We Were One: A Sixteen Year Old's Look Back at 9/11

Hey, I've already posted a link to this, but it seems appropriate today, so here it is again.

      A six year old girl woke up one Tuesday morning in early fall. She stretched, blinked her eyes, and rolled out of bed.

      Co-op starts today!

      For weeks, she had been waiting for this day -- the day when she would meet new friends and sing in a real live choir and do all sorts of cool crafts and -- oh, who knew what else! She traipsed into her parents’ room in that groggy-yet-happy way that children that age do on the morning of some much-anticipated event.

      Turning into her parents’ room and peering around the bed, the tiny sprite stopped, bewildered and suddenly terrified; her mother sat cross-legged in the floor, the phone lying forgotten by her limp hand. Panicked thoughts shot through the girl’s young mind like bolts of lightning, hot and horrifying.

      Oh no! Who was it this time? Not Papa Carl!

      Mimi’s daughter had died only a week ago and while the girl hadn’t known her well enough to be very sad, finding her mother in the exact same state as that morning so fresh in her mind was terrifying.

      Wait. Why is the TV out?

      The TV was never out unless someone was sick or there was an election or --

      Then, in a moment, like an electric shock, it hit. It wasn’t Papa Carl or Grammy or Daddy. On the grainy television screen, between the intermittent lines of interference that the failing v-hold allowed through, an airplane flew straight into a skyscraper.

      That little girl was me. That airplane was American Airlines Flight 11. And that skyscraper was the North Tower of the World Trade Center.

      While most of you reading this probably recall exactly where you were on that particular Tuesday morning, most of my friends my age actually don’t recall much about it at all. I, however, have a particularly extensive long-term memory, and I remember the events of that fateful morning as though it were yesterday.

      In September of 2001, I was a young home schooled first grader living a moderately happy life. Until only a week ago, I had never known anyone who died. Even Kiera’s death (she was my mother’s much-younger stepsister who lived in Florida) was only vaguely sad, as I didn’t really know her very well and I was only six. The concept of death was so foreign to me; the only thing on my mind that morning was the prospect of meeting new friends that afternoon.

      Some people say that a six year old -- and a sheltered one at that -- couldn’t possibly understand the magnitude of such an occurrence. They’ll tell you that a child’s world is centered around his or her home life and that things outside of that tiny corner of the world are beyond their comprehensive grasp. Maybe that is true for most kids; I don’t know. But I know what I remember. I remember the moment that I saw that airplane crash into the North Tower. I remember the shock of the giant fireball that followed the collision and engulfed the tower. I remember that disbelief of seeing the second plane, United Airlines Flight 175, careen into the South Tower only minutes later. I remember the horror of watching South Tower disappear in a cloud of smoke and debris, almost as though the earth itself had opened her mouth and simply swallowed it. Soon, we heard of two more planes; one that crashed into a big government building called the Pentagon, and one that burned in a field in Pennsylvania. I remember the grief, the terror, the confusion, the denial, the humanity of the newscaster’s painful, deliberate enunciation: “We are under attack.”

      Over the following weeks, hours, days -- even months and years, people would try to explain what happened that morning, to rationalize it, to understand it -- to make it make sense. I would be told that mean men made it happen -- bad men who hated us because we weren’t something called “Muslims.” Some people said it was our fault, that we were taking away all their gas and soon there wouldn’t be any left, and that was why we had to wait in blocks-long lines at the gas station. Later, people started saying that American helped the bad men, placing bombs and starting fires. Still others began saying that the President himself had known all about it the whole time and had just let it happen. For every answered question, there were a hundred more waiting.

      For weeks after the attacks, people were scared. The things I wanted weren’t at the grocery store. We started bottling up water in empty milk jugs and letting them sit in the back room for days before we were allowed to drink it. My parent’s said that it might be poisoned. We kids weren’t allowed to go get the mail any more; my dad said it might have something called anthrax. It was a white powder that could kill you, he said. We couldn’t go to malls or to the movies or anywhere else with lots of people; those could be targets. Fear reigned supreme.

