"An author ought to write for the youth of
his own generation, the critics of the next, and the school-masters of
ever afterward."
(F. Scott Fitzgerald)
". . . Good morning Boston!" the perky blonde television
anchor said, "It's a beautiful autumn morning today -- Tuesday,
September eleventh, two thousand one. These are today's headlines. .
."
The TV reception wasn't the best in these airport coffee shops, but
it would have to do. My attention switched from today's news to the
tall, dark-haired woman who sat down at the counter. She was pretty --
quite pretty really -- and probably in her early twenties. Her lilting
voice carried across the room, downright cheery for this time of the
morning. Still half asleep myself, I sipped a cup of Earl Grey.
"Thanks . . . that's great," she said, as the waiter
poured a hot, steady stream of coffee into her cup. She tore open a
packet of sweetener and pulled a small red cell phone from her
backpack, punched three or four buttons, and held the phone to her
ear. "Hi Dad, it's me," I heard her say loudly after a few
moments. She motioned the waiter to turn the volume down on the large
television that hung suspended in one corner of the room.
"Sorry Dad," she said loudly, "I can barely hear you
over the TV here. Hold on a sec." The waiter grabbed the remote
from behind the counter and quickly turned down the volume, waiting
for her response. She nodded and went back to her conversation.
"I'm doing fine, Dad, just a little stressed trying to make it
here on time. You know how I despise alarm clocks! But I'm all checked
in now and just waiting to board. I thought I'd grab some decent java
before I leave. Besides, I wanted to call and tell you that I made it
here okay. I know how you worry," she said, catching my eye with
a grin and a wink. I smiled in return and went back to my tea, trying
to concentrate on the morning news instead of her conversation.
A few moments later, an announcement came booming over the
loudspeaker. "Good morning. Welcome to United Airlines. We are
now ready to board Flight 175 from Boston to Los Angeles. Those
holding First Class tickets may board at this time."
"I have to run, Dad. They're starting to board my
flight," I heard her say. "Yes . . . I will, don't worry.
Will you and Mom be at the gate when I get there? Good. Bring bucks
with you too, Dad. I'm dying for a good meal on the way home. Okay?
Great. I have to get going now. I love you, Dad. See you there!"
She blew a kiss into the receiver, turned off the phone, and dropped
it into her backpack once again. "Cute girl," I thought to
myself as I watched her drop a tip on the table, gather her copy of
Cosmo, and walk away.
I returned to my tea, the morning news broadcast, and my own
thoughts. I glanced at my watch. It was only five minutes past nine. I
had plenty of time for another cup before I met my husband at
nine-forty five. When I caught the waiter's eye, I raised my cup to
indicate I needed a refill. Then I removed my favorite pen and brown
leather journal from my purse. I found a clean, white page on which to
record my thoughts. "Let's see," I said to myself as I
uncapped my fountain pen, "the date today is…"
* * * * * *
They have identified her now. Her name was Lisa . . .
If I had known, I would have tried to stop her from leaving -- stop
that lovely young woman from boarding that ill-fated flight and, most
of all, stop her from having to die for someone's insane beliefs.
But I didn't know. She boarded that plane. I drank my tea and wrote
in my journal. She never made it home. I was never the same.
How incredibly cheerless our world has been since that terrible
day. Even the holidays and the Super Bowl lacked their usual flavor
this year. It's been difficult to celebrate when so many are hurting.
It just doesn't seem right.
Relentlessly, I ask myself if I could have saved her. I know the
answer is no, but I can't seem to absolve myself of the feeling that I
still must do something to make this world a better place because of
her. So, I've decided to do what I do best and that is to write.
I write to ultimately be at peace with myself, releasing raw
emotions from my head and my heart onto paper where I can begin to
understand them. But where do I begin? Are there enough words to
express how I, as a citizen of the world, feel about the horror of
this tragedy?
Never before have I worried about flying off to Scotland on holiday
or about the high-rise buildings that I work in toppling down on me.
I've never really considered that the nuclear power plant just down
the road might be sabotaged. I've never reacted in fear at the sound
of a plane engine overhead, even though I've lived near an airport for
years. I've never draped an American flag on my living room wall or
flown one from my car antenna, even on a national holiday. And I've
certainly never been so affected by a news event that I couldn't go
into work.
I can't say I've ever turned on the news first thing in the
morning, fully expecting to hear of another plane highjack being
thwarted, an airport being evacuated, or a historic bridge under
24-hour protection. I've never had to worry when my daughter flew
across country to attend a business meeting; she's independent and has
always taken care of herself. And I've never been terrified that that
my granddaughter would turn on the television to watch cartoons, only
to see an airplane, just like the one Mommy took to Houston, slam into
the side of a building.
I've never thought of wearing gloves to open my junk mail or
considered my prized antique nail file, knitting needles, or the
plastic box cutter I keep in my kitchen gadget drawer to be weapons.
I've never felt the need to be within three feet of my cell phone at
all times. I've never questioned the motives of the quiet computer
programmer from Saudi Arabia sitting next to me during staff meetings.
