9/11 – Today I Remember

Today America solemnly reflects back to the exact minutes when our homeland was attacked by terrorists. It’s hard to believe that it’s been nine years. For many, including yours truly, it feels like yesterday. The emotions are still so raw, and the memories are still fresh.

Today I remember what it sounded like when American Airlines flight 77 breached the core of the Pentagon. I remember wondering if the terrorists on board that flight could have carried some other type of WMD on the plane with them. I remember the heat and the smell of jet fuel. I remember bloodied and battered people being carted to waiting cars and emergency vehicles. I remember the silence that lingered over Washington, DC for what felt like an eternity because the skies were empty of airplanes. I remember seeing armored military police vehicles stationed at nearly every corner. I remember not knowing for more than a week if a friend had perished in the Pentagon only to learn he had been out of town on Pentagon business but that some of his peers had been killed that day.

I remember watching all the video from other news gathering sources. I remember the man and woman who jumped from one of the towers. I remember the color of her hair, her skirt as it billowed like a balloon, his tie. They were holding hands. I wonder how they made the decision. Were they a couple? Did they even know each others name? Did they get to say goodbye to anyone else? What were they thinking as they watched the earth come closer and closer?

I remember a dismembered hand and wondered if the body to which it belonged was among the living or the dead. I remember the faces of the brave firefighters climbing the stairs as frightened citizens walked the opposite direction. They never flinched at what they were facing. Would they do it again if they knew the outcome? I believe they would. I remember the clouds of ash when the buildings tumbled. I thought it ironic that even the walls of the Pentagon came down, although it was only the facade. Everything crumbled that day.

I remember Members of Congress, normally at each others throats suddenly comforting each other, encouraging and inspiring their constituents, singing God Bless America in unity and meaning it. I remember many of those same Members gathering for a private (no media allowed) night of prayer for our nation, the victims and the victims families. When had that ever happened before? I remember when our country believed in its president; when politics and religion didn’t matter because we were all wounded.

Most of those memories linger in my mind not just on the anniversary but quite often on a regular basis. Thankfully, less and less often as time passes. For many who witnessed or survived 9/11, like me, the wounds are internal. They cannot be seen. But we are called – yelled at, really – to get over it. Move on. It happened; deal with it. The same isn’t true for someone who lost a limb or was severely burned or has some other physical evidence of their 9/11 experience. And yet, as we reflect and remember, I have come to see an America that is once again divided. The sense of unity once felt is gone.

The wounds unseen are trampled for the sake of political and religious tolerance. We cave to those who claim to be peaceful but show intolerance by threatening with violence but declare those who have invisible scars as insensitive and inconsiderate. Whatever happened to compassion?

Today my grief continues whether a mosque is built or a Quran is burnt or neither happens. Tomorrow it will be the same. Because today I remember; every day I remember. I cannot forget, and I wish others would not forget.

Bring Him Home

What does it feel like to live life without a soul? I used to think that only people who had surrendered to the great Enemy could roam this planet soulless until I lost my mine. It happened for me on 9/11 when I was across the street from the Pentagon. What I witnessed and experienced that day and on the days that followed as a journalist in Washington, DC left me feeling as if my body was an empty husk without the soul that used to drink in the beauty and wonder of life. I felt as if my very core rose to the heavens with the smoke that billowed from the burning wreckage that was the Pentagon. Nothing mattered anymore; not even the things what once stirred within me. Nothing moved me for nearly nine years.

I realize now that my soul never left me. I simply kept it hidden from the pain that was simply too much to bear. I think I forgot where I put it because I eventually got used to feeling nothing. The reunion of body and soul took place in February 2010 when I heard the first melodious strains of the musical group, the Canadian Tenors. The emotion that poured out of me was unlike anything I had ever experienced. And I have been making up for lost time ever since.

