Yesterday marked 20 years since the horrific events of September 11, 2001. I was nine years old that day, old enough to be aware that something tragic was happening, and young enough that my parents refused to turn on the news in front of me and my younger sister.
I have few memories of that day, mostly of my father picking me up from school and explaining what happened, and giving me the news that my neighbor, who worked in the World Trade Center, was one of the lucky ones who made it home that day. That's it. I don't remember being glued to the TV screen as the video footage was played over and over again. I don't remember being afraid. I don't remember screaming or crying or praying. And for many years, I thought that meant I had no right to grieve. How was I supposed to "never forget" what I barely remembered?
For many children across the country, they couldn't be shielded from the pain. So many actually lost parents and loved ones that day, and for months afterward, death and grief were all around us. There was no rulebook on how to help children cope with a national tragedy when the adults around us were still processing grief themselves.
My grief over 9/11 didn't come immediately. It's only now as I approach my 30s that I can trace the impact it has had on my life.
2 years after 9/11: It was around this time that I remember hearing Fr. Dan, the pastor of my childhood parish who was a strong spiritual figure in my early years, speak about his brother, who worked in the World Trade Center and didn't survive. It was the first time I'd heard that someone close to me had lost someone close to them.
6.5 years: I came to school the Monday after the Super Bowl and learned that a boy in my class had been killed in a car accident the night before. My whole class walked through the rest of that day in a haze of grief. After school, the only place I could think to go to was my church, which was down the road from my public high school. I knelt in front of a statue of Mary and prayed. I mark that day, February 4, 2008, as my conversion day.
7 years: My A.P. U.S. History teacher played us the footage of the planes striking the Twin Towers and of their collapse. I had probably seen the video many times in the months following 9/11, but it was the first time it felt real, like I wasn't watching a TV show.
10 years: In the twilight hours of my 19th birthday, President Obama addressed the nation to say Osama bin Laden, the man behind the terrorist attacks of 9/11, had finally been killed. People cheered. I felt numb.
That summer, I became a communications intern for the Franciscan friars in New York City. It was there that I learned the story of Fr. Mychal Judge, chaplain of the New York Fire Department and the first identified victim of the 9/11 attacks. When I looked at the photograph of a group of men carrying his body away from the rubble, I couldn't help but think of another Man who died a horrible death so others could live, and whose body was carried away by those who loved Him and taken to an empty tomb.
13.5 years: On January 7, two terrorists broke into the Paris offices of satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo and murdered 12 people. I was teaching middle school English in a small French town that was similar to the New Jersey suburb I grew up in. Some of my students' parents commuted to Paris for work. Many others had family members or friends who lived there. When I walked into my English conversation club the next day, one of my students said, "Miss, can we talk about Charlie Hebdo?" I scrapped my lesson plan on the spot and let them talk. These students were only a few years older than I was on 9/11. I saw the fear and confusion in their faces. My heart broke for them. I got a taste of what many parents and teachers faced in the days after 9/11. All I could say was, "There are many people in the United States who love you and support you," and I prayed it was true.
14 years: I got my first corporate job on Wall Street, mere blocks away from the 9/11 memorial. I would often walk around the fountain, looking for Fr. Mychal's name and Fr. Dan's brother's name.
18.5 years: I started a new job in aviation two and a half months before a global pandemic reached the U.S. I couldn't understand why God had led me to an industry in crisis, until I heard story after story of people who began working in aviation right before a major crisis. One of them was a former V.P. whose first day on the job was September 11, 2001.
19 years: On the anniversary of 9/11, I was laying in bed around 3pm. I suddenly felt a strong call to pray the Divine Mercy Chaplet. Two of the promises Jesus made to St. Faustina Kowalska were “At three o’clock, implore My mercy, especially for sinners; and, if only for a brief moment, immerse yourself in My Passion, particularly in My abandonment at the moment of agony…I will refuse nothing to the soul that makes a request of Me in virtue of My Passion.” and “When they say this chaplet in the presence of the dying, I will stand between My Father and the dying person, not as a just Judge but as a merciful Savior.” I prayed the chaplet for the repose of the souls of those who had perished on 9/11 and for all those who would die that day. The next morning, I woke up to the news that my friend Brooke, who had been battling cancer for the past year, had died on September 11, 2020. She was just 32 years old.
20 years: Yesterday, I had a hard time getting out of bed. I had cried all my tears out the day before while listening to Bruce Springsteen's The Rising. Now the grief that had been brewing for two decades finally washed over me. After I finally got up, I met friends at the pub where Brooke had her last birthday party, the Tribute in Light at Ground Zero clearly visible in the sky above. Reminders of our grief were all around us, but the tables were still crowded, the drinks were still freely flowing, the laughter was still loud, the city's heartbeat was still steady.
New York would never forget, but she was still moving forward.
"May your strength give us strength,
May your faith give us faith,
May your hope give us hope,
May your love give us love."
- Bruce Springsteen, "Into the Fire"
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