This morning, as I laid on the couch passing the time with four little ones scurrying around the house, a feature began on Sportscenter about a young man who saved many lives in the September 11 attacks. My oldest daughter, Lillian, is just six years old. She was sitting on the adjacent couch reading a spy kids book. The feature had been going on for a few minutes when she put the book down and shooed her brother away. "I want to watch this," she said.
The feature, about the young man named Welles and his red bandanna, was moving. It recounted, via those who survived, those who were there in the second tower, how Welles helped others get to safety, only to go back into the building to find and help others once again. Welles lost his own life when the tower collapsed.
When the feature ended, Lillian, who had since been joined by Sebastian on the couch, began asking questions. "How did he die?" "Why did he keep going back in?" She's only six, how much of this do I want her to know, I wondered. My mind kept turning back to that Tuesday morning in 2001, ten years ago next week, and the horrible events that transpired. I wondered at what point would her teachers tell her the tale of that day, what the textbooks would say. I made a decision; I would do my best to explain the unexplainable to these two young children. I hadn't meant for them to be exposed to such terror, but now that they had been, I felt I owed them as many answers as I could give.
I was working, at that time, as a restaurant manager at Fricker's in Bowing Green, Ohio. Our establishment was not unlike a BW3 in the menu or the clientele. We stayed open until 2:30am each day and on September 10, 2001, I had been the closing manager. Once the place is closed and I have finished counting the drawers and whatnot, I would usually get home at about 4 in the morning. After that, it would take me an hour or so to get to sleep.
The next morning, my roommate, Ed, came into my room just after 8 am. Ed knew I had worked the night before and that I would sleep until early afternoon on most days. This was obviously important. "Turn on the TV," he said. I could see the look on his face; something was going on. When the television warmed up and gained a picture, I was about to ask him what channel, then I saw that it didn't matter. ESPN wasn't showing their normal programming; it had been taken over by an ABC News feed. There was a static picture of the World Trade Center towers, but you could hear the folks on the broadcast talking about how a plane had crashed into the tower. Smoke and flames was pouring from the side of the tower, nearly three-quarters of the way up. Minutes went by as I tried to comprehend what was going on, as i tried to wrap my head around the picture I was seeing and the words I was hearing. Was this some horrible tragedy where a pilot lost control of his plane? An unfortunate accident that would cost hundreds of lives?
Then, as the picture remained still and the news guys spoke, I saw another lane enter the picture. It was headed in the direction of the towers again. The voices on the TV didn't notice it; they kept on talking, not mentioning the second plane. My mind raced; Why aren't they saying something about this? Are they even looking at the picture? The second plane struck the second tower, erupting in smoke and fire. It wasn't until many second after the impact that the voices on the TV took notice and began to contemplate what was going on. This was no accident, that much was clear.
The feed remained static, but you began to see small things falling from the towers. Those things, it turned out, were people. First one tower collapsed, then the other. Thousands of people who had gone to work that morning were gone. A great sadness wrapped our nation and myself. This was an attack like we had never seen in this country and we witnessed it live on television. Word came down about a third plane hitting the Pentagon and a fourth that crash in a field in Pennsylvania. I spent the next several hours learning about the terrorists and their plan of attack. I talked with friends and family, sharing in the disbelief, the shock, the horror.
Tuesdays were always our busiest night at the restaurant and by the time I was to report to work at six pm, many other businesses had closed in the wake of the attacks. We stayed open and the place was full when I walked in, just as it always was on Tuesdays. President Bush was scheduled to address the nation that evening and when it happened, the restaurant became silent. There were probably 200 people inside our walls, between customers, waitstaff and kitchen help. During the address, however, not one order was taken, not one drink was poured, not one chicken wing was cooked. Customers sat silently, eyes glued to the TV waiting for answers. The staff at Frickers stood behind the bar, themselves staring at the dozens of big screen televisions. I have been in that building many times by myself, hours after the place has closed. I have never been anywhere so eerily quiet. It truly was surreal.
It's hard to imagine the tragedy that took place that morning, or the heartache felt by so many in the loss of their friends and family. It's difficult, now, to remember a time before those people took it upon themselves to murder American citizen. What have become accepted inconveniences in our lives (ecpecially the increased airport security and having to have a passport to come back from Canada) were once nowhere near our conscientiousness. If there is a sliver lining in all of this, it's that the lives of those who were there are not forgotten, nor are the sacrifices made by the first responders who gave their lives in an attempt to save others.
There are parts of the above narrative that I left out when I told the kids of the events of that day. They're still so young, they don't need the details. Sebastian couldn't understand why these people would purposely drive a plane into a building and my answer was unfulfilling for him. "I don't know, buddy. I don't understand it, either."
I can only hope that my children never have to witness such an incident, and that our textbooks can tell the story of those who died and the men and women who gave their lives in an attempt to save others. One thing I know, however, is that no matter how well the books tell the story, their will never be a good enough answer as to why it happened in the first place.
No comments:
Post a Comment