Today I attended the 9/11 remembrance ceremonies. They reminded me that the tapestry of differences makes life vibrant, and that was the common thread running through the speakers. Twenty-five years ago, that day brought feelings of shock and confusion, covered with mind-numbing grief, but it also brought us something we need today. I will start at the beginning.
I changed my flight from September 10th to the 11th to support my friend’s fundraiser dinner. Funny how one small decision can leave a lasting impact. The day was spectacular. Now, every early fall, similar weather fills the air, and the memories return. I could see Manhattan from the car window and told the driver how brilliant it was. We boarded the plane, and I settled in armed with my new Oprah magazine and the airplane breakfast of Cheerios with a banana. The plane took off and circled the city below.
A few minutes into the flight, someone behind me spoke loudly: “A plane hit the World Trade Center.” I looked up, assumed it was a small plane, and went back to my magazine, never imagining it could be anything else. I could hear people around me on their cell phones but not what they were saying. Suddenly, a flight attendant came down the aisle, asking for trays and telling us to prepare for landing: “The FAA has ordered us to land.” Maybe the people around me knew what was happening, but I didn’t. We landed in Greensboro, NC, a far cry from where I needed to be. I called my boss from the airplane and left a voicemail apologizing for being late to the trade show.
Cell service was jammed, and I couldn’t reach my girls. I had left them home for a few days with a girlfriend who was coming out of the city to stay with them. They were at a high school on one of the highest points on the East Coast, with a bird’s-eye view of NYC. When I finally reached the high school office, all I could say was, “Let them know I am alive and will be home soon.”
At the airport, I saw crowds rushing around in a panic. As we descended on the escalator, I turned to the television and saw the first tower fall. At the bottom, I met an older woman who looked confused. I remember taking her arm to ask if she was okay. She said, “No, I don’t know what is happening.” I took her hand, and together we found a bus to a hotel.
Had it not been for my colleague, who rented a car in Atlanta and picked me up on his way home, I am not sure when I would have walked through the front door. Before he dropped me safely on the porch, we made one stop, pulling into the harbor to look out across the water. The night was eerie: no air traffic, hints of smoke, a hole in the skyline.
Twenty-five years ago, we could have stayed there, comfortable in our misery, anger, and hatred, but we chose otherwise. Almost on instinct, we came together, survived, and in many ways thrived. Twenty-five years ago, no one asked strangers about their religion, education, ethnicity, or income. The only question asked was, “How can I help?” I miss that country. Today I almost don’t recognize my country. We are divided, and some wear hatred and cruelty as a badge of honor. I hope that someday we will come back to each other and truly make America great again, as we did on September 12th.