      I’m sixteen now and, looking back, the full picture of the attacks is clear. I know that nineteen members of al-Qaeda, a militant Sunni Islamic organization, hijacked four planes. I know that while three of those planes found their destination, the brave passengers of United Airlines Flight 93 retook control of the fated flight and crashed it into that field outside of Shanksville, PA. I know that the stock exchange closed down until September 17 and that the Dow Jones reopened with a record-shattering 684 point drop. I know that the attacks sent us careening into a full-blown war -- a war over which many would disagree and fight and be divided. I know all the facts and the numbers and the stories.

      But staring at that old television screen, I didn’t know any of those things. No one did. What I knew in that moment as a six year old little girl was just the same as what everyone else knew -- that countless innocent lives had just been senselessly ended in a brutal, vile act of unjustifiable hatred. Nothing else mattered; not the names of the hijackers, not the reasons, not the ramifications, not the dollars, not even the numbers. All of that would come later. For one short instant, before all the questions hit, we -- a six year old girl in Missouri, a cab driver in New York City, a middle-aged man reading a storybook with a class of second graders in Florida -- were all the same. In our pain, we were United.

      Unity: a sense that, despite our differences and disagreements, we are not alone; that, together, we can overcome anything. That’s what I wish had come of this tragedy. But it hasn’t. On a nearly monthly basis, there’s at least one story in the news about some dispute pertaining to Ground Zero or the surrounding area or policies. Now, I’m not naïve; I know the world in which we live. I know there will always be conflict. But the disputes over these issues go far beyond an acceptable level of disagreement and reach a point of pure hostility. I understand that this hostility stems from a place of fear and pain. But that does not justify our actions.

      As the tenth anniversary of that dreadful day approaches, I challenge all of us, myself included, to refrain from being embittered by these events. Sad, horrified, confused, even angry, yes -- but not bitter. Bitterness heals no wounds. Bitterness builds no bridges. So as we remember this dark day, let us remember, let us grieve, let us question; but let us honor the memory of those we mourn. Just as they died together, regardless of race, creed, orientation, or beliefs, let us remember together.

So I made a new iReport account on CNN....

I had one a while back, but it got lost somewhere in cyberspace?

Anyway, here's my first piece. It's really lame and cliche but there was a question on their interface about "Tell us your 9/11 story," so I was like, "eh, why not."
Anyway.
I just thought that I'd let you know.
Feedback, anyone?

♪♫Ding Dong, The Witch is Dead♪♫

     Well, as I hope ALL of you know, Osama Bin Laden is finally dead. The world can rest a little easier.
     Now, of course is when we begin hearing about the Islamic communities opposition to the way in which Bin Laden's body was disposed of; some crock about it not being in accordance with their religious beliefs and traditions. To begin, we did, in fact cleanse his body and we gave him a proper sea burial.  We also did it in a timely manner, because Islamic law dictates that a body ideally be buried within 24 hours and, at the very outside, three days. Also, it would have been quite difficult to find a country willing to take his body, especially in such a short time frame. Lastly, sea burials, while generally against Muslim tradition, are allowed under extenuating circumstances.
   These are the purely practical reasons by which this may be justified.  However, I would like to remind the jury that we gave him far more respect than he ever deserved. the 2752 people who were brutally and suddenly slaughtered at the World Trade Center were not afforded the dignity of having their traditions - religious or otherwise - observed and neither were the 190 people in the Pentagon and American Airlines Flight 77 or the 36 people aboard United Flight 93.  They not only had their right to a proper burial stripped from them, but, more importantly, their right to live.
     Besides the fact that Osama Bin Laden was utterly and completely undeserving of a the burial we gave him, think of what he and the rest of the Muslim world would have done, were the roles reversed.  They would have begun with desecrating the body of such an enemy in every imaginable fashion.  Then, the mutilated corpse would have been tied by an ankle to the back of a truck and dragged through the streets of New York City for all to view and desecrate to their hearts' content.  After the nation was satisfied with this sort of treatment, what was left of the carcass would be strung up proudly at Ground Zero and left to rot as a reminder of what would happen to all such future perpetrators. This is the least that could be expected of them, were they in our position.
    We, on the other hand, cleansed his body and gave him a respectful burial at sea.
     I hardly think the Muslim world has a right to complain.
     I am not saying that we should have retaliated in the same fashion that Bin Laden would have; on the contrary, the fact that we handled his body with care and respect is what makes us different from him and others made of the same stuff.  We are cut from a different cloth, and I think this is just one more of myriad examples of this.
     God Bless America, and may we never lose sight of what sets us apart from other nations.
    

