For the past nine years, I've done all I can to avoid the stories, the remembrances, and anything that had to do with September 11th. I took the time to observe the moments of silence and offered up a prayer for the families and survivors. Otherwise, I've done my best to stay away from it since the day it happened. But for some reason, I couldn't stay away this year. For the past two weeks, I've watched the videos and read all the stories I came across. I haven't been able to help myself.
My memories of that day are vivid. I had just started sixth grade. I remember my mom hanging onto my hand tightly, Mac clinging to her other hand. We walked up to the secretary of the elementary school, Vera, out on the sidewalk. I didn't hear exactly what was said, but the next thing I knew, we were headed back toward the car. I got the impression that Vera had said it was fine to leave, which was weird. Once we got home, the news was on with the images of the burning World Trade Center. Every so often, they would replay the second plane crashing into the south tower and the towers collapsing. I didn't understand completely, but I knew that those images terrified me. I remember sitting in Mac's room, Mom and Dad sitting across from us and trying to explain everything. I didn't want to hear it. That was, to this day, the one time I've actually wanted to be at school instead of home. I wanted desperately to be as far away from that footage as I could.
This year, as the tenth anniversary came up, I watched every bit of footage, even the ones that were marked with "Viewer Discretion." I read every account, the transcripts of communication, looked at all the devastating photos. And I still cannot fathom what makes someone think this is the right thing to do. My heart clenches and my stomach twists nauseatingly whenever I think of the people trapped as the floors collapsed. What drove those who jumped to do so? How devastating was it to the families watching at home? What kind of courage did it take the firefighters, paramedics and police officers to rush into the chaos as everyone else was running away? I can't imagine the scene at Ground Zero or the Pentagon without wanting to cry. Only 18 survivors were recovered from the rubble. I cannot fathom the horror of the scene that New Yorkers witnessed.
This day changed the world, quite literally. I can hardly remember a world where terrorist threats did not exist, where a war on terror was not being fought across seas, and where our country was not threatened.
And yet, there are stories of hope. When I think of United 93, crashing into Pennsylvania, the sorrow for the lives lost is mixed with amazement and pride. The bravery of the passengers, taking a vote to storm the cockpit and fight back reminds me that there are good people in this world. The bravery of those people leaves me in awe. Though we will never know for sure, they quite possibly prevented that plane from crashing into the Capitol and definitely prevented the loss of more lives.
As I got into bed last night, I prayed for the safety of our God-given country and for whatever comfort and peace the families and friends of those who died could have. I prayed that we as citizens would remember the unity and kindness we treated each other with right after that fateful day. I wanted to ask that I forget the horror and images stuck in my brain, but, for whatever reason, I couldn't form the thought.
Then, as I sat through the only memorial service near me in Salt Lake City, listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sing, listening to members' stories, and watching even more footage, I realized why I couldn't form that thought. Forgetting means all 3,000 of those who lost their lives died for nothing. Forgetting means the terrorists win. Sitting in a dark theater, listening to "Amazing Grace," I sent out a silent prayer that I never forget that day, good and bad, because forgetting that means forgetting what it means to be an American and how incredibly blessed I am.
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