Remembering 9/11, Don't Waste Your Breath on Hate
For me, September 11, 2001 began like any other. I dropped my three year old off at preschool, and I took my two year old and the baby to a mommy and me gymnastic class. Then the news broke. A plane crashed into one of the Twin Towers. The class leader said we shouldn't upset the children and silenced a woman who interrupted the class. Some mothers left. Others stayed. I froze in place. The mother next to me kept whispering in my ear. The instructor scolded us. We left.
When I picked up our three year old up, the parent-pick up line was eerily quiet. By this time both towers had collapsed. Because of the children, the teachers and parents reduced their enormous grief and confusion to quiet stares. As I buckled my daughter into her car seat,I did hear someone say something about a missing plane and the Pentagon being hit. I quickly shut the door.
When we got home, I put the baby down for a nap, and turned on Teletubbies for the girls in the family room. They were thrilled when I spread a blanket out on the floor, and told them they were going to have an indoor picnic for lunch. It was the best I could do that day.
We had a small TV in the kitchen and I numbly stared at it, noting how surreal the scene was. Our precious, innocent children were in one room listening to happy, brightly-colored characters, while I watched real people plummet through gray smoke to their deaths. I could hardly move. I made phone calls to check on friends. The lines were all busy. I checked to make sure the girls were still watching TV. Then as if pulled by a magnetic force, I resumed my position in the kitchen. This cycled repeated throughout the afternoon.
My husband and I had just moved from New Jersey to Bucks County, Pennsylvania to accommodate our growing family. When I found out I was pregnant for the third time in less than four years, I resigned from a church located in a bedroom community of New York City.
I would soon learn that a member from my former church walked from New York City to New Jersey after the Towers fell. He walked for hours until he was finally home. Apparently hundreds of people took a similar journey out of the city. Phone lines were jammed. There was no way to call and no other way home. In time, I learned that several church members died. Though I did not lose a relative on 9/11, I will never forget the devastating loss of those who did.
Our children are now 19, 21, and 22 years old. Of course, they fully comprehend the events of that day. It is no wonder that Gen-Z carries more anxiety and depression than previous generations. They are not more fragile than we are. They are more aware. Our country has been at war their entire lives. They grew up with the internet so they have a much broader global view than my generation. They understand that all human life is deeply intertwined, no matter how many miles separate us from a perceived ally or enemy.
For the sake of future generations, I pray that the collective memory of Americans will prominently feature the last words of those who died after the attacks in 2001. We heard them. "Honey I love you... Tell the kids how much I love them... Dad, mom, I love you." No one said, "Make sure you get the bastards who did this."
The victims of 9/11 didn't waste their last breath on hate or revenge. They gave their dying words to love. Of course, the anger and outrage would come to all those who survived this nightmare. But we can still teach our children to channel their rage and grief to create life rather than destroy it.
May the last words of the Americans who died on 9/11 remind us to use our breath for love and for the healing of the world. Whether our neighbor is next door or across an ocean, we can work together to ensure everyone has enough to eat, a safe place to sleep, and a chance to create a life of meaning and purpose.
For if we refuse to give our life breath to love, what is the point of remembering 9/11?
