No one is immune to heartache, and we have surely all heard
the old adage, “time heals all wounds.” It is one of those sayings people,
often those we don’t know well, use as means of comfort in a time of loss or
despair when they don’t necessarily know what else to say.
But in that time of mourning, such sentiments, though
well-intended, can seem callous to the sufferer, at least as far as I have
experienced. While I have always managed to utter a polite, quiet “thank you”
to such empty words, inside, my heart has screamed, How can you know? How will I go on? How will life ever be the same?
Somehow, though, they do know because we do go on. And,
while life may never be the same (how could it be?), it continues, and we
manage to continue with it, rejoicing in the good days, surviving the bad days,
and living all days in between.
Today marks the twelfth anniversary of a day when my heart
broke into a thousand pieces. I’d experienced heartache before through the
deaths of loved ones, but even those experiences paled in comparison to the way
September 11, 2001, affected me (and, I’m sure, many others like me as well).
That day, where I was, and how I felt will forever be seared
into my memories, etched upon my heart.
It was my second year of college, and I was taking a walking
class at eight o’clock in the morning. The local radio station was in the habit
of sending its interns on wild adventures and crazy pranks, so when I got back
in my car to head over to my second class of the day, I disregarded the intern
who was reporting on something about a plane and a building. She sounded, for
lack of a better word, distracted—and I figured the DJs were having fun at her
expense. I even remember thinking initially that a plane flying into a building
was a really distasteful topic.
But in the time it took me to get from the rec center to
campus, I realized what I was hearing was no prank. I looked to the beautiful
blue sky above me as I walked from my car to the building, watched the wispy
clouds floating on the breeze, having really no idea the magnitude of what had
happened. While many professors were dismissing class, my prof thought it
important that we watch, as a class, as the news unfolded on the small
television mounted at the front of the room. There was no collective sigh or
grunt of protest in response. From the moment we took our seats, we were glued
to the images and scrolling words flashing across the screen. And all I can
remember is clutching my books to my chest and staring ahead in a sort of
stupor as the towers burned and crumbled on live TV.
On my way home from school, a good friend from high
school—one I no longer regularly saw—passed me on the road and followed me
home. I remember being distracted, trying to talk to her and wanting to
relinquish all responsibility and be sucked in by whichever channel the
television landed on as they were all broadcasting some form of coverage of the
attacks.
The atmosphere at work was so different from school or home.
Anxiousness and urgency dominated the newsroom at the paper where I worked as
the reporters and copy desk scrambled with the EXTRA they were running. My
coworker and I were pulled between the televisions, the scanner, and the
chatter around us. Excitement is the wrong word to describe the buzz that the
liveliness of the newsroom created. It left no time to be sad, no time for the
onset of the depression that would follow.
I shed many tears in the weeks and months that followed that
day. No, I didn’t know any of the innocent who died in the attacks; I didn’t
know any of the first responders who gave their lives trying to save others.
But I don’t think I had to know them personally to know the very real pain of
their tragic deaths. I was young and naïve, trying to decide what I wanted to
do with my life, and this incredible loss made me feel so exposed and
vulnerable.
Twelve years have passed and the details of that day are
still so vivid in my mind. I am fairly certain they are vivid in the minds of
anyone who experienced, either first hand or at a distance, that terror and its
aftermath.
But, as a result of that day, something beautiful, too,
emerged. America experienced a renewed sense of identity. People stood
together—despite their race or religion or political views. They offered what
they could: supplies, time, money, blood, prayer. This beautifully diverse
nation stood as one. And it took a great long while for that to fade.
Unfortunately, though, it seems it has faded. Fewer proudly
display the red, white, and blue, even on days like today—when it seems most
appropriate. We bicker and argue over petty details instead of working together
toward a common goal. We complain about the need for change but do little to
change anything at all. And, above all, we focus too much on ourselves and too
little on one another.
I am grateful that my children did not have to experience
September 11, 2001. It is often hard for me to realize that many of the
students I teach today didn’t experience it either. So they stare at me with
glossed over looks when I talk about it, when I remind them to honor those who
have fallen and those who serve to protect them, on days like today and
everyday—and I wonder if they will ever understand how important this day and
the people who sacrifice all to protect this country truly are. I wonder if
they will ever know an America like the one I experienced in the weeks and
months that followed that September morning when the people of this great
nation came together in the face of tragedy with something powerful to
prove.
I’ll never forget being parked on the side of the road,
waiting for the 4th of July fireworks display just a few months shy
of the one year anniversary. Cars and trucks lined the roads and families
popped little firecrackers in the open street. Everyone’s radios were tuned to
the same station as the music was planned to accompany the show. And then Toby
Keith’s southern drawl belted from the speakers, and men and women everywhere
leaned into their cars to crank the volume. Someone hollered “hell yeah” and
another echoed with applause until it seemed everyone along that road was
singing what had become America’s anthem of resilience. And my heart, which had
been shattered a year earlier, seemed almost whole again as it swelled with
pride.
It was a powerful moment, representative of America, and an
indication that time does, in many ways, heal or at least lessen the pain.