Alright, You Asked For It......

   So, when I asked you guys out there if you wanted me to post some writing that I've done, several of you said "yes."  Therefore, I am going to post some pieces on here.  Most of these are very rough and have been edited very little. So don't assume this is the extent of my writing capabilities XD

   So, here it is! I wrote this a couple weeks ago or so.  It's written in first person, and, yes, many parts are actual occurrences.  However, as, any writer, I have pieced together many things from various times and various people's experiences. Please see it as what it is - a piece of thoughtful writing that could apply anywhere at anytime to anyone.

Unity

    There it was again. It draped the north wall, proudly declaring “Unity” in large block letters and was emblazoned with the names of all the junior and senior high girls from each Sunday school class. “We're all in this together!” it seemed to say; “We're one in Christ!”

    I remember the girl from my class diligently working to piece together that sliced up banner as the rest of us stood watching her valiant struggles. I remember that night when we all came together, repaired broken friendships, spoke to people we would never have ordinarily noticed, and (some of us) talked long into the wee morning hours, learning so much more about each other than we ever have otherwise known. I'd felt it that night – unity – and I knew things would be different from now on.

    I glanced around the room again. There were the junior high girls – some of them, at least – near the back wall, sipping their hot chocolate and chattering excitedly. I frowned a little in disapproval as my sister walked over to her “group,” passing a quiet blonde girl standing against the wall. Along the south wall, a few chairs and tables were occupied by animated, laughing high schoolers, mostly juniors and seniors, discussing all the latest gossip and the most recent “outing” they had been on together. It was just too bad that there wasn't enough room for that boy; You know, the “big” one. He just simply couldn't fit, so he sat a few yards behind them, watching with longing eyes. In the dark corner between my seat and the junior high girls' table, a thin, pale, dark haired girl from my grade leaned against the wall. She doesn’t go to school here, so no one really knows her very well, and she's quite, so that's really no help.

    As I looked back down at my lap, my youth pastor came up the stairs.

    “Smile,” he said. “A real one!”

    I smiled, as expected.

    A quiet voice, “how are you?”

    The foreign exchange student sat down across from me with a gentle smile.

   “I'm fantastic,” with an answering grin. “You?”

   “Senior high, to your classes!”

    I got up, taking my coffee and hugging my Bible close. I followed my class, walking as slow as I felt at all comfortable in an effort to lag behind, allowing everyone to reach the room and choose their seats before I did. I walked into the room, holding the door for the last girl – the one from my business class. She's new this year, and doesn't know very many people here, so she and I sat down along the far wall. The rest of the girls, as customary, sat on the other two sides of the room.

    My Sunday school teacher came in, sat down in the front of the small, cozy room, and asked almost cheerily, “So, what have you all been up to this week?”

    Lively chatter ensued, accompanied by laughter and comments. I watched. Sometimes I say something, but too often, my delivery is a bit flat, and it gets a little quiet when I talk – at least, when someone notices; so I just watched and laughed at their stories.

    After the week's “church-friendly” fun had all been told, class started. Per the usual, the lesson was quite well-planned. I had some thoughts that I really think might have been beneficial, but the really important ones were also a bit lengthy and I knew they didn't want to listen to someone like me, so I just tried to condense my thoughts into short, succinct quips. Sometimes this works and sometimes it doesn't, but this particular morning it seemed to suffice.

    After the lesson, we got up and stood in a circle to pray before we left.

    “Would anyone else like to dismiss us?” Our teacher queried with a pleading glance around the circle.

   “I will!” I almost piped up. No, Reality admonished, You've talked much too much today already.

    “Alright, I guess I will again,” she said reluctantly. But every request weighed heavy on my heart, and every word she said was silently echoed. As we all began to disperse, most lingered a little, chatting and slowly making their way down the hall. I didn't know what to talk about with them, and I really had no established repertoire, so I went straight for the stairs passing that banner on the way. It looked a little bleak on that bare wall in that empty room.

