I Still Cry. 9/11--seventeen years later

                                                                    

     Seventeen years ago, I was sitting in my office in Franklin, TN. I was a single dad, two years into a painful divorce. My office had become my refuge on those days when my daughter was not with me. I spent a lot of time there, waiting for the next Thursday visit, or “My weekend” in the every-other-weekend carousel.

     That’s where I was on September 11, 2001. My morning routine was to get up at 5:30, go to the gym, and then be at my desk at 8:15. I had forty-five minutes to prepare my day, review the current files, and my sales plan, and be ready for 9 a.m. when the underwriters began their day, and the banks opened, and I discovered which fires needed to be put out, and which ones needed to be lit.

     I was watching the headlines on my computer when the first plane hit the tower. That’s all they said at first…that a plane had hit the tower. Nobody said whether it was a commercial jet, or a Piper Cub. Being a history buff, I instantly recalled that a B-25 had hit the Empire State Building in 1945, so there was a precedent for this being an accident.

But it wasn’t.

     While they were still trying to sort out the details and figure out what happened in the first crash, another plane hit the other tower. This time I saw it in real time. We all did. There was no mistaking it. The stress load on the wings as the demonic hijacker veered the craft into the building at high speed was ominous. This was no mistake. This was hitting a target.

     Before I could blink, my phone rang. It was a friend of mine in town who immediately said, “Jesus…we’re under attack.” I’d already thought the same thing but couldn’t put it into a sentence. We’re under attack. Once I’d accepted this, I knew who it was who’d done it. They’d already tried this eight years earlier, and these particular devils aren’t the kind to give up easily. They are pure evil. You hear that term a lot…”pure evil,” but you don’t see it as often. Manson was pure evil. Hitler was pure evil. The Muslim attackers on 9/11 were pure evil.

     I sat there at my desk, in a trance. “The people,” I thought, “All those people.” I thought of the people in the buildings. I thought of the people on the planes. How horrifying were their final moments? How much pain did they feel? What about their children? Their families?

     I called my ex-wife and talked to her about what we were going to do about our daughter. She is a nurse and worked at a hospital at the time. She told me they were already on lockdown, that there had been rumors of threats in Nashville as well. I told her I would sit tight for another thirty minutes to see what was happening and then if I needed to, I’d go get Daisy at the day-care. She agreed and we hung up.

     My attention turned back to the screen. I sat there in tears, watching two iconic buildings burn. I prayed for my country, through those tears. I prayed for the victims and their families. Then the horror got even worse. At first I thought they were pieces of the building falling to the ground. Then it became clearer, and the commentators confirmed it: those were people. People jumping from the windows of their offices, because they would rather fall to their death than burn.

     I remember rocking back and forth in my chair, sobbing now. Thinking about someone’s daddy, making that terrible choice, maybe calling to say goodbye first, and then leaping to their death. Or someone’s mom. Or someone’s fiancé, or son, or daughter.

     It was hitting me full force now. These were my family. By right of their citizenship in the US and further…by their very humanity. Those were my brothers and sisters, hurtling to their death, because to not do so was to suffer an even more gruesome end. Twenty minutes later, the scene exploded into a nightmarish, twisted, surreal vision of ash, and glass, and molten steel, and fluttering papers, raining down on white-faced survivors fleeing for their lives, and brave first responders, running the other way, into the danger, to do what they do willingly.

     The first tower collapsed in forever-slow-motion. I can still see it in my mind. I’ll never stop seeing it in my mind. Never. I can feel the temperature of the office I sat in, the warmth of the sun on that picture perfect morning, flooding my office with a light that suddenly didn’t seem to be appropriate.

     There was no chance now. No chance for survival for the thousands in that building. I knew it as I watched. And I sobbed again. “What are they doing to my beloved country?” I thought. “Is this happening anywhere else? Are we safe here in the South?” By the time news broke of Flight 93 missing in Pennsylvania, and the plane hitting the Pentagon, I’d already decided to go get my daughter. “Maybe they’ll target daycare centers” I thought. “These people are animals, really. They want to inflict maximum pain. What would be more painful than attacking children?”

