Monday, September 10, 2012

September 11th

For the first time ever, I will not be home in my beloved city on the anniversary of September 11th.

Tomorrow is going to be hard. 

I mean, I really struggle every year on this day, remembering, and trying to honor the tragedy that struck my home that day. Over the years I've come to realize how blessed and fortunate and LUCKY my own family was on that day, something that I will forever be grateful for. But the memories of what the city was like in the aftermath of this event is an ever humbling experience, and something that I've come to realize is very, very difficult for one to understand unless they were actually there. 

I was 7, and in the 1st Grade. Many may say that I was too young to have been really strongly affected, to have really understood the gravity of that day until I was much older. To a certain extent they would be right. My parents and my older brother were all much older, and have much stronger feelings than I do. On the other hand, my sister, who wasn't even born until two years later, struggles to connect to the emotions that we feel every Sept 11th.

I remember clearly being in school, and when another teacher came into the room to share the news with my teacher, I overheard the statement "The twin towers have fallen." At the time I didn't know what this meant, but I pictured a lego or block structure that had been knocked down like I would do sometimes when playing, and I never imagined that anyone was hurt. I knew of the towers, and had seen them many times. I just didn't connect the two on that day, and so, in a total little-kid-me nature, I spread it around the classroom, thinking that it was some sort of funny joke.

I also overheard the teacher saying that parents would be coming to pick up students at anytime, that she just had to confirm that they were the right people and then to let them go, because nobody wanted to be separated from their family. I also clearly remember thinking "Yes! We'll get out of school early!"

My amazing teacher (bless her, she really did an amazing job) kept the day going as usual, not mentioning anything of the tragedy or showing any sign of stress. Some students were indeed picked up early, and I grew more jealous because my parents hadn't come. I figured that my mom was doing the "smart" thing and making me stay for the whole day (she never wanted me to have any fun). That jealousy turned into panic as the school day ended and my parents still hadn't arrived. 

Now here's where I'm a little fuzzy on the details. I can't remember if a friend picked me up or not, but I do remember feeling very upset at my mother because she had taken so long to come and get me. And a little bit of panic, because I could sense that things were really off, and that the adults around me were scared. Only later did I learn that she had left home before noon, and it had taken her something like six hours to get from 181st street to 92nd. She had to take several buses, trains, cabs, and then walk around blocked off areas, something that I know had to have been difficult, as she saw firsthand the impact this had on the streets.

On a bus on our way home, I once again proved my childish nature by pointing to some very dusty and depressed looking passengers on the bus and telling my mother "look mom, those guys really need a bath, look how dirty they are!" 

Little did I understand where they were coming from or why they were so dusty.

Upon our return home, my parents allowed my brother and I to see the video footage on television for a few minutes, so that we could understand what was going on (I feel that this was more for me than my brother), then proceded to turn the tv off for the next couple of days. They made the wisest decision any parent should make in that situation. They limited what we saw and heard so that we weren't traumatized by the information, because the details they were showing on television was definitely something that would give even an adult nightmares, not to mention a 7 year old.

As the days went on my understanding of this catastrophe deepened, but thankfully not enough that I couldn't handle it. I began to understand and respect the victims, and I found myself hoping that the cheery smiling faces of the people on the missing persons signs would come home. 

Upon our return to school our teacher sat us down and told us that we could ask her any questions regarding the event, if we hadn't heard anything from our families (again, what a wise teacher.) And of course, the first question was to ask where one of the students was. Everyone was well aware that he hadn't been picked up until very very late, and he was the only one absent. We then found out something that broke my heart a million times over. That little boy (I don't remember his name, but I do have a picture of his face in my head that will never go away) had the worst happen to him. He sat there in school, only understanding so much of what was happening, watching all of his friends go home, until he was the only one left, waiting, waiting, waiting for his parents to come for him.

Only they never did. 

He was finally picked up by an aunt or uncle, as our teacher informed us, and would be moving away to live with family who could take care of him. 

I remember that feeling of panic that crossed the pit of my stomach when I would see the look on an adult's face that told me how scared they were. It was something I wasn't used to seeing and it made me crave my parent's safe presence. I can't imagine for one second what that must have felt like, to have been sitting there for hours, shuffled around by adults, hoping and praying that your parents would come soon, so you could be safe again, because nobody felt safe, and every child in that school could tell.

Our class cried for him, we wept and we prayed, everyone in their own individual way. My teacher asked us to remember him, and to remember how the attacks had affected people, and to remember how much it hurt our city.

I will never forget how much my home was hurt on that day. Never.

As I've grown up I've heard other stories, and learned more about the event that had made me weep and has made me count my blessings.

My father worked a few blocks away from the WTC, and had he gone into work that day on time, he would have been walking out of the train station the moment the attacks hit. He had been up late helping my brother with a project the night before, so he slept in. We are so lucky.

But when my father did go back to work, the dust that stayed in the sky for months gave him a perpetual cough, that my mother said must have lasted a year. 

The company he worked for tanked less than a year later. They went bankrupt because the economy took a hit after the attacks.

I heard stories of people I knew who spent hours trying to get home, or trying to get kids in schools or trying to get to the WTC, hoping and praying that friends or family could be found. 

My parents bought my brother a cell phone two days later. He was 13. 

My Stake President has told a story many times of his experiences after the attacks. He talked about being on a bus, a few days later, and seeing everyone sitting, looking exhausted, sad, and worried. He saw that there was an immense kindess that took hold of those in the city. That anyone, complete strangers, would stop and try to hold someone up throughout those days afterwards. That in a city of so many, where for so long so many were alone, suddenly everyone was looking around, willing to ease someone else's burden if they could. 

The September 11 attacks didn't just impact the victims and their families. It impacted a whole city. One of the best and biggest cities in the world. It impacted my home. 

I felt the fear. I felt the grief. I felt the pain. I felt the horror. I felt the loss that NYC has a whole felt. I mourned with my home, and even now, when I'm 3,000 miles away, I mourn for my home.

The hardest part for me now is what it has been turned into. Now it's a political debate. A reason for war. A reason for revenge. Its turned into racism, bias and hatred for a people who are of no fault. It has been a cause for contention among the very same people who were apart of the country that was targeted. 

So how can something like this manage to be so unifying, yet so contentious at the same time?
Why do we argue about it? Why do we need to rehash out the details every year? Why should we fight for revenge when we can forgive, then pray for a better world? Why didn't this compel us to do good? Why didn't this make our nation want to provide an example of forgiveness, of service, of love? 

So here's to hope. Hope that one day we can be that example. That one day the contention will end. That no generation will ever have to feel this pain and grief ever again.



The American Flag attached to the Maid of the Mist boats that go to the bottom of the Niagara Falls.

I apologize for the seriousness and somewhat depressing aspect of this post. I just needed to get it out. I hope that I haven't offended anyone in anyway or shown any disrespect whatsoever.

I do hope that any of you who wish, will honor and respect the victims of 9/11 by listening to WNYC tomorrow as they read off the names of all of the deceased.
Thank you.

5 comments:

  1. Beautiful... thank you for sharing your story and wisdom. Love you!

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  2. Elizabeth - thank you for the beautiful post!

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  3. Wonderful. Well written and very touching.

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  4. You made me cry..and u write so well. I need to have the boys read this. Parker is your age of 911,so that may neat to hear about your life experiences. Love ya!

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  5. Wow. I can't imagine how hard it would have been to be here. Thank you for sharing your story xo

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