    Unity.

    I reached the bottom of the stairs and turned towards the sanctuary. An older couple walked in front of me, hand in hand. I was nearly late for service and they were slowing me down considerably, but I didn't mind.

    I reached the sanctuary and started to walk down the center isle. All the senior high kids were sitting in the front three or four rows on the left side. Well, most of them, anyhow. The girl with the dark hair and the one from my business class sat with their families, as did the “big” boy. But that's where they always sat; it was their choice. I sat with my father in our customary place – almost with the kids from the youth group, at the edge of the fourth pew. I glanced around, looking for my sister, but she and her friends were still gallivanting about the church.

    The teens in the front pews were joshing and jostling, and I giggled quietly at their antics.

    “What are you laughing at?” one of the guys turned around with a laugh and a smile.

    “Hi!” another one waved at me as he sat down. A girl further down their pew smiled a “good morning” at me as well, so I knew at least a few people knew I was there.

    My sister finally came in at the last moment, flanked by her entourage, and sat down a few rows behind us. I could hear them laughing and talking, and I thought of that quiet blonde. Where is she? I wondered.

    I looked at that gaping, empty space in the pew ahead of us. Somehow, it just seemed as though it shouldn't be there in the midst of the chatter and motion of the teens around it, but it couldn’t be helped.

    As the service started, we all rose to shake hands with those around us, still talking and laughing. I shook the hand of a middle-aged woman behind me. I waited to see if anyone my age would shake hands with me, but no one really seemed interested, so I stood and waited for the director to start the service.

    Across the sanctuary, I caught a glimpse of the blonde girl. She wasn't sitting with my sister's group, as most of the girls her age were; she found a seat in the back corner across the sanctuary.

The service began. The congregation sang, my youth pastor prayed for the upcoming mission trip, and a little boy was baptized.

    As the coir left the balcony and the pastor ascended the steps, I glanced around the congregation. The brunette was looking in the direction of the other kids our age. I caught her eye and flashed a smile; she almost smiled back. The choir director and his wife, a middle-aged couple, sat down behind us. He put his arm around her and she scooted closer.

    The pastor began his sermon. As always, it was quite interesting and his message was good. About two thirds of the way through the service, I heard a sound from across the sanctuary; I turned my head just in time to see the blonde leave the sanctuary. It made me just a little sad, but I don't think anyone else noticed.

    As he finished his sermon, the pastor gave an invitation and the offering was taken. The kids in front of me snickered and whispered. Then we sang a last song and we were dismissed. I headed straight for the doors, as there was no reason for me to linger. Out in the hall, I saw the blonde girl sitting on a pew that served as a bench, looking forlorn. “How are you?” I asked, mustering a friendly smile.

    “Fine.”

    It was a lie, and we both knew it; but I knew she didn't want to talk to me, especially at this particular moment.

    “Good!” I played along, but I tried to sound sympathetic.

    My dad made it out of the throng, and we waited for my sister to emerge. Eventually she did, and we headed to the van. As we got out to the parking lot, two guys raced each other to their respective cars, lanyards flapping in the wind, their loud guffaws ringing across the parking lot. Two girls from my class climbed into one of their cars and pulled out.

    I climbed into the back seat of our van while my sister triumphantly clambered up to her perch in the front seat.

    As we drove through the parking lot, I spotted a girl from my drama class exiting the building. I wondered why she hadn’t been in Sunday School.

    Another Sunday morning had come to an end. When we got back home, I walked to my room at the end of the hall. As I eased into my big green beanbag, my thoughts returned to that banner.

    Unity. I thought of all the names inscribed in brightly-colored Sharpies, of the night we put it together, and of the peace and love I know was felt by all that night.

    I thought of the Chat Room that morning, with its group, separated from each other by the empty space in the room. I thought of the boy who couldn't fit into the circle of friends, the quiet brunette, and the shy blonde. I wondered if that girl from business class still felt as isolated as she had told me she was a couple of months ago. I also wondered where that girl from drama class sat during service, and why I hadn't noticed her.

