I was there for September 11th. I was fifteen years old wearing a Catholic school skirt and knee-highs anticipating running to the city because my school was on strike. 1200 of us packed the auditorium waiting to be released into one of the last days of summer. But then our teachers crossed the picket lines, their signs hanging from the hands, faces weak and withdrawn as if they were fighting a bigger struggle than the tug of war for more money. The televisions turned on and faculty started looking at us like orphans who needed to be held but we were still confused. Had we reached an agreement? Did we have to go to class now? They were supposed to be in negotiations for at least a week. We followed their eyes to the television sets as we watched 747s fly into buildings we've known our whole lives, the World Trade Center towers. Before we could fully grasp what this meant for us as a country, tears started blurring the images of people jumping out of windows, of people running through the streets covered in ash and debris, of people getting to work and never leaving. We sat there trembling wondering how many of us had now become orphans, how many of our aunts, uncles, brothers and sisters were not coming back home, how many of us would be saying goodbye to family members as they packed to go to war. I can still remember the smell of dead bodies and smoke. The images of these planes exploding into buildings that were once monuments turned into graves stay etched in my mind nearly ten years ago.
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| Osama Bin Laden |
But today, I hear the man responsible, Osama Bin Laden has been killed. That doesn't give my sister back her sanity after serving in Afghanistan, Iraq and Iran. It doesn't give my cousin back the five years he missed from his daughter's life serving two tours back to back with only two weeks of vacation in that time. It doesn't help my aunt understand any better that the Reserves would really be called back into war and my uncle would have to go. It doesn't give us the lives, the security or the peace of mind we lost. It's a bittersweet victory. Yes, the man is gone but the legacy, the vengeance, the ugliness of our political endeavors still lives. Whether you wear a uniform or not, death feels the same. It's a human life we've lost and more that we've affected.
Today, I will go to work in the same city that was the first city to ever bear witness to war on U.S. soil from an act of terrorism. I will look up at the skyscrapers, I will look into every face that isn't mine, I will be screaming on the inside, 'not today, not ever.' I won't know if anybody will hear me or notice the anxiety. I won't know how powerful the memories of 9/11 are to me until I stare in the face of the city that I have loved, lived and will possibly die in. Though I am proud that our President has made headway in this war on terrorism, I am human and I know that if there is one thing about terrorism it is this: its leaders may die but its purpose never perishes.
