Never Forget.

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 4^th 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.