Anyone who knows the story of September 11, 2001 remembers how the entire country went into shock, how we all looked at each other and said, “How could this happen?” How the plane crashes were only the beginning. How the buildings of the World Trade Center collapsed that same day, tumbling down as children’s wooden blocks. How the nation plunged into mourning, the likes of which many had never seen.
I remember all that, too—the pain, the grief, the questions of who we had to be now. But strangely, what I remember most about 9-11 was togetherness.
My writer’s group had been meeting weekly for years. Members included a non-practicing Catholic, a couple of lesbians, a Jew, a yoga practitioner, a hula dancer and me, a potty-mouthed Christian. We laughed and cried and edited one another’s writing with professional fierceness. Week in, week out, we were committed to improving our writing. But that day, we hesitated.
Thousands of miles from Oregon, things were a mess in Manhattan. Nearly three thousand people lost their lives there. Was it impolite to meet anyway? What kind of etiquette did the situation require? After some back-and-forth, we held up the December seventh, 1941, attack on Pearl Harbor as our guide. After the bombs fell, what did the survivors of that awful day do?
They came together.
In 1941, there had to be an answer to the dastardly attack—so everyone who could pulled together. And although our writing group numbered fewer than ten, we’d come together too.
That day, I don’t recall if anyone read their work, or if any feedback was offered. We each understood that the meeting was more about hugs and tears and dealing with stunned senses. We did a lot of that, comforting one another, blowing noses and then pausing to shake our heads like handbells ringing out a dirge, muttering, “Damn.”
But we ended our meeting united in spirit and, corny as it sounds, as patriots. A child of the 60s, I’d never understood the unity that made my folks save tin foil or plant victory gardens. But September 11, 2001 changed that, if only briefly.
I say briefly because the next thing I knew, Americans were out for revenge, with typical American Christian smugness. Those turbaned weirdoes kneeling on little carpets were our public enemy and of course, we’d known they were evil all along. Even in tolerant places such as Oregon, young men signed up to get even with a whole religion. Woe to bearded guys in turbans, people said.
I couldn’t write for months. I just couldn’t hate turbans, the same way I couldn’t loathe lesbians or Catholics or anyone who wasn’t white, American Protestant like me.
As theology scholar Diana Butler Bass has written, there’s a difference between consequences and punishment. Those who carried out the attacks needed to be held accountable (consequences), but to punish a whole segment of the human race seems unjust.
On the twenty-second anniversary of 9-11, many remind us that we must never forget. But I also want to remember the way our little group came together that day, to be human with one another. The way we shook our heads sadly and muttered, “damn” while embracing a shared humanity. I sincerely hope nothing like this happens again. But if our differences once again lead to terrible consequences, let’s meet anyway, if only to remind ourselves of our shared humanity. Do you have a story about 9-11? Share with us!
I'm a day late to comment but I am very moved by your essay. You captured the sentiments on that day and in the immediate aftermath and also how it impacted you, and many others, close up, with others we know. I, too, lament our country's decision to launch a war on the entire "turbaned" world, the vestiges we still face as consequences today.
I still some years have a bit of PTS, incomparable to anyone who was in Manhattan, close to the Towers or knew anyone who died, or also any responders who have since died of toxic-related diseases. I had just departed from LeGuardia on a United Airlines flight after spending a perfect week in NYC with my daughter, her first time there. A half hour into the flight, our pilot announced that he had been told "due to national security, all planes must land" and he'd get back to us when he knew more. I'll never forget some profound silence in the cabin, the shock, trying to puzzle out what must have happened. I concluded nuclear war.
Our airline servers were crying, some on their phones, obviously losing friends that day. We were grounded at O'Hare. Imagine that hub empty; imagine the corridors inside empty, but for scant personnel that volunteered to stay, since O'Hare was deemed a target.
Four days after landing, we found a returned rental car with an agency willing to give us a one-way discount to drive home, from Chicago to Eugene. As we drove through America's heartland and stopped for gas or motels along the way, I collected local newspapers. We had a sign in our window to "Keep Hope Alive," and an American flag. I felt that unity of which you speak.
Thanks for letting me write all this, part of my recovery. My daughter told me yesterday that she has not been back to NYC since that awful day, and wants to see the memorial. I've been there, but we may go back next year and pay our respects.