     I was already in my car and on my way to my daughter’s daycare when the second tower fell. I heard it on the radio. I could barely see to drive, for the tears. I called Daisy’s mom on my way across town and told her I’d have her with me, and we’ll coordinate later. Again she agreed. She was scared. The hospital was a rumor mill and she’d heard them all.

     I called my family to check in. Everybody was okay. All accounted for. I turned into my daughter’s daycare and saw the line of cars. I parked in the lot and walked to the front doors. I punched in the special code and walked in the lobby. The same fear and anger and sorrow I was feeling was on every face. The moms and dads who, like me, had decided that the best place for their kids was with them, protected and safe, all had the same look in our eyes. “What in Hell was happening?” That wasn’t a figurative or a colloquialism. It was what we really felt. Only Hell itself could have cooked up a plan like this. Were they done? Was there more?

     I walked toward the big room where the 3 and 4 year old kids played together. My little girl was three-and-a-half at the time. The apple of my eye. I paused outside the room as other parents went in. I spotted my daughter in the corner, playing with some of her friends, oblivious to what had happened.

She was still just a child.

     I waited. I watched her playing. Something deep inside told me to let her play just a few more minutes. The other parents instinctively knew not to mention what was going on and not to scare the children. We all put on a smile and pretended that we were just there to pick them up for a special day together. I let Daisy play for maybe three minutes or so…while I thought.

     I thought about the world she was now living in. How in one ten minute span, her entire future was changed. I didn’t know just how much, but I knew that after today, things could never be the same. And I cried again. I cried because I knew that somehow, the childhood I’d dreamed of giving her; the one I was working for, and planning for, was not possible now. This evil monster would always be there. From now until eternity.

     I finally walked in the room and she ran to me as she always did. Because she was a daddy’s girl. I scooped her up and hugged her as tightly as I could. I was trying to shield her. To block the evil from affecting her life. Like maybe if I squeezed her enough, the morning would be undone and she could just have a normal childhood. But that could never be.

     The day was a blur after that. We went to get breakfast and then we went grocery shopping. I called her mom and she talked to our daughter for a minute, just to hear her voice. We went to my home, which was ten minutes into the countryside, where we felt like it was safer. But was it? She played outside in the sunshine oblivious to what was happening, while I listened to the radio and pushed her on her swing.

     By the end of that long day, with the sky empty of planes, except for the occasional military jet, patrolling, and with the stunned sorrow beginning to turn into righteous rage, I wept again.

     I thought of my grandparents. Was this what they felt on December 7, 1941? Was this how it felt that Sunday evening, after the smoke had settled and the body counting had begun?

     I cried a lot more the next day, seeing the smoke and fire where two works-of-art in building form had been. When the reports came in of the brave 343 first responders who willingly ran into the buildings and died when they fell.

     Seventeen years later and I still can’t see those pictures. I still can’t see the stills of the ones who chose to jump. I still can’t see the flag, flying from a mast still attached to a piece of the building now laying in the street. I can’t see any of that without crying. In fact, I think that if I ever relive that day in my mind and don’t cry, I’ll question my own humanity, my patriotism, and my compassion.

     When I see people who don’t get emotional it angers me. When I see that in some pockets of this country, people who openly espouse the kind of sick evil are actually running for elected office –and in some cases winning—I am sickened and seething.

I will never fully trust those who belong to the sect who did this to us. Sorry…that’s life. That’s what happens when you attack us. There is going to be a bit of guilt by association and you had better just understand it. You’d better just understand my distrust and my holding you at arm’s length and you’re having to prove yourself to me and to my country.

     Because I still cry.

The Night Before America

"I wonder what they thought, those 56 amazing men. Those 56 men who literally valued this nation over their own lives and fortunes. Who loved freedom more than wealth, comfort, success or personal gain.

