September 11th harbors a storehouse of varied emotions.
One thing that strikes me, however, is how vivid that day is in my mind and how it feels like a collective memory despite the fact that an entire generation knows of the tragedy only through pictures or internet posts or books.
For those of us who have first-hand memories -- even if, like me, you were far away from the events -- there was real fear about what would happen next. There were skies with no planes. There were radios and televisions being turned on and phone calls being made.
We lived history.
There is insurmountable sadness and agonizing loss juxtaposed with incredible courage and unthinkable selflessness flowing from the video footage that already looks dated, news broadcasts that illuminate the lack of instant communication at the time, social media clips with grainy photos, and audio recordings somehow salvaged from the day.
Yet, even though I feel part of that collective conscious that seems like yesterday, I recognize that my emotions have changed over time.
A couple of years ago, I met a Pentagon survivor whose foundation -- American Pride, Inc. -- published 9/11 Survivors' Stories; Midwest Memories.
I have written about this book before, but one thing that weighs heavy on my mind is the constant wrestling of emotion that is palpable throughout the body of work. Eight individuals with ties to the Midwest share very different and uniquely compelling stories about their survival. From being in the Tower to being in the Pentagon, to being on the phone, I was taken on a journey fueled by anger, gratitude, fear, and hope.
I saw so much more through their eyes.
It moved me differently.
Reading personal accounts of those whose lives were forever altered, who lost friends, who felt anger toward the media, and who needed to use the experiences to help others has changed me.
It has been 22 years since that day, but I remember it clearly. The events of that day are etched in my mind -- frozen in time. I have been molded by the emotions of that day, yet life and experience has molded those emotions, too.
I know how I felt that day when my students were scared and we were getting piecemeal information in a pre-internet-accessible classroom. But because of books, because of newspaper articles, because of interviews, because of survivors who courageously tell their stories, and because of victims' families who keep their loved ones' memories alive, I have a deeper awareness of the still-gaping wounds, unspeakable grief, unparallelled courage, deep gratitude, insurmountable hope, and incredible forgiveness.
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It seemed fitting, then, that when we were driving home last night on the eve of 9/11, we happened to stop at a place we'd seen time and time again along the road. For four years, I'd meant to stop, but, last night, we did. I was moved by the newly lit candles carefully placed around the first responder memorial plaques I didn't know were there. As I thought about the gentle light burning so intensely in the cool breeze, I prayed. I prayed for those who rush in when others rush out. I prayed for those who selflessly walk into danger to bring others to safety. I prayed for those who care for others putting their own lives in peril. I prayed for those who quietly harbor the difficult memories -- who walk among us never speaking of their experiences, but, knowing how fragile live is, protect it with the very same intensity with which these flames burn. And I prayed for those who bring light into the dark places with their words, their actions, and their presence.
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When we are overcome with despair or grief or anger, I pray that we are able to find a way to let light in -- no matter how small those cracks may be. Because light, once it gently breaks through, has a way of spilling into the darkest of spaces -- just like the light of these candles.
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Today, I will
Never forget those who protect life.
Seek hope.
Love endlessly.
Be a light in the darkness.
Allow light to seep into the desperation.
