September 11, 2011

  • be strong, believe.

    Everyone has their story. Mine is no different; there's nothing exceptional or particularly unique about my experience that day that would differentiate it from anyone else's. But I feel like it's my tiny little way of paying tribute, so I'll share it quietly on here. Feel no obligation to read on. 

    I was an awkward sixth grader, barely adjusted to middle school. We had been back for maybe two weeks; three, tops. Around 9:30 AM, rumors started flying that one of the eighth graders had gotten a "text message" from his mom saying someone blew up a bomb in both of the Twin Towers. (Side note: think back ten years ago; an eighth grade student having a cell phone, let alone the capability to send/receive texts was just beginning to become a common sight). People were frantically speculating as to what might be happening, and I was pretty much just listening. Eventually, however, I overheard one of the students in my class standing at the locker next to me mention to another student how he thought it was pretty cool that someone might have blown up the Twin Towers. I remember that incident largely because it was the first time I ever used the word "fuck" out loud, to another person. Is it bizarre that such a trivial detail is permanently attached to that day in my mind? Yeah, I think it's fair to say that's more than a little strange. But I remembering being so furious that anyone could find something of that nature "cool" that it just slipped out; I had told him to "shut the fuck up" before I could even process I had said that sentence. 

    Finally, after an hour of wild rumors, my history teacher told us the truth, including the details about the Pentagon. That was the first time any of us heard that part of the story, and it changed my entire mindset. Attacks in New York were horrible and devastating, but my dad works near the Pentagon. It went from being a feeling of mild fear to a desperate longing to hear my dad's voice on the phone. I remember my history teacher asking us to stop and pray; although he told us to put our heads down and close our eyes, I stole a glance upwards and saw tears running down his face. For a terrified sixth grader, few things are more upsetting than seeing your strong male role model at school looking as helpless as you felt. My mom picked us up around fifteen minutes later; they tried to stop her and get her to sign us out properly, and so she marched right past them and took us each out of class. She was crying too, but with those tears she brought a brief moment of relief; my dad was safe and in no danger, to the best of our knowledge. Obviously, as a doctor he wasn't going to be home for several hours, but she called him as we drove home and I got to hear his strong, calm voice, telling me that he loved me and that God was still in control. 

    I got home and we immediately turned on the news; NBC4 was broadcasting live like every other network, but just like the rest of us, they had no clue what to say. By the time we were home, both towers had collapsed and Flight 93 was down in Pennsylvania. Speculation was rampant that other planes were still headed towards Washington, and I distinctly remember hearing reports of attacks in Chicago and Pittsburgh. Networks were estimating death tolls in the tens of thousands, and the endless loop videos of people leaping from skyscrapers seemed to sear themselves into the back of my eyes. I immediately logged onto AOL Instant Messager and started frantically chatting with friends and random acquaintances, desperate for someone to share the moment with. For some reason, one conversation has stuck in my mind; it was with a girl named Kristi (who has long since gone out of my life). She told me not to be worried about my safety because "it would take the world's dumbest terrorist to attack Bowie." For some strange reason, I found that funny and comforting. In reality, it definitely wasn't funny and really shouldn't have been very comforting. But to a young, overwhelmed mind, even the tiniest attempt at humor was appreciated. 

    Above all else, the thing I remember most clearly is the tears. I saw my mom cry, I saw my dad cry, I saw teachers, parents, students, strangers, TV anchors, politicians, and movie stars, all crying. What else was there to do? There is always a time for healing and remembrance, but on that very day, there was hardly another action that could possibly seem appropriate. I cried myself to sleep that night, and I'm crying now as I type this paragraph. Like my mom said today in the car, "it's almost impossible to believe it was ten years ago, and yet it really does seem like a different world." So much of what I felt that day was exactly what we all felt; raw, unfiltered emotion. Whether it was terror, sadness, mourning, devastation, hopelessness, or steely resolve, we all felt it together. The room I live in now served as our TV room ten years ago, and I can literally look at the corner where the TV sat, close my eyes, and watch those broadcasts like they're happening in this very moment. Those raw, brutal emotions are branded into some deep corner of my brain, and I highly doubt they'll ever fade. 

    But in the end, my story is simply that; my experience. I offer it not to bring attention to myself, but to place context on this final paragraph of tribute. On this day, one of mourning, sadness, remembrance, and continued healing, I offer my most humble and gracious thank you to the men and women serving in our armed forces. I offer my most humble and gracious thank you to the brave men and women of the police and fire squads, both those who responded on that day and those who keep us safe through today. And above all else, I offer my most humble and gracious thank you to those who lost their lives. Thank you to the fireman who rushed through the doors as everyone rushed out. Thank you to the citizens who boarded a plane and fought back, refusing to let that missile find its target. Thank you, so much, with the most sincerity and generosity this language can possibly convey, for your heroism, bravery, and above all else, your sacrifice. 

    I can't speak for everyone, but I can speak for myself when I say you are truly never forgotten.