I will never forget being in Ms. Q’s math class on September 11th, 2001. She was the first teacher who would actually answer all of our questions if she could and, God love her, treat a bunch of 7th graders like adults. She had on a very grave face as she told us, “the world is never going to be the same.” Rumors abound what had happened and within a tiny middle school, a bizarre game of telephone ensued. By the time it got to me, I thought that Ireland had bombed the white house. We know our teachers were scared and classmates started leaving.
By the time Candace and I got home via carpool, I was terrified. I had an instinct to protect my sister from the world outside and what she could see on TV. I don’t remember when my parents came home or what we talked about, but somewhere in between Ms. Q explaining to us what had happened and the candle-light service at church later that week, I fell apart.
As an upper-middle class white female, I was always protected. In a way, I’m probably still a little naïve because of this. I trust people, for the most part, because I’ve been given very little reason not to. After September 11th, I was scared. But as the stages of grief hit I went from shock, to anger, to hope in the span of less than a week.
I remember being in church, in a red, white, and blue dress, crying and surrounded by the congregation that had known me almost more whole life. I don’t remember who I was looking at but I remember it was a family. The church was almost dark except for the candles. We were all singing and crying together. It was so powerful. It hit me then that I needed to do something.
With my mom and my school, I organized a drive for supplies for first responders- mostly toiletries and things like that. When we had collected our supplies, my mom and I drove to DC to drop the donations at Salvation Army. But no. They couldn’t accept them there- we had to take them to the Pentagon. I was shaking. I didn’t want to see it. We may have been close to that particular horror but we were far enough I could pretend it didn’t hit so close to home.
No more pretending; as we drove up, it looked like a monster has just clawed the outside of the building. We could see trucks and tents and volunteers running around- in uniform and out. I was proud to drop off the trunk full of things we’d collected and amazed at the little village of hope swarming around this building that the monster had clawed.
For the next period of time, I remember the country coming together. We would rebuild, we would start traveling again, we would not be afraid.
I think the reason I’m being so contemplative this year- not a milestone year or anything- is that right now, the country that I love and was so proud of is so divided. It seems like we’ve a step forward and two steps back. Social media has given everyone a platform to voice their beliefs, which in theory is great, but it just means that there’s more room to fight about things I never thought we’d be fighting about in 2018.
In 2018, it’s time for us to come together again. To use communication to share thoughts, ideas, ways to agree to disagree without hostility. Until then, all I or anyone else can do is light candles of positivity and pass them on. Because I do love this country, I am thankful to live here, and I want it to be the best it can be.
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