The irony about days that make history is that they start off just like any other day. The sun comes up, alarms go off, showers run, coffee is brewed, people go to work or school, catch a bus, or miss a train. A daily routine unfolds until it veers from routine, until what happens is not what is expected, until the forces of the universe cause everything to come crashing down, making life as we know it a distant memory.
My memory of this day in history is similar to that of many Americans. Although I was only four years old and my memory of this profound time is clouded and altered and has shifted as I have grown older, I remember snippets and snapshots, pieced together by the stories of my parents, documentaries, the news, and most of all, broken hearts.
That day in history, I held my dad’s hand as he walked me to Poly Prep Lower School in Park Slope Brooklyn. The air was a crisp 62 degrees and the sky was cloudless as I skipped down the street in the outfit I had picked out all by myself. The morning started just like all of the mornings before it. But little did I know, little did anyone know, today would be a day that would change history.
My dad gave me a big hug and kiss as he did each school morning. and I settled into the routine of my kindergarten class as Mrs. Smith went over the calendar. It was a little over an hour since my arrival and Mrs. S had gathered us all on the large colorful area rug for story time when the school headmaster came to the door looking forlorn. He beckoned Mrs. S to the door with a trembling wave of his hand. The teaching assistant tried to keep us all occupied, but her usual smile was gone and in its place was a tight grimace. She kept swallowing hard as her eyes welled up. Hushed adult voices whispered in worry, and as the adults gathered in small groups, heads shook in confusion, hands were held to mouths in disbelief and there were lots hugs and lots of tears. My dad arrived in the doorway, and he too had the look that so many adults had that day. And I, even as a four year old, knew something was wrong. It was September 11, 2001. Both the South and North towers of the World Trade Center had been hit.
My dad scooped me up in his arms and, for the first time since I had turned four, he carried me. As we whisked past other people, I could not help but notice that everyone seemed to be in frenzy. We made it back to the brownstone we lived in. The tear stained face of the kindest woman I knew greeted me as we entered the vestibule. As my dad kissed me goodbye, I was transferred from my dad's arms to her welcoming outstretched arms. I was confused, scared, and worried, and yearned for the loving comfort of my mom. But she wasn't there. She had left for work that morning, as she did every weekday. She was seven months pregnant, a teacher in New Jersey, and was stuck on the other side of the river. All bridges and tunnels into and out of the city had been shut down and my mom was unable to get home. My dad made his way across the Brooklyn bridge. He headed toward the city, a place where everyone else was running from, with one goal: to find his brother, a New York City Firefighter. That evening, for the first time in my four years of life I went to bed without my usual bedtime routines—no bedtime story, no mom, no dad, no parent hugs or parent kisses. I cried myself to sleep.
I guess some greater force was with us that day because, despite the odds, my dad, after waiting at the firehouse for hours on end and hearing the news of so many people who had perished, saw his brother. He was physically unharmed and they greeted each other with hugs and tears and slaps on ash-laden backs that produced small puffs of smoke. They talked, they hugged, they cried again and again until their voices were hoarse, and when they were at a lost for words, they just hugged and cried. I guess we were the lucky ones.
But so many others were not. The aftermath of that day and rescuers working on "The Pile” told of vast devastation and loss of lives. As time passed and clean-up crews picked up the rubble, people picked up their lives. However, life as we knew it was changed forever. Despite the goal of this act of terrorism, we were not broken; we came together as a country.
The thing about tragedies is that they start off like any other day. But when the day has passed and the dust has cleared, the sun still rises to start a new day. A day when we stand stronger, when we are more proud, a day when we are more united.
