Twenty-five years ago today, a young Senate staffer, nine months pregnant, marveled at the beautiful crisp fall day as she walked into the Dirksen Senate Office Building, headed to the Senate Environment and Public Works Committee suite on the 4th floor. She entered her office, turned on the small TV that sat on her desk, and watched in horror as the world changed forever.
That staffer was me.
One-by-one, colleagues piled into my office, the first one encountered when you walked into the suite. Eyes glued to the horrific story unfolding, we tried to make sense of what was happening. I silently (and successfully) willed the mild contractions I’d enthusiastically welcomed that morning to stop; it was clear that this was not the day for my baby to emerge into the world.
After the evacuation of the Senate buildings, we took shelter in the apartment of some friends, also Congressional staffers, who lived on the Hill, but far enough from the Capitol that we felt safer than we did stuck in traffic driving home to Virginia. One of them worked for Congressman Steny Hoyer, who also showed up for an impromptu meeting with his staff in the galley kitchen. As he left, he said some words that I don’t precisely remember except they were kind, compassionate, and hopeful. After he left, his staffer announced that he had paid for our lunch.
(An aside on Mr. Hoyer: 11 years later, as the PTA president at the elemenary school named after his late wife, I had the honor of welcoming him to our winter pagaent. I recounted the story of our 9/11 encounter and belatedly thanked him for lunch. I told him about the baby born 4 days later who was, at that time, a 5th grader about to perform. We had a little cry and a big hug. Two hours later, I got in my car to return to work and learned the Sandy Hook shooting had happened while we were all raptly watching our children sing holiday-themed songs. Why my and Mr. Hoyer’s lives keep intersecting at points of American tragedy is beyond me.)
Back to the story… Eventually, later in the afternoon, skies quiet and streets empty, we wound our way home, avoiding our normal route past the Pentagon. Once home, we answered the many voicemails left by anxious family and friends checking in.
While the rest is history, the history of this day is entwined with my entree into motherhood. As much as it’s hard to believe my first baby, born September 15, is about to turn 25 years old, it’s even harder to believe that it’s been 25 years since this seminal day in U.S. history occurred. 25 years since the skyline of New York City changed forever. 25 years since since our mettle as Americans was challenged. 25 years since the brave passengers of United flight 93 saved my life, my baby’s life, and the lives of so many countless people with their courageous actions.
I have always felt a little weird proceeding with business as usual on 9/11. The first years after, I would take the day off. Then, realizing that no one else did this, I moved on to avoiding meetings on 9/11. But sometimes, a meeting was inevitable; I would find myself sad when the significance of the day wasn’t universally acknowledged.
(Is this how people who lived through other monumental days like the attack on Pearl Harbor, D-Day, and the JFK assassination feel?)
When I realized last Friday that this week’s Week En Review would publish on 9/11, and not just any 9/11 but the 25th anniversary, my spirit deflated. How could I write my normal, newsy, upbeat (or if not always upbeat, at least hopeful) newsletter in light of the solemnity of the day?
Then COVID-19 intervened. I tested positive earlier this week and here I am on days 3 and 4, utterly wiped out just by writing this message.
Given it was a short work week and there is no podcast to share, and everything else feels like it doesn’t quite rise to the level of commemorating this day, I’m going to leave it here.
If anything, 9/11 was a day that brought Americans together. It didn’t matter what state you lived in or if you were old/young, urban/rural, friends/strangers, Democrