The past two years on September 11, I was in New
York for the observances. Mostly it was research, for that chapter in the book
I’m writing. Partly it was personal: a high school classmate died in the South
Tower.
One of the things that struck me last year was the
determination of people from around the world – mostly first responders – to come
to New York at their own expense on the anniversary. I spoke to a young police
officer from Toronto, who was there for the seventh time, and met firefighters
from as far away as Australia. Without exception, they considered it a duty and
an honor to be there.
It feels strange not being there. This year my
daughter is a freshman in college in New York, and she’s headed down to St.
Paul’s Chapel later, where there are observances all day.
There is a hierarchy of grief in the 9/11 community.
Families are at the top, and I don’t object to that at all. Their loss is
unimaginable. They’re the only ones allowed to attend the Naming Ceremony, or
visit the Memorial and Visitor Center on the anniversary.
But there were many survivors who weren’t family
members. There are the survivors – first responders, office workers, shop
owners, reporters – who were there that day and ran from the cloud of debris that
engulfed lower Manhattan.
There are survivors who – by the grace of God – were
not there that day. I know three people who were supposed to be at or near the
World Trade Center that morning: one overslept, one cancelled their meeting,
another went inside and couldn’t find his meeting, so he left.
There are those whose lives and livelihood were
directly impacted: people who lived or worked near the Towers, or for companies
decimated by the loss of dozens, maybe hundreds of employees.
And there are those of us who watched in horror from
hundreds and thousands of miles away, trying for hours to get a call through to
our friends in New York, only to hear that “all circuits are busy” sound.
I had several friends in New York at the time, most
of them women who were high school classmates. I didn’t call the men I knew;
for some reason, I knew they were okay, but I did not feel confident about the
women. One by one I talked to them: one was stuck on Staten Island for a couple
days, another was afraid to go to her job in a high rise. It was three days
later, when one of them called to let me know that Carol was missing. By then,
we all knew what “missing” meant.
There are those who have turned 9/11 into a
political football, and those who exploit it to sell lottery tickets and
souvenirs. There are those who are tired of hearing about it, who prefer to put
it away in a safe place and not think about it.
And there are those who used channeled their grief
and horror into something positive, like Mychal’s Message, the nonprofit
organization established in memory of Fr. Mychal Judge, the FDNY chaplain who
was one of the victims.
So I ask you today, as we pause to remember those we
lost, to also remember those left behind. We are all survivors today.
