I have 2 pictures taken just a couple of days apart that serve as a reminder of how much the world can change in a few hours. They both are real photos that you had to get by using a camera and taking film someplace to be developed. All these things took effort, and as a result pictures were saved for more righteous occasions than say, for instance, the one I took of my burger last night.
The first picture is of a peacefully resting baby. He’s folded up under himself but you can see hints of chubby pink legs. At only 4 weeks old, his head is still finding it’s shape and is covered with hair that is almost copper in color. That infant had not a care in the world. And in a lot of regards, neither did the rest of us. The next morning proved very different though.
The second picture is of a beautiful toddler with a perfect ducktail in his hair standing by as his dad has he places a brand new flag in a makeshift flag holder on the telephone pole in front of our house.
It’s been 20 years since those photos, but I still can’t fully comprehend what happened two days in between them.
I was home on maternity leave with young Derek. 20 years ago, there was no alert to your cell phone about important events. I’d been just spending my morning basking in the joy of my 2 perfect little boys.
My mom called. They’d taken a pilgrimage to Minnesota and had been scheduled to fly back that day. As things happen sometimes for my folks, they’d canceled their return flight because they’d spontaneously bought a motorhome instead.
“Are you watching the news?”
I wasn’t. I had no idea what had happened. I’m pretty sure the 2nd tower had been struck by the time I turned on the TV, but I was just so confused about what was unfolding, that I really don’t know for sure. “America?! Under attack?!” It was beyond comprehension. Like the rest of my world, I stayed glued to the TV hoping for some information that would tell me that things were going to be okay. But it wasn’t okay.
The world lost the following guardians in NY alone; 343 from NYFD, 23 from NYPD, and 37 from Port Authority. In one fell swoop; 403 people who’d felt that call to put the safety of others before their own were taken.
And as disheartening as that is on it’s own, there were also regular people who were just trying to live their lives who’d instantly lost them for a matter that wasn’t theirs. There are not words strong enough to accurately capture how wrong it all was. Who did this? Why? Is there more to come? I remember going to bed after a day of watching so much horror and being completely frightened. No one knew what was going to happen. I wondered if my little humans would be safe.
The next days were blurry. I remember bits and pieces of events. Planes had been grounded. My pilot neighbor had flown to Vegas before 9/11. The only way he was able to get home was to rent a Ryder truck. Communications were jammed. It took us some time to learn that Uncle Brad was safe. He’d been living in New York at the time. He was under the towers on a subway when the first plane hit. He heard about it as soon as he got off an got to his office. His was unable to return to his apartment for days because of it being close enough to ground zero. When he did return, he talked about seeing horrific things.
Even though I was 30 when it happened, I did not possess the maturity to know how to feel. The continued coverage of events was both a blessing and a curse. I wanted to know what more threat remained, but that came at the cost of looped footage of people jumping from one kind of certain death to another, trying in their last moments to control their destinies in spite of terrorists senseless acts; or audio of heroes intent on downing a plane before the bad guys wanted it to happen as they call home and say their goodbyes. Maybe it’s just me, but my eyes leak at the thought even as I write about it.
I wanted to feel better and to think that my littles weren’t destined to live in country under attack. It may sound dramatic now, but the realization that we were vulnerable was very unsettling.
I appreciated the messaging about unity; I mean, it’s right there in our country’s name. There was a drive towards increased patriotism. It was unacceptable that this terror was brought to us. And as a stay at home mom in Cottonwood, I felt paralyzed to be able to do anything about it. The only immediate thing that made sense was to buy a flag. As silly as it sounds it was an act of solidarity within my control. On 9/13 I took that perfect toddler and that newborn and waited in line with maybe a hundred other people at the Flag Center for my visual representation of union. This was pre-Amazon so the flag store is was our home for however long it took for all the people with the same goal. Every few minutes, I shuffled Daniel forward and hoisted Derek in his red, white, and blue infant carrier. As soon as the boys and I got that flag home, Brian promptly and proudly affixed it to the telephone pole.
Twenty years have passed, and I still feel completely insufficient in my ability to express sorrow for loss and gratitude for service. There’s no way. I doubt that I’m alone in that thought. And even though remembering and honoring doesn’t feel like it’s enough; it’s what we have. And we still owe to those to make sure we never forget.
Bifocals and Barbells 