With this renewed awareness comes new passion for things I’d never dreamed possible. I have been blessed in recent weeks to get to know the men behind the voices of the Canadian Tenors – Remigio Pereira, Victor Micallef, Clifton Murray and Fraser Walters – and am even more blessed to walk alongside them in their journey of philanthropic efforts, especially Voices for Bulembu, which supports the Bulembu Foundation.

Bulembu is a small town in the northwestern region of Swaziland and is privately owned by the aforementioned Foundation. It was purchased with a vision to rejuvenate the now devastated town into a self-sustaining entity.

What makes the plight of the Swazi children so compelling to me is in knowing that I can make a difference by writing and telling their story. These children and their families know of anguish and sorrow on a level most of us will never comprehend. Many are born with HIV/AIDS; generations of families have been wiped out. It is the only country on earth that is experiencing a negative population growth rate and the Swazi people could cease to exist by 2050. Despite the strife they see every day, their souls are filled with joy for the little things, the relationships they have with one another, and the lives they get to live, no matter how short.

My heartache will never completely go away but I also have tools and resources available to me to make the path bearable. For reasons beyond their control, the people of Bulembu have been dealt a hand that can’t be played alone. They haven’t had access to the same type of care and support accessible to us in richer nations. The Canadian Tenors are trying to change that through Voices for Bulembu and the Bulembu Foundation. They are working in harmony to help this tiny town return to vibrancy by combining innovative enterprises with orphan care for Swaziland’s most vulnerable children.

God has given me the wonderful burden of caring for these orphans I’ve never met. If I can find hope and healing through music after experiencing what is hopefully a once-in-a-lifetime incident, what more do these children deserve for all they encounter every day without end?

Tenor Fraser Walters sings the haunting hymn “Bring Him Home” from Les Miserables. The song speaks of one man’s plea to God to save the young man he cares for as a son, going so far as to ask God to let him die and bring the young man home safe from battle.

In many ways, God brought me home; home from the internal battle that was keeping me from peace and joy. And someday, He’ll bring me to His Home. Who am I that I should have this opportunity when others cannot? For the children of Bulembu, I now offer whatever I can so God will bring them rest, peace, and joy; so He will bring them home and let them live.

Bring Him Home (Lyrics by Herbert Kretzmer)
God on high
Hear my prayer
In my need
You have always been there

He is young
He’s afraid
Let him rest
Heaven blessed.
Bring him home.

He’s like the son I might have known
If God had granted me a son.
The summers die
One by one
How soon they fly
On and on
And I am old
And will be gone.

Bring him peace
Bring him joy
He is young
He is only a boy

You can take
You can give
Let him be
Let him live
If I die, let me die
Let him live
Bring him home.

Nobodies Hero

I always watch with great fascination anytime I see a story of lifesaving heroics. A man lifts a car off of a child by sheer strength. A mother jumps into the freezing river to save her child. Witnesses rush to a burning car to save trapped accident victims. These are the moments when I think of the Bible verse that says, “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” (John 15:13)

At some point in my amazement at the unselfishness of those who act without hesitation, I always think to myself, “If I’m ever in that kind of situation, I’ll be a hero too. Nothing will stop me from helping someone in need.”

I had such an opportunity on 9/11/01 when I was across the street from the Pentagon when its core was breached by an airplane. As soon as I heard the plane crash, I had a decision to make: Run to the scene and help, get to my new job at CBN News to help inform the world, or do nothing. Although it wasn’t what I wanted to do, I chose the latter. Actually, the choice was made for me by a body frozen in fear. I literally could not move.

In the years since that day, I have struggled not only with what I saw (in person and on video) but also with what I didn’t do. So many people – including a few therapists along way – have reminded me that, even with my press passes, I probably wouldn’t have been allowed to get close enough to help any of the victims. My mind often goes back to those who were in the burning Twin Towers with no chance of escape. Watching video of the jumpers haunts me to this day. But again, I have often been reminded, there is nothing I could have done. I wasn’t even in New York, and even if I had been, I couldn’t possibly have saved anyone trapped above the point of impact.

