This past April, God blessed me with a little nephew.
Perhaps when that beautiful baby boy gets a little older, he may ask me “Where was I...” or “What was I doing” when terrorists attacked America the morning of September 11, 2001.
Should that topic ever come up, I will tell him the question is not so much “Where was I?” or “What was I doing?”
It will be what did I witness, how did I feel and what I did later.
This was all frighteningly real. It was terrorism. A war we had been fighting for years abroad had come home.
People were dead, dying, or injured; all the result of madmen who had commandeered two jetliners, turned them into bombs, and plowed them into the twin towers.
This was followed by more tragic news of two more jetliners going down taken over by terrorists; one crashed into the Pentagon in Washington D.C.
The other went down in a field in Pennsylvania missing its intended target thanks to a few brave passengers who tried to stop the attackers.
Then to the unexpected shock and dismay of everyone who watched, the second tower in Manhattan collapsed. The symbol that was once part of the New York skyline was gone.
I was so furious that for all I know, the chest pains and shortness in breath I experienced for a couple minutes driving home from school and listening to talk shows was either an anxiety or a heart attack.
To even think these psychotic demons had a shred of human decency in their souls allowing doomed passengers to phone their loved ones shortly before they crashed made me ill.
I had to force myself to eat breakfast. I canceled my plans that day to see Francis Ford Coppola’s director’s cut of his Vietnam war epic, “Apocalypse Now” (1979), on the big screen. I could not bring myself to stomach the carnage. I had seen enough of it already on network television over the course of one hour.
They were the same tears I shed for the families and victims at Columbine and Oklahoma City.
If there was any consolation to come out of these unspeakable acts of violence, it was for me personally, some comfort, strength and solace in the Lord and perhaps a renewed sense of faith; something that was missing from my life for a substantial number of years.
That happened around noon, three days after the attacks, when President Bush declared Sept. 14, 2001, a National Day of Mourning.
It was on that day I did something I rarely ever do except on Christmas and Easter.
I went to church, lit a candle, and prayed.
©9/26/01
Perhaps when that beautiful baby boy gets a little older, he may ask me “Where was I...” or “What was I doing” when terrorists attacked America the morning of September 11, 2001.
Should that topic ever come up, I will tell him the question is not so much “Where was I?” or “What was I doing?”
It will be what did I witness, how did I feel and what I did later.
The horrific images of people falling to their deaths from the top floors as both towers of World Trade Center in New York sat enveloped in a cloud of black smoke looked like a scene out of the 1974 disaster film, “The Towering Inferno.”This was not, however, the work of Hollywood, nor the gripping first chapter of a Tom Clancy bestseller.
This was all frighteningly real. It was terrorism. A war we had been fighting for years abroad had come home.
People were dead, dying, or injured; all the result of madmen who had commandeered two jetliners, turned them into bombs, and plowed them into the twin towers.
I knew this was once again another despicable act conducted by groups of disgraceful cowards whose hatred and contempt not just for America but for human life alone, equaled the hostility and vengeance displayed by the two young mass murderers at Columbine High School and Oklahoma bombing suspect Timothy McVeigh.My stomach went into knots the moment I saw a skyscraper collapse. I did not even want to dwell on the number of innocent lives who were either lost, trapped or dead underneath all that twisted heap of metal, glass, dust, and rubble.
This was followed by more tragic news of two more jetliners going down taken over by terrorists; one crashed into the Pentagon in Washington D.C.
The other went down in a field in Pennsylvania missing its intended target thanks to a few brave passengers who tried to stop the attackers.
Then to the unexpected shock and dismay of everyone who watched, the second tower in Manhattan collapsed. The symbol that was once part of the New York skyline was gone.
The anger and rage I felt was equivalent to the emotions I had watching Japanese pilots cheer victoriously as they dropped bombs on American warships at Pearl Harbor in the 1970 war movie, “Tora, Tora, Tora!”God only knows just how many times I uttered the words, “You G------ mother f------ bastards!!!”, throughout the day as I watched the news.
I was so furious that for all I know, the chest pains and shortness in breath I experienced for a couple minutes driving home from school and listening to talk shows was either an anxiety or a heart attack.
To even think these psychotic demons had a shred of human decency in their souls allowing doomed passengers to phone their loved ones shortly before they crashed made me ill.
I had to force myself to eat breakfast. I canceled my plans that day to see Francis Ford Coppola’s director’s cut of his Vietnam war epic, “Apocalypse Now” (1979), on the big screen. I could not bring myself to stomach the carnage. I had seen enough of it already on network television over the course of one hour.
I felt frustrated and helpless because the perpetrators I wanted to take all my rage out on were not here. The enemy is a faceless, invisible religious fanatic who does not have the guts to conduct his twisted acts of destruction himself. This monster, who would rather use all his wealth for evil instead of good, sits in a cave somewhere in the Middle East giving orders to his henchmen who look up to him like a cult leader. Then he goes off into hiding while the innocent suffers, and his men die for nothing.As I watched worried loved ones on tv tell their heartbreaking stories to the press asking people if anyone had seen their wives, husbands, sons, daughters, relatives, friends or co-workers whom they hadn’t heard from since that dreadful September morning, my anger just welled up into tears for all the souls senselessly lost in New York, Washington D.C. and Pennsylvania.
They were the same tears I shed for the families and victims at Columbine and Oklahoma City.
If there was any consolation to come out of these unspeakable acts of violence, it was for me personally, some comfort, strength and solace in the Lord and perhaps a renewed sense of faith; something that was missing from my life for a substantial number of years.
That happened around noon, three days after the attacks, when President Bush declared Sept. 14, 2001, a National Day of Mourning.
It was on that day I did something I rarely ever do except on Christmas and Easter.
I went to church, lit a candle, and prayed.
©9/26/01
No comments:
Post a Comment