I’m always impressed when people can recall the crazy details of their days, their memories, their lives. I’m not good at that. I remember feelings, thoughts, reactions, emotions. I had multiple conversations with my mom about the events that shaped her life: the Kennedy assassination, the moon landing, Watergate, the births of her daughters. She can remember not only the emotions of those days, but where she was and all sorts of details. She assured me that if a time ever came in my life where I’d witness history in the making, I’d remember the minutiae. I doubted her.
And then the morning of September 11, 2001 occured.
I was up early that morning to take my car to the shop for a minor repair. It was a gorgeous fall morning in Marquette. I went back to my dorm room to get ready for my 10 am class. I loved watching music videos to help get me going. A Sugar Ray video was on as I sat on my bed prepping notes for class. It cut out suddenly to a news report. I was so annoyed–if I wanted news I’d turn on CNN. The footage that was being shown was of New York City, smoky and devastating. It looked like it was on fire; I was so confused. It took a bit of listening to the reports to understand what was happening. I thought we were at war for a minute, not that we were under attack. The second building hadn’t fallen yet. My mind blanked when I saw the second plane crash into the building. I couldn’t watch any more after that. I couldn’t comprehend how something so awful could be happening. I didn’t want to think about how many were dying, how much hurt was going on in the world at that moment. I didn’t want to go to class but I didn’t want to watch anymore.
I didn’t want to think about it.
The campus was somber. People didn’t look at each other as they trudged to their classrooms. The ones who did look up from the ground had tears in their eyes or grimaces on their faces. We were all in disbelief. Hurt, raw and vulnerable, radiated everwhere I turned. I was silly to think that class would be a sanctuary from the hurt. Instead of learning, each session became a mini therapy session. Most women were crying and several men dabbed at their eyes, uncomfortable with showing emotion to peers. We each took turns talking about what we were feeling. None of us could understand what was happening. We were scared for the country.
At dinner that night my friends and I tried to make sense of what was happening. We couldn’t stop watching the news, but there were no answers. We didn’t know what to make of anything. One friend, in an effort to make some sense of the tragedy, pointed out that her Disney Days calendar for the day showed a picture of Captain Hook, a villain who comes off as so dashing and confident but who has an Achilles heel like everyone else. We’d spent our lives thinking our country was invincible, but perhaps we’re no better off than that silly pirate captain. It was food for thought. It was all we had. That and prayer, which we fervently did at a circle that night with most of the other residents in the hall. That was the first time I cried, heaving sobs as the day wore me down. I had friends in the Army, the National Guard–would they end up overseas fighting because of this?
When it was my turn to share in class, I’d shared that I didn’t know what to make of the tragedy unfolding around us. I was hurt and confused like everyone else and I didn’t understand what was happening. But I also shared that I thought good could come from this, that we should love and support our friends, family members and fellow Americans because the hurt was so raw and palpable. I knew that this would be a defining moment in our history, but that we could turn it into something good if we intentionally reached out to others. If we acted in a loving way to help ease the pain. I wanted good to come from the tragic.
I still do.
I’m still devastated when I hear stories of lost loved ones, of heroes who saved others but gave their lives in the process. I hear about 9/11 and I’m 19 again, raw and confused about the day that changed my country. I simply cannot comprehend the sheer tragedy of the lives lost and devastated by the events of that single day. But I hear stories of people coming together to help and support each other. Of heroes who changed lives, of the volunteers and service-people who survived and thrived. Of families who help the memories of loved ones live on. All of these things inspire me–if they can overcome the crisis and coax good from the ashes then we can all survive–and thrive. The world is full of suffering but it is also full of goodwill, love, strength and people who can harness those things to overcome it. September 11th to me is a day not of tragedy but of rebirth. We are strong. We will hurt, but we’ll persevere and overcome. September 11, 2001 is a day seared into my memory for all of those reasons.