At the very least, I could have helped humanity by doing my job and reporting the facts as they unraveled. I should have helped a frightened America with news and knowledge that could have possibly provided some sort of comfort. But I didn’t even do that much. I was too scared to do my job.

I have heard from many who care – including a number of therapists along the way – who have said that I did help by coming to work the next day and relieving those who had been working through the night on this breaking story, which is what my boss asked me to do. To be honest, I think that’s just fluff to make me feel better, but I try to accept it for what it’s worth.

I really wanted to be a hero that day. And in so many ways, I haven’t been able to forgive myself for what I didn’t do. As I continue the healing process, I am learning to forgive. It is, however, a slow process.

I wonder what will happen if I am ever presented with a scenario that requires swift action, the kind of action that could possibly save a life. Will I respond differently? I would like to say that I will. Perhaps I’ll never have to find out, and that would be ok, too. In the meantime, I try to help in other ways, including telling my story. I doubt it will save a life, but perhaps it will help someone in some small way.

Is there something you did or didn’t do for which you haven’t forgiven yourself? What’s stopping you?

Who am I?

The question of “who am I” is commonly asked among the younger generation. Tweens and teens alike wonder what their purpose is in life and how they’re supposed to go about accomplishing that purpose. Even youngsters in college seek clarification in their identity, wondering what to study and how their education and social experiences will make a positive impact on the world. I have often heard people say that the older you get the more you know yourself. I can testify to the validity of this claim but I have also learned, as I have gotten older, if you’re willing, you never stop growing.

Remaining stagnant in anything is not an option for me. I hunger for God’s wisdom and crave being all He destined for me to be. More often than not, the growth that comes with that wisdom is painful. I liken it to open heart surgery – without anesthesia. I have, in recent months, gone through a number of such procedures, and have discovered a few things about myself that I didn’t know before. While I know I’m becoming exactly who God wants me to be, I am finding myself grieving over who I know I will never be. And I feel an ever-increasing isolation because, like I did in high school, I feel like I don’t fit in.

One of those areas of understanding and acceptance is related to my 9/11 experience. I so desperately wanted to get the heck out of Washington, DC after the attacks on America. I was surrounded by a fraternity of journalists who had gone through what I went through. But, our club meetings were always silent. No one spoke of what they saw or felt or experienced that day and in the days afterward. With that silence came a feeling of alone-ness that has yet to leave me. I needed to know I wasn’t the only one feeling what I was feeling. Those answers never came from my brethren.

Moving to Indianapolis was, in my mind, the safest place I could get without having to remove myself from the planet yet still close enough to be able to get home to my family in SC in a matter of hours all while still working as a journalist, albeit in print instead of TV news. What I have discovered here is even more isolation. To my knowledge, I am the only person in Indianapolis, Indiana who heard the plane crash into the Pentagon in person, the only one who watched video of the jumpers from the World Trade Center buildings before they collapsed, the only one who felt the heat rising from the Pentagon for days after the fire was extinguished. I am the only one in Indianapolis who covered the events of 9/11 in NY and knows the stench of 3,000 dead bodies. I am the only one.

That’s not to suggest others in Indiana were not affected adversely by the attacks. Perhaps they lost a loved one or a friend. Perhaps they were a first responder who went to NY or DC to assist in recover efforts. In those experiences, there is a common bond. But from 8:48 am, 9/11/01 to this very minute, I know of no one else that can relate. I have had so many conversations with people about what I saw, desperately needing someone to say, “I understand.” I continue to wait for those words of comfort.

Everyone has experienced pain; that is the common bond in the human race. But somewhere in this town is a woman who can relate to a mother who lost a child because she has lost one too. Somewhere in this town is a man who knows what it feels like to have survived cancer because he had it too. Somewhere in this town is a son who knows what his friend is struggling with watching his parents battle dementia because he is watching it in his family too.

