there is a remembering today. a memorializing. a giving tribute. Many are retelling their stories of where they were and how it happened for them. I'm adding my voice to the choir.
On September 10, 2001, I was living on Oxford Street in Hartford, Connecticut. By all appearances this was a quiet, residential street, semi-adjacent to Elizabeth Park. That afternoon, I watched the slow motion event and synchrony of a speeding car intersecting and interrupting the perpendicular run across the road of my dog, Scooby. I watched his trajectory take an abrupt turn as his body soared and skidded on the pavement. The car paused, navigated around him, and kept driving. I ran to Scooby as if in a blurred dream, soundless and hollowed. He stood up and, but for a few bloody scratches, shook himself off. I know he was taken to the vet and checked for any signs of internal injury or bleeding, but he appeared to have made it through this horrific collision unscathed. That evening was sleepless; one eye was open keeping close watch on Scooby who, as it all unfolded, was absolutely fine; unharmed but more some bumps and bruises. That's a pit bull for you.
So, on the morning of September 11, I was bleary eyed, worried still and doing my best to rouse myself and make it to my morning rehearsal for the dance company I was working with at the time. On my drive to the rehearsal studios at Trinity College, I listened to the radio and I vaguely registered that a plane had crashed. It wasn't uncommon to hear news bits like that on the radio. Things happened in the world every day and the reporters talked about them. My thoughts were with Scooby.
I walked into the studio and felt the slow dawning that something was wrong. Everyone there was talking about a plane that had crashed into the World Trade Center. It wasn't quite processing. Once everyone had arrived, we transferred to the cafeteria in order to find a television. Amid the din of clanking silverware and cafeteria chatter, more and more people began to orient to the unfolding events on the screen above our heads. Some people were still in the world where nothing had yet changed, carrying on conversations and laughing. My friend, Alicia, one of the kindest and gentle spirits, exploded in an angry outburst at the people still talking while most everyone, like a terrible game of dominoes grew quiet and hushed as they fell into witnessing the unspeakable horror of one of the towers buckling under itself, diving into it's own center and then ballooning outward with a cough of black smoke and dust before there was nothing but a wispy ash trailing downward against the backdrop of an empty sky. The cafeteria froze in time with shock and silence. In a matter of minutes there was nothing left of the two towers but an all encompassing, billowing cloud that penetrated and absorbed every corner of the city.
The sound returned to the room like someone was slowly turning up the volume on a stereo. It crescendoed into Alicia's voice shouting down a couple of people doing construction in a corner of the cafeteria. Her fiancé worked in the towers or walked through the towers daily or something like that. She was distraught. Her shouts turned into tears. Later, we learned that he was fine. He was lucky.
The rest of the day blurred for me, as it did for many. I don't know how long we stayed there holding each other, crying, finding community in a college cafeteria of students, teachers, construction workers, cafeteria workers, and our little dance company. We were all together in our disbelief, pain, and shock.
I remember attending a multi-faith vigil at a nearby church that evening, or the next evening, I don't remember the timeline. I sat shoulder to shoulder with such a conglomeration of people; all colors, sizes, faiths, political affiliations. None of what made us different was stronger than the common heart of grief that we shared. I held a woman's hand through the whole service. I don't remember her name but she had a brother who was a firefighter in New York. At the time of the vigil, she didn't know where he was. I think of her. I don't know what happened to her brother. I just know that I prayed for him, for her, for everyone who was touched by this. She and I embraced each other at one point and cried into each others' backs. The whole church, all the people gathered to the seams of the building, recited prayers from many faiths and in several languages. In all it's sorrow, it remains an indelible and poignant memory of the goodness and possibilities of humanity. It's a good thing to remember today, in 2021, as I write in a world gone mad with division and hatred. It reminds me of what humans are capable of. We can, in fact, love one another and hold each other up through a terrible storm.
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