    I recalled that elderly couple that slowed me down in the hall. I saw the worship leader and his wife – his arm around her and her head on his shoulder. I heard my youth pastor's prayer, honest and heartfelt.

    I thought about what I had done that morning; how I'd smiled at the brunette, sat by the girl from business class, and asked the blond how she was. But then, I remembered all the plastic grins, how I'd watched the brunette and the blonde and the boy sit alone, and how I'd never even seen the girl from drama during the service.

    The banner rose again before my eyes, stark and harsh against that barren tan wall, presiding austerely over the roomful of the loud, rambunctious youth group. “Unity,” it's black block letters declared. Somehow, something seemed – off about it.

   What is it?  
   Well, whatever it was, there was really nothing I could do about it.  After all, I was only one girl, and a shy, insignificant one at that.  Sure, I saw things, but that didn't mean I could change anything.  Besides, if I did say something, that permanently alienate me, and that wouldn't help anyone, now would it?

    I sat up and reached for the computer mouse on my desk to start last week's episode of “48 Hours,” rubbing my head gingerly. I think too much. That youth leader was right; I'm an over analyzer.

Angels

   So, like I said, I'll occasionally post some stuff up here that I write in my spare time.  These are not a reflection of my best writing abilities.  It's just stuff that I scrawl in my spare time. Hope you like it, feel free to comment or criticize :)

Angels

 

    I believe in angels. In fact, I believe that I see them every day. I believe they speak to me and guide me through the most difficult times in my life. I believe God sends angels when I need them most, and that, without their help, I would not be here today.

    But these angels of which I speak are not winged entities that flit about this earth unseen. They appear in no bright-shining light. No voice from Heaven accompanies their arrival. In fact, most people will pass by them knowingly, and yet, without a second thought. Yet, a few of us will recognize them and, by this recognition, receive great blessing.

    But who are these angels, if not the ones that reside in heaven above? You might know a few without even realizing it. These angels are just like you and me: they work; they play; they eat; they sleep; the have families and careers and hopes and dreams, just like the rest of us. They're ordinary people that likely will never be seen as special or especially “worthy,” or great by any save a privileged few; nevertheless, they are angels, just the same.

    What makes these people worthy to be called angels? Angels are God's messengers. They bring His message to us here below. They comfort and console; the mentor and minister. That is what angels do. And that is what these people do.

    Now that you gave a better idea of the entities to which I am referring, are you thinking of some of your angels? I know I am. And the people that come to mind are not people who have done great and grand things for myself or others (although I do know a few of them); they are the people that accept me when no one else does. They're the ones that I know I can text in the middle of the night and get an answer. My angels are the ones who come up to me when I look down and give me a hug or a pat on the shoulder and a smile and tell me to “hang in there, OK?” My angels never walk by without making sure I'm smiling. They tell me when I'm wrong or causing myself trouble, but they make sure I know that they do it because they care, and that they'll never give up on me. Those people are my angels. They are not without fault; they make mistakes. They have problems of their own. They can't always be there, solve my all my problems, or give me all of the answers. But they try; they allow God's love and grace to show through them in a real way. And that's what makes them God's messengers.

    Angels come in all shapes sizes. They have problems and struggles just like the rest of us. They lose their tempers, struggle with body image, get stressed, and forget birthdays. They get tired and they need others' help. They are not flawless, but they are perfect because their hearts are pure and they truly strive to serve God and help others; they bring God's love to those around them.

    So who are your angels? They could be a curly-headed little girl whose bright smile just lights up your day; they could be a teacher or youth pastor who knows just when to ask if everything's alright and when to say nothing and simply pray; it could even be an elderly couple whose sage advice has steered you from pitfalls unseen to you but so plain to them. Whoever they me be, you know the people that you call your angels.

    As I've said, angels are just like us. The only difference is that they allow God's love to shine through in ways that the rest of us often do not. So I have two challenges for you, regardless of who you are and what your situation happens to be. Firstly, tell your “angels” just how much they mean to you. They're human beings, just like everyone else. They'd love to know that what they do makes a difference. Secondly, be someone else's angel. We all have the ability to change someone's life for the better in some capacity, whether large or small. It's a choice we can each make to be someone's angel.