Somewhere in Indianapolis, Indiana is a woman who is isolated because no one else in this town understands because they have never walked in my shoes. Who am I if I am alone?

Getting Out of Gitmo

Most folks who know me know that I am passionate about politics. I am a hard core Republican and always enjoy a good debate with those on the left. Although she can be a bit over the top, I sometimes wish I had the tenacity and boldness of Ann Coulter.

A fellow writer and friend, Terrell Clemmons, recently asked people to chime in on their thoughts about President B. Hussein Obama’s executive order to close Guantanamo Bay. I thought long and hard about answering, thinking that my emotions would dictate the tone of my reply. But I realize that I can’t be quite about something that means so much to me and to so many others.

If I had the chance to chat with our dear president, I would ask him this: “Mr. President, do you know what it sounds like when an airplane crashes into a building? Do you know what 3,000 dead bodies smell like? Do you know what it’s like to sift through rubble – literally and figuratively – to find answers that may not ever be known; to analyze why you acted – or didn’t act – a certain way in the face of terror?” I know for certain that Obama’s reply would be no. No, because he wasn’t there.

To those questions I reply: I do.

I can recall the sound of American Airlines Flight 77 when it collided with The Pentagon as if it was yesterday. As a journalist covering the events of 9/11 from both Washington, DC and New York, I can still recount the stench of death and of jet fuel. The heat and flames and smoke rising from our bastion of protection still lingers in my mind’s eye. These are things that will never, ever go away.

Whether you agree or disagree with former President Bush’s decision to go to war in Iraq is irrelevant. I happen to agree with it and believe WMD were being developed under Saddam Hussein’s regime. We couldn’t find them but that doesn’t mean we don’t need to be there doing whatever we can to protect our country. This isn’t a debate about the Iraq war. The bottom line is that we are at war. September 11, 2001 proved to the entire universe that there are maniacal men and women who will stop at nothing to destroy us.

If we weren’t convinced on that day alone that we are waging a battle unlike any we’ve ever known, I don’t know what else will. But other terrorism acts followed. Thankfully our homeland has been safe since that dreadful day. Sadly, other nations haven’t been as lucky. Turn on the TV at almost any given moment and you’ll hear news reports of extremists declaring jihad – war – with America.

Does Barack Obama think these guys are kidding? Seriously. There is no end to their hatred of us. There is nothing we can do to convince them that we’re not as bad as they think we are. For starters, ours is a mostly Christian nation. That in and of itself is enough to wage a holy war with us. Second, we are allies of Israel, and we all know how many Muslim nations feel about this Jewish state. Basically, we’re toast where these wackos are concerned. (Note: I’m not at all suggesting that all Muslims are wackos or extremists.)

There are governing bodies and rules that determine treatment of enemy combatants. I get that. I also get that the folks locked up at Gitmo have been there for a long time without the pursuit of justice. I disagree with the delay. However, these enemy combatants, many of whom have documented proof against them of their involvment in Al-Qaeda and other such groups, do not have rights that supercede those of American citizens. The justice system we have in place, for all of its faults and failures, is still a good one. But we cannot win a war in a court of law. There is due process, and it needs to take place. However, as Andrew C. McCarthy recently wrote, “We owe only the process that is due in the particular circumstances. War and peace are not the same circumstance. The process due Americans accused of crimes in civilian courts is not the same as the process due foreign combatants and terrorists captured during military operations.”

The framework for trying war criminals is not the framework that is the civil judiciary.The Supreme Court reaffirmed in the 2004 Hamdi case to permit the detention of combatants if they are reasonably believed by our war-fighters to be aiding the enemy. We don’t need probable cause or proof beyond a reasonable doubt to detain them. And we already know that many (as reported by the Associated Press) who have been released from Gitmo have returned to their wicked ways.

Justice needs to be served and it needs to be served on behalf of the thousands of people affected by 9/11 and other terrorist acts throughout the world. Letting these enemy combatants get out of Gitmo is justice delayed and a personal invitation by our very own president to attack us at will.