I wonder what July 3, 1776 felt like for them. I wonder if they prayed a little harder, tossed and turned, or wept. I wonder if they walked softly into their children's rooms that night, and thought; "Dear God...what am I about to undertake?"

I wonder if they lay awake all night, waiting for the dawn and wondering if it would ever come. I wonder what sort of images raced through their minds.

The next sunrise would bring the day of decision. They had spent two whole days crafting this beautiful, brilliant declaration, telling King George -in the most respectful, sacred, unbending way imaginable-- that they answered to Someone far more noble, and far more feared and honored than he. That they owed it to God Himself to take this stand, because these rights that George was crushing, did not come from George. He had been granted custodian over them by right of his nobility. They came from God. God had entrusted their care to George, and George was misappropriating that trust.

So these men...these 56 giants of wisdom, Faith, and humility, chose -on behalf of a nation-- to trust God more than their King. And in so doing, to give birth to a nation unlike any other before or since.

I wonder how far down that road they could see? Beyond the inevitable war with Britain. Beyond the unavoidable growing pains. Beyond the doubt of the naysayers and the wailing of the mothers whose sons would surely be laid waste on battlefields yet to be determined, in the name of this document they had just crafted.

That night in July, on the evening before the first day of The United States of America, all this was still to come. All our greatness, all our achievement, all our progress, and invention, and exploration, and all our losses. Our brightest days, and our darkest nights were all still to come.

Because tomorrow...they would finish this task and sign this document and the great tale of America would begin.

...Tomorrow"

My America...

I grew up in the America where you saluted the flag EVERY time you saw it.

Where little leaguers paraded into their stadium on Opening Day and then took off their ballcaps -without being told- and stood rigid as fence posts while the National Anthem played.

Where being on a government assistance program was embarrassing and if you found yourself there...you busted your butt to get off as fast as you could.

Where you went to church on Sunday, and so did the local business owners...because they didn't have to open on Sunday to stay afloat.

Where whether or not you were a Catholic, you respected the local Priest if you saw him. Same for the local minister or Rabbi.

Where voting was taken seriously, and talked about passionately, but it never ended friendships, mostly because, while the Dems and the Repubs differed on the means, they agreed on the ends back then. Now...it's a battle between a communist takeover and a group who lost it's vision, it's connection with it's people, and it's soul.

Where a cop was respected, admired, and typically someone from the neighborhood.

Where sports were what we PLAYED far more than what we watched.

Where professional athletes sold us cars and sneakers...not tried to influence our votes or our social positions. (Except on the matter of race...which was important enough to need those voices)

Where a man who worked hard was respected, and saw the fruit of his labor after years of toil, and his neighbors didn't want the government taxing it all away from him because they were envious. They saw him as an example of what hard work could achieve.

Where little boys dreamed of being astronauts or jet pilots or star athletes or doctors or engineers or police / fireman. Or building a business that bore your name and served your community. Not DJ's making millions for creating a drum loop.

Where journalism was respected and if you read it in the paper it was true. Unvarnished, unbiased, TRUE.

Where a soldier was awe inspiring.

Where a tattoo on a man told a story that sometimes brought him tears when he told it.

Where kids knew that communism and socialism were evil.

Where being an American meant a swelling pride -even with our mistakes- and being American was the focal point of our being here at all. It was what brought our parents and grandparents here and they never let us forget how good America had been to us.

When Fireworks on Independence Day were recognized as what they are...symbols of the battle we fought to become America.

Going to the polls this fall will be two entire generations who have no idea what any of this even means. THAT is why we have the candidates we have.

In that America, a Hillary Clinton would be in jail, and an example of what you tell your kids happens to you when you have no moral compass. And Trump would be an admired business man who's shortcomings made him unelectable.

I comfort myself by looking at this and realizing that a man or woman can learn to act Presidentially, but when someone is entirely bereft of character and integrity and has done the unspeakable, they are truly a lost cause.

But I hope we get serious about taking control of our heritage and getting back to that America. Liberals always say "It wasn't YOUR America!" I assume it's those who either never lived in the above mentioned era, or who had beliefs that opposed that sort of greatness.