Even here in earthquake country, I've never bought an extra month's
worth of groceries, drinking water, and first aid supplies just to
keep 'on hand.' "
I could never have imagined that I would not take my granddaughter
to Disneyland for her birthday, just because of security issues. I
can't say I've ever called every member of my family within a
half-hour period just to assure myself of their safety and God knows
that during the whole 17 years I've lived in Southern California, I've
never once preferred staying at home to going somewhere fun.
I've never gladly given up my favorite television shows just to
watch CNN or hear the president speak. I've never told a flight
attendant on one of my business trips that I appreciated the courage
it took for her just to come to work. I've never really paid much
attention to the huge American flag gently waving high above a
building that I pass every day on the way to work. I've never
crocheted an afghan for the family of someone who died, especially if
it was someone I didn't even know. I've never given any real thought
to civil liberties and my freedom to move around freely. And I don't
remember EVER being moved to tears when someone sang "God Bless
America."
Until now.
Am I the only one who has felt this way? I think not. So I say to
you, the writers of the world: "Ad Arma Vocare!" Take up
arms beside me! Let us seize our own weapons - pens, typewriters,
laptops, PDAs, and PCs -- using them as a magnifying glass to observe
our thoughts, feelings, emotions, and actions, revealing who we have
become in the days following that Tuesday tragedy.
True, words may not be the first weapons most soldiers would prefer
in a time of war. But they are honest weapons in the battle for peace,
truth, and freedom. By putting pen to paper we can do more than just
record the tragic events, we can also explain, preserve, honor, and
attempt to understand -- confirming again, "The pen is mightier
than the sword."
As writers, it is our honor and responsibility to help preserve our
history, not only as it was on September 11, but as it was the day
before and the days after. My grandchildren's history books will most
assuredly touch on the highlights of those events -- the cast of
characters, the thousands of victims, the effect it had on our economy
-- and record for posterity the bitter aftermath of war. We must also
preserve the minor details, the human stories, and the emotions we
have all experienced during this terrifying time. It's so very
important if the little Sarahs, Haileys, and Jimmys of the world are
to truly understand (and never have cause to repeat) the circumstances
surrounding that dreadful day.
We have changed as a country. We have all changed individually.
Every aspect of our lives has somehow been touched by the finger of
September 11. But our children's world will change most of all. Flying
anywhere will no doubt be problematic and frightening for them.
The sight of armed security guards and long queues leading to
explosive and metal detectors will be the norm for them. They are
destined now to live in a world of uncertainty, with talk of war, bomb
scares, and the possibility of new terrorist attacks.
While we cannot prevent these changes from occurring, we can pass
along our history -- our personal thoughts, feelings, and stories --
to our children and grandchildren. Witnessing the carnage, we have
come to know the true meaning of the words "fear,"
"revenge," "anxiety," and "sorrow." But
we have also found a new, heart-felt appreciation for words like
"flag," "hero," "courage," and
"brotherhood."
We can help them learn to truly appreciate the quality of life and
freedoms they have been given, and share with them the wisdom we have
gained: peace is worth fighting for and tolerance must begin with
them.
Already many books and articles litter the newsstands, recounting
the facts and photos of the disastrous events. But these insights,
presented without the emotions behind them, are as empty as a seashell
washed by the tide upon the moonlit sand -- interesting to look at,
but meaningless without an understanding of the life within.
Just as fact and photos are easily remembered -- the fodder for
quiz shows, trivia games, and history books -- sentiment is often
overlooked or too quickly forgotten. So I call upon every writer --
both the great and the small -- to hear the cry of future generations:
"Tell us! We must know the complete story, so that we may
understand…and learn!"
Web sites dealing with September 11 and its aftermath are falling
off the Internet in record numbers. The time is now, my comrade
writers, to begin writing while our memories are still fresh -- don't
let them disappear!
Each of us can surely write a few paragraphs or pages during a
lunch break or a quiet evening, sharing with our children our new
world -- how we've seen it, how we've heard it, and (most importantly)
how we've felt it. Consider keeping a small notebook and your favorite
pen in your purse or near your favorite chair, someplace within easy
reach to record your thoughts whenever you are reminded of that day
and the events surrounding it.
You could even collect Internet items that have touched you since
that day, perhaps a memorial or poem (just select "File>Save
As" from your browser menu to save the web page). Later, you may
want to print them or save them on a CD-ROM to give to your child or
grandchild. If you have a poem, a news story, a prayer, a quotation, a
humorous quip, or a personal devotion to share, please take the time
to save it electronically or write it down.
We've all given generously from our pockets. Won't you join me now
in giving generously of your words? Words that will demonstrate our
compassion and patriotic resolve to the future generations that seek
to know us?
The important thing is to capture a record of this time in your
life. Americans need your words more than ever to help them begin to
live and laugh again, to inspire them to become a nation of peace and
tolerance, and to ensure that they never, ever forget the impact of
these events on their lives. They need -- Lisa needs -- your
words of hope, giving them a reason to believe once again in a future
of peace.
Together, our collective voices can honor those, like Lisa, who
sacrificed their lives so that we all might speak freely.
God, bless us all . . . and please God, bless America.
---------------------------------------
Dedicated to:
LISA FROST
Age 22
Rancho Santa Margarita, CA
- - - -
Died September 11, 2001
United Flight 175
World Trade Center
New York City