Never Forget

I used to be fascinated when people older than me somberly remembered the day JFK was assassinated. They often spoke in terms of “before” and “after”. I never fully understood what they meant until I experienced my own “before and after” seven years ago today. The morning was simply beautiful, much like today in Indianapolis, only a bit warmer. Hints of fall were in the air while summer’s warm kisses struggled to let go.

RJ’s brother was in the south tower. Thankfully, he made it out alive. That was still my “before”. My “after” came when someone said, “What was that?” I’ll never forget the sound and all that came after Flight 77′s rude intrusion into the Pentagon’s walls of rock and steel.

Sometimes I hate this day. I don’t want to remember all I saw, heard, smelt, and felt that day and in the days that followed while I covered these historic events at the Pentagon and at Ground Zero. I don’t want to be forced to remember because of an anniversary; healing comes in my own time. But, I am thankful people haven’t forgotten. While I don’t want to remember, I don’t want to forget. I’m certain I won’t.

And I hope you won’t forget either, the nearly 3,000 good people who died on this day seven short years ago. If you see a firefighter or police officer or EMT, shake their hand. Tell them you appreciate their bravery and service in our times of need. Call your husband or wife and remind them that you love them, even if you won’t come home ever again. Say a prayer for those who still struggle with the pain of when summer’s day met dark and evil.

Simple, never forget.

The Day… Continued

Not long after the Pentagon was attacked, it was discovered another plane had been hijacked. Thanks to the bravery of those on board Flight 93, another building and perhaps thousands of lives were spared. By this point, some of the students had gone home; many simply felt helpless.

I, however, didn’t leave. In fact, I didn’t leave for nearly four hours. I couldn’t. I was simply paralyzed by fear. Almost as soon as the Pentagon was hit, I went back to the long assignment I had previously worked on reviewing the effects of weapons of mass destruction. It was clear that we were attacked. This was terrorism in our own backyard. I had talked to so many people about terrorism but none of them ever came up with this type of scenario. And none of them expected it to happen in our country. Moreover, I kept wondering what was on those planes. Were they done with the crashing of the planes or was there more to come with anthrax or some other WMD releasing into the sky as each plane exploded. I didn’t want to find out, so I stayed.

I called Mike, the CBN News Bureau Chief.

“I guess the interview is off, huh?” I said jokingly.

“You bet,” he replied. “But we need you. Get in here as quick as you can.”

Uh-oh. I had to come up with something. I wasn’t ready to cover this yet. I told him that I didn’t have any of my press passes with me and that most folks were being kept out of DC. Of course, none of this was true. I had my press passes, and I probably could have gotten into DC although it would have been hectic and it would have taken a few hours at best. But I didn’t want to go outside and the last thing I wanted to do was get stuck in a metal tube shooting under the grounds of a town that had just been attacked. Was the Metro next?

Mike agreed to let me come in the next morning to relieve those who would be working through the night on this unfolding story. I was relieved but felt incredible guilt. What in the world could I have done as a journalist covering this story? Nothing. Yet I still felt guilty. Maybe I felt guilty because I was just scared to death. I don’t know.

I finally decided to leave. My apartment was just about four miles from the school. It took me four-and-a-half hours to get home. Incoming traffic lanes were now outgoing lanes in an effort to relieve the decongestion from throngs of people trying to leave DC.

For a town filled with people stuck on themselves and unwilling to help, on this day nothing could be further from the truth. People waited patiently. It was hot – incredibly hot – so a few folks passed around bottled water, especially to those with little ones in the car. No one was a stranger as some cried openly on the shoulders of others as we stood in the streets waiting for the traffic jam to clear.

The thing I noticed most was the intense heat. It wasn’t exactly a hot day but the heat from the fire at the Pentagon made it even hotter. The black, billowing smoke continued to greet the crisp blue sky. It was visible from everywhere now. The smell of jet fuel floated through the air. Sirens blasted their urgency as they rolled through the streets transporting the injured.

