“We call on the American people to remember how we all felt on 9/11, to remember not only the unspeakable horror but how we came together as a nation—one nation. Unity of purpose and unity of effort are the way we will defeat this enemy and make America safer for our children and grandchildren.”—“Executive Summary of the 9/11 Commission Report,” released Aug. 21, 2004
I have written, glancingly, on 9/11 before, but not
really about my own experiences that day, till now. I watched with my work
colleagues from our midtown Manhattan office, initially with bafflement, then
with distress and grief, as first one, then a second plane hit the World Trade
Center.
Hours later, safe on a long bus ride on the other side
of the Hudson River in New Jersey, I watched a skyline whose beauty I had never
properly appreciated before, marred now with coils of dense, deadly smoke
spiraling upward from what had been the mighty Twin Towers.
When I returned to the city a couple of days later,
mournful bagpipes playing in the Port Authority Building on 42nd
Street lamented the dead. Leaflets were plastered on the streets, in an often
futile search for the missing.
At the firehouse on Eighth Avenue at 48th
Street, photos were posted outside of fallen comrades. For years afterward,
whenever I heard the clang of fire bells while working in my building, I offered up fast
prayers that those going out on trucks would, unlike many of those earlier
heroes, survive and return home safely to the families who loved them.
There are many reasons to feel dismay on this 20th
anniversary of 9/11: the chaos that many of us in Manhattan experienced that
day; the nearly 3,000 lives lost immediately, there, at the Pentagon, and on
United Flight 93 in rural Shanksville, PA; the roughly 4,600 first responders and survivors enrolled in the WTC Health Program who have since died;
and, of course, the dispiriting return to power of the Taliban in Afghanistan.
But it is that loss of “unity of purpose and unity of
effort”—the nonpartisan spirit of instinctive self-sacrifice and looking out
for each other—that maybe pains me the most. It will take historians years to
figure out how we lost our way in the generation since then.
But clearly, toxins were released not just into Lower
Manhattan that day, but into the American body politic. We have gone from
praying for each other to shouting at each other.
For good or ill, the question of how America would
respond to the horror of 9/11 has been settled. The question of how to remove
the foul dust of skepticism and suspicion permeating so much of the national
political spectrum has not. That is the nightmare we face all this time after our
generation’s Pearl Harbor, except without the sense of closure eventually
achieved after that earlier attack on America.
Yet I’m reluctant to end on this dispiriting note. I
prefer to remember what a priest noted in a sermon I heard not long afterward, as
he recalled the service of firefighters on 9/11: “Hate started the fires that
day, but love put them out.”
(I took the image accompanying this post: the Reflecting Pool at the 9/11 Memorial.)
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