24-7 effort starts and ends with me. This time, they’ll remember, too.