Numb, I finally made it home and held Bojangles (the cat) close to my chest. I sat on the couch with him and watched the unfolding coverage. I wondered if Bo heard the sound. He must have sensed something because he seemed a bit jittery. But he also seemed to recognize my need for companionship at that moment. He rarely left my side. Not long after I had arrived, my friend from downstairs, Brooke, called to see if she could come up to my place. I was happy for the company but at the same token, I wanted to be alone. She cried in disbelief as we watched the coverage. Neither of us had family in the area and we both felt completely alone.

I can’t seem to recall where I first saw the video of the couple jumping to their deaths but I certainly recall everything about that image. It wouldn’t be the last time I would see that type of raw video. I remember watching them as they plummeted to their deaths from dozens of stories in the air and wondered how horrible it must have been inside that building for them to conclude that the better choice was to jump and die. No matter how hard I try, I can’t even begin to fathom that scenario. The other thing I remember about this couple was the look of peace on their faces. I don’t know if they were a romantic couple or office mates or just people who met for the first and last time. His tie floated up and to the side of his face. His arm never thrashed in an attempt to stop himself. He kept her hand in his the whole way down. Her skirt ballooned, and I secretly hoped it would cushion their fall. These are the images I see over and over again in my mind’s eye when I think back to that day.

I thought that was the darkest day of my life but, little did I know of the darkness that was yet to come.

The Day The World Changed Forever

I’m big on blogging. I think it’s fabulous for so many reasons. In fact, I’m going to speak at a blogging conference, Blog Indiana 2008, next month! But, when it comes to my own blog, I find it hard to get to. It isn’t that I don’t have anything to write about. I certainly do. However, when it comes to this subject matter, there are times I would just rather not discuss it. I have written about this experience before and made it through just fine. Yet sharing the details of that day, as I have wanted to do the last couple of weeks, has given me a sense of dread. But, that’s part of the journey through the Great Sadness, I suppose.

There are pieces of the story that don’t belong in this particular post. If I started, I wouldn’t finish. So, I’ll start by reminding you that I had worked on a month-long project for the production arm of CBN News. A few weeks after that project, I was asked by the bureau chief to do a live audition for their Capitol Hill Correspondent position. I was delighted!

For many weeks prior to 9/11, I had also been teaching part time at Connecticut Schools of Broadcasting, which was located in the basement of a building in Crystal City, Virginia. If you walked to the Pentagon from this building, it would be no further than 1/2 to 3/4 of a mile.

The morning of 9/11 started out differently than most days. A news junkie, I usually had the Today Show on. But I didn’t even look in the direction of the TV that morning. I was too busy rehearsing the script I had written for my audition. I distinctly remember the watermelon colored dress, the off-white hose and shoes, and the extra attention I paid to my hair and makeup. I even remember what underwear I had on!

Another oddity for that day is that I drove my car. I rarely did that, except to the grocery store every so often. Much like the TV, I would normally have had the radio on in the car. But I was still rehearsing. I wanted to nail that audition!

My schedule for the morning consisted of me stopping off at the school to give final exams to some of my students. From there, I would head into DC and to the CBN bureau for the audition. So, I parked my car under the building and entered the basement floor. I didn’t really notice much going on about me. By this point, I was already focused on the exams.

The students seemed to be milling about, almost nervously. One said, “You better get in RJ’s office.” (RJ was the Executive Director of the school.)

RJ was at his desk with a phone attached to each of his ears.

“Did you hear what happened?”

I shook my head no and tried to speak in between his conversations with the people on either phone; conversations that seemed panicked.

“A plane crashed into the World Trade Center building,” he replied.

Silent from disbelief, I finally responded, “Ok. That’s not a very funny joke, but I’ll wait for the punchline.”