Our Last Independence Day...some random thoughts at 3 am

When I was a little boy, we used to go to my Aunt Donna's house to watch the fireworks on Independence Day. I never separated the fireworks from what they celebrated. I don't remember a time in my life, not as far back as I can remember, when I didn't love this country with all my heart. That I didn't swell with pride at the sight of the flag, or the sound of the Anthem, or the presence of a soldier in uniform. 
I can't stop thinking about the current climate in America. The division. The denouncing of every opinion that doesn't go along with the mob. The pronouncement of labels like "hate" and "racist" on EVERY person who dare to disagree or offer dissent. We NEVER used to be this way. I learned the preamble to the Constitution in Richard Farmer"s eighth grade Social Studies class. I could fire it off today without hesitation. I wonder if HIGH SCHOOL graduates even know that we have a preamble...or have read the Constitution.
I never liked the Confederate flag, I thought Civil War re enactors were just sore losers. But I NEVER would have considered demonizing them...or outlawing them. 
Now, years later, I see them being treated with hatred. HATRED! In my lifetime!
This isn't about gay marriage. It's about rainbow flood lights on the White House. The White House is not a billboard. It's not a scoreboard for SCOTUS decisions. It's not to be used for flipping the bird and alienating whatever half of the country "lost" in the latest social battle.
It's sacred, that house. So sacred that even Richard Nixon, who desired that office so desperately for so many years and did so much to finally attain it...including the poor judgment of Watergate...still considered that house more important than himself and resigned rather than denigrate the house and office he occupied.
We don't live there anymore.
I wonder how many people under 40 in this country still get a lump in their throat, and tears in their eyes when they sing The National Anthem. Or when they hear Ray Charles' incredible "America?" I wonder how many read the Declaration of Independence through tears...just THINKING about the courage it took to write and sign something like that. I wonder how many still see the Statue of Liberty and think of grandparents to whom she called over the distance of oceans and continents until they left everything and made their way here...like my grandparents did. I wonder how many love this country enough to do ANYTHING difficult on her behalf anymore.
I'm sick of Christianity being blamed for the state of this country. Faith has been systematically purged from this country over the last 30 years or so...And LOOK AT US! Tell me where we're better! Tradition and heritage and patriotism...even jingoistic patriotism...has been mocked and ridiculed and vilified. Tell me what great thing has filled the vacuum?! 
I want to cry. I want to find the middle of this nation...someplace where her heart is, and lay down on the ground and weep. I want to go back to that field trip we took to Washington DC when I was maybe 12 years old and be awestruck again by the capital of my nation. 
But I can't. I want to. But I can't. I can't even BE that American anymore. That American is dangerous, he's outdated and "hateful" and "bigoted" and "angry." It's 2:30 am and I'm typing this through tears. It's all gone. Patriotism, respect, honor, history, passionate discourse and debate...It's all considered evil now. Crazy. Dangerous.
In my short lifetime we've moved from rousing patriotism to the last, tragic days of the greatest nation in history. 
We walked willingly down the path.
This isn't about the gay marriage decision, or Obamacare, or Charleston. It's about being REAL AMERICANS again. Different but united. Disagreeing passionately but DEFENDING the right to disagree. Stopping with the stupid "I'm offended!" crap. Considering the nation as more important than our petty agendas. Deciding to just GET OVER IT, when somebody won't bake us a damned WEDDING CAKE! Changing public opinion by the lives we lead...not by suing somebody, or claiming offense.
Being fiercely PATRIOTIC...fiercely AMERICAN...which means letting somebody fly a flag we detest, or embrace an idea we disagree with. Unabashedly proclaiming that we are the best, that we are unique, that we are EXCEPTIONAL. Fighting side by side for the things we should fight for, and laying down our wounded feelings and candy-assed claims of being "offended" when we don't get our way. That is how truly independent...truly free people act.
Saturday is Independence Day. I wonder if it will be our last.