On September 11, 2001, just before 9am I returned home from
dropping off Michaela at preschool to spend the day with Michael who had the
day off for a medical appointment. I decided to take a “mental health” day off
from my job at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C. As we
made our plans for the day, I received a call from a close friend saying “Girl!
A plane just flew into one of the towers of the World Trade Center!” With JFK
and LaGuardia airports nearby, I thought perhaps something had happened to the
pilot or maybe there was rain or bad fog. I turned on the news in time to see a
replay of the first plane hitting the South Tower. The news reporters were
saying that these were hijackings!! What?? Terrorist? This can’t be possible. That
only happens in other countries! Surely there must be a more logical
explanation, I thought. In disbelief and
still very confused, I sat in stunned silence as the second plane crashed into
the second Tower. What in the world?? New York City?? That’s so far away—it never
dawned on me that it could happen HERE. For the next 30 minutes or so, we
watched the news coverage, feeling helpless and kind of numb. Then the Pentagon
was hit just 35 miles from our house. NO. This can NOT be happening. My mother!!
She’s on the VRE train to work near the U.S. Capitol building—it goes UNDER the
Capitol!! I was supposed to be on it with her. Oh God why isn’t she answering
her phone?? She never answers that damn phone. Why did she even bother to get
it anyway? This is really happening. God please spare these lives. Please don’t
let them hit the Capitol or the White House. This is the most powerful city in
the NATION! I am part of that City. I know so many people in it. Please God
keep them safe!! A plane goes down in a field in Pennsylvania!! Why is this
happening? The South Tower collapses,
then the North Tower. Images of people jumping from windows, running in the
streets, debris in the air, smoke so thick it all looks like a special-effects
movie. I’m crying and more afraid than I’ve ever been.
Suddenly I realize how sheltered I was growing up. I have
lived in the same town since I was 7 years old, a suburb of Washington, D.C.,
that borders a U.S. Military base, in a gated-community, in a house built by my
father, a man that NOBODY dared cross, where we didn’t ever have to worry about
locking our doors. MY world had always been safe and now, for the first time in
my 30 years, I was terrified. People were desperate to contact their loved
ones, to get to whatever safe place they thought would even BE safe; to get
their children from their schools. Oh God…MICHAELA! She’s only a few minutes
away, should I go get her? My first instinct is to want my baby within an arm’s
reach but as the reality of what was happening in my suddenly unsafe world
began to hit me, I decided that she was exactly where she needed to be. The
teachers and staff at her preschool were top-notch—I should know, I worked
there too, on my days off from the Museum. I knew they would keep my favorite
little people safe, occupied and blissfully ignorant to the ugly horrors going
on in our country today. The whole day I spent literally glued to Mike’s side.
I was afraid for him to be out of my sight. He went with me to pick up our baby
that afternoon, never before had I been so relieved to see that beautiful
smiling face. Weeks went by before I allowed the news to be on in our house
when Michaela was home. She was only 4 years old. How do you explain those
horrific images that were being aired over and over and over on the news to a
4-year old? I wanted her to remain innocent, happy and completely unaware of
what had happened on that day for as long as possible. I wanted her world to remain as safe as it had
always been, with her Papa and her Daddy ensuring protection at all times, as
they always promised us they would.
The following spring, when Michaela was then 5 years old and
graduating from Pre-K, I was given the most wonderful laminated memory book
that contained photos and dated artwork that she had done throughout the
2001-2002 school year in observance of different holidays, Arbor Day,
classmates’ birthdays. I opened to the first page and my heart sank for a
moment at seeing the finger painting “Hand-Picked Apples” dated “Sept. 11,
2001.” Suddenly, happy, proud tears flowed like a river. She had had a happy
day that fateful day. All the reasons I had chosen to leave her at preschool
that day were validated in this finger painting. She HAD been safe, unaware,
and the most difficult part of her day had probably been deciding what color
paint to use.
This painting reminds me that even in the most horrific events
of evil, sadness, destruction, godlessness, fear and grief that purity and good
still existed in my world on September 11, 2001.