“It’s not a joke,” he screamed. “I’m on the phone with my brother who was in the other WTC building. I’m trying to get him out of the building but they’re saying everyone needs to go back to their desks. I’m also on the phone with his wife. He couldn’t get through to her.”

Again, he started shouting things like, “Get out of the building”. “I don’t care what they told you.” “You’re going to be fine. Calm down.”

Strangely enough, this Radio and TV broadcasting school didn’t have cable so I ran out into the lobby to the McDonald’s that had several TV’s and satellite access. Dozens of people stood around watching in disbelief. Many whispered that it must have been an accident; a small plane that went off course. But the hole looked too big to be a small plane.

And then we all watched the second plane strike. Gasps filled the silence. People covered their gaping mouths with their hands and cried, “Oh, no.”

Someone said, “That wasn’t an accident. We’re under attack.”

Even as I write this… I can see each scene so clearly… as if it were happening again. The pounding in my chest right now reminds me of what I felt that morning.

RJ’s brother. Oh no. I ran back into his office.

“He’s out. He’s out,” RJ kept saying. “It’s ok. He got out. He’s safe.”

By this point, it became apparent that exams would have to wait. Too many students wanted to watch these events unfold, and truthfully, so did I. We walked between the McDonald’s TV’s and our class radio for the latest updates. One visit to the TV’s presented the most awful image – in my opinion – of the entire event.

A man and woman were shown (live) jumping from the building to their deaths. My first reaction was to wonder how bad it must have been where they were that they felt jumping was a much better option. I can’t even comprehend it. Then I noticed the look of peace on their faces. His tie floated skyward while he looked down to the ground that would soon greet him. Her skirt ballooned, and secretly I hoped it would save her from a violent death. But I knew better. To this day, I still can’t get that image out of my mind.

Back in the office listening to the radio, reports were rampant about bombings here and there, mostly in New York. Then reports of bombings in the DC area began flooding the airwaves. So many students had so many questions; I decided to try to make some sort of lesson out of this situation. We gathered in the class room to talk about the reality of what had just happened.

“We talked these last weeks about the types of scenes you would encounter as a journalist,” I started. “Obviously, we’ve never seen anything like this but if you ever faced anything like this, as a reporter, you’d have to do your job. Your life could very well be in danger. You’d witness some horrific things like we’ve seen live on TV today. Can you handle that?”

Many said they couldn’t and journalism was no longer an option for them. I didn’t blame them. It wasn’t an option for me anymore either; at least not that type of journalism.

Some of us returned to the radio while others returned to the televisions in the lobby. Soon, we looked at one another before someone broke the silence and said, “What was that sound?”

“I don’t know,” someone else replied.

“I’m going out to look,” yelled a student as he ran out the door.

“Don’t go out there,” I screamed at him only to finish the thought in my head. “You don’t know what’s out there.”

Shortly thereafter the radio confirmed that the Pentagon had been struck, just the same as the WTC buildings. In between the WTC buildings crumbling and the hijacked plane that crashed in Pennsylvania, many students decided to head back to their homes. There was nothing more to see or do here.

There is so much more from that day but, this post is long enough… and trying enough. I’ll end here for now.

Safe and Secure

My parents aren’t getting any younger. And yet, they continue to work as if they were in their 20′s. The work they do, they say, is better than “real work”. My mother was always a homemaker (the toughest job in the world) and my dad is twice retired: once from the US Army and once from the SC Department of Corrections. My parents love to work on things that will help me and my older brother. For example, they came up this past weekend to help me and Kurt on some landscaping projects. This wasn’t easy stuff either. Pulling up miles of English Ivy isn’t the work of wimps. And we did it in 90-degree weather. Even though mom and dad are in the mid-to-late 60′s and their health issues limit them in some ways, they can still work me under the table when it comes to hard stuff like yard work.

I tried my best to keep up with them, and for the most part I succeeded. The last day in the yard wore me slap out (as we would say in the south). I found it humorous and quite comforting that my parents were more worried about me than themselves.

