I could never fathom what my father meant by “lost to memory,” when he talked about the Dec. 7, 1941, attack on Pearl Harbor. He was only 12 years old when that attack happened, but he would vividly describe where he was when it happened; what he was doing; how his neighborhood and the city (Washington, D.C.) reacted. I was born a full generation (21 years or more) after that event, and as he described it to me, that distanced me from it even more. Not only was I not alive when it happened, the nation and the world had changed a lot since it had because of time.
Here we are now, 21 years—a full generation—after the terrorist attacks on our nation that occurred Sept. 11, 2001. An entire generation of Americans have been born and grown to adulthood, and they weren’t alive on that faithful day. I was 37 years old when the attacks occurred and most of my children, who were in their early teen years, can remember it. Even my youngest child, who was just shy of 4 years old, has vague memories. The attacks of that day are a known reality to my children. They are part of the generation that grew to adulthood during the 21 years since the attacks.
For my grandchildren and an entire generation of Americans now, the attacks are just a memory; just a subject to be studied in history class. The attacks have become a topic to be discussed in abstract, with some people still insisting that no foreign nation or people were involved, that it was a federal conspiracy to justify a war. I can only imagine what my 10-year-old grandson thinks when the attacks are discussed. Is the word “terrorism” even part of the conversation? Does he know what the Taliban was? Does he know why we were at war for almost 20 years?
If he ever asks me, I know I can describe that day in better detail than most news outlets ever did. I can relate, like many people can, exactly where I was when the first plane hit the World Trade Center and then, minutes later, where I was when the second struck. I will forever remember the man standing next to me saying, “Oh, my God. We’re at war.” I will remember receiving a text on my cellphone from my Readiness NCO (I was still in the National Guard then) that said, “Report to unit at 1200.” I had to call him and let him know that I was at least two hours drive time from home, and that was in good traffic. The Washington, D.C. beltway was far from “good traffic” that day. I didn’t even get home until about 12:30 p.m. that day. I kissed my wife and kids (she had gotten them out of school and preschool), changed into my uniform, grabbed some gear and headed to my NG unit.
We weren’t immediately deployed and were sent home just a few short hours later, hours that felt like they were days long. We remained on alert and were eventually deployed for domestic security purposes. A few years later, I would do some work for the U.S. Army, and my contract manager had been on Interstate 395 in Arlington, Virginia, on the morning of the attacks. He was supposed to have been on American Airlines Flight 77 that morning, but his travel was delayed a day by pure circumstance. Instead, he watched as that plane sliced in low over I-395 and crashed into the Pentagon.
I’ve met and talked with firefighters who responded to the Pentagon that morning. I’ve met and talked with police officers who were part of the law enforcement security support effort around it. I’ve met and talked to law enforcement officers that were part of the waterborne effort to evacuate people from Manhattan that morning. I’ve met and talked with firefighters who were at the World Trade Center, some of whom still call it a small miracle that they weren’t in one building or the other as they collapsed.
And for an entire generation now the events of that day are nothing more than a note in history. It’s a lesson learned in class unless their parents or grandparents discuss it with them and share the stories of where they were when it happened.
While I’d never wish another day like that on our country, I miss the United States of America that existed on Sept. 12, 2001. A flag flew on nearly every house and from every vehicle. Neighbors helped neighbors. Racial disparity was far from a concern, and no one cared what gender synonym you used. Rich, poor, black, white, male, female, old and young … everyone was simply American and supporting one another any way we could. Patriotism wasn’t a matter of political party, and politicians weren’t slinging mud at each other. It might have lasted a few months, but here we are 21 years later, and I certainly miss it.
Take some time this year to consider your memories of that day and share them, if desired, with those in your life who weren’t around that day. Don’t share the memories from a platform of hate, but from a platform of national pride; of how those attacks brought out the best of all Americans. On September 12, 2001 we were surely at our best – and we all should be trying every day to meet our patriotic performance of that day.