“Take a break,” they often chided.

They were the ones who should have been taking a break. But they didn’t.

The work they did was during the week when Indiana was struck with tornadoes and floods of historic proportions. Growing up in South Carolina, we’re used to hurricane warnings and hot temperatures. Tornadoes were a rarity for us. Indiana is part of Tornado Alley, and I’m not particularly thrilled when the tornado siren sounds. (On test days, Fletcher and I usually hide in the bathroom!)

My husband always makes me feel safe and secure but there’s just something about having mom and dad close by that adds to that safety and security. The storms were rough but I was never really worried. Between Kurt and my parents, I knew we were all going to be ok.

I realized not long after they left to return to SC that they were what was missing in the moments after 9/11. Living in DC was hard enough but I didn’t have any friends there. I didn’t particularly like the person I was dating and living with at the time (it’s a long story and another blog entirely!). And I certainly wasn’t all too thrilled with the people I worked with either. Everyone had their own lives to live. Power and success forced everyone to stay at an arm’s length from real, intimate relationships.

When I heard the sound of the plane crash into the Pentagon, my thoughts immediately turned to my parents. Frozen in fear, all I wanted was mommy and daddy. They would know how to handle this situation. They would know how to keep me safe and secure. But they weren’t there.

I called and spoke to them on the phone before most cell phone connections went blank. They were glad to hear I was safe and were as riveted by the events as much as the next person. I’m not entirely sure they knew exactly how close I was to the Pentagon. And I don’t think it was until a few years later – when I finally crashed – when they realized how traumatized I had been that day. I don’t blame them for not knowing. I was a journalist, after all. We were all strong and neutral and able to handle covering this type of news, right?

And I’m certain I put on a strong front for them, just like I did while I worked in the yard this past weekend. “Oh, I can handle this,” I kept telling myself that day and in the yard. “I’m a big girl now, and I want to make them proud.”

I don’t think it really matters how old you are. There’s still nothing like mommy and daddy to make you feel completely safe and secure.

Silence in the Skies

In the days following 9/11, the skies were empty. It was an eerie silence. Airplanes were a constant in the Washington, DC area. I lived less than four miles from Reagan International Airport. The metro train I took into the city each day made a stop at this airport. But, in the days following the attacks, there was no reason to make the stop.

No employees would be reporting to work for their shifts. Passengers heading out on day-business trips were unable to fly out of Reagan. No visitors from other places needed to greet the metro to make their way to friends, family or hotels.

The stop for the Pentagon was closed off for a while too. Some members of our military were allowed to exit at the Pentagon location but their duties were most likely critical and grim.

The only thing flying around the skies were military air craft and every once in a while, Marine One (or its body double). When you’re used to having airplanes constantly flying overhead, making their way in and out of one of the busiest airports on the planet, the silence is deafening. Even when other airports eventually opened, Reagan remained closed due to its proximity to the White House and Capitol Hill (and the Pentagon).

Another strange visual was the numerous military police and other military members stationed at various locations throughout the streets of DC. Many were accompanied by Humvee’s. All carried loaded weapons; always at the ready. They didn’t mess around with jokesters or or second guess the slightest suspicion.

We were a wounded nation and they stood proud as our protective barrier. In many ways, they were also a band aid for the open sore we still scratched.

I remember going out with one of my video photographers to the corner nearest the CBN News headquarters where we worked. We were sent to shoot B-roll for a story about the extra protection our city enjoyed, albeit at too high a cost. At least four MP’s with their Humvee’s and weapons-at-the-ready were standing guard; walking to and fro. “This must be what it’s like to live in Israel,” I whispered.

Indeed.

But the skies didn’t remain silent for long. Everyone returned to their normal activities all the while keeping one eye to the sky for signs of trouble. The noise was a welcome return from the silence that made us remember too much but nervous for what could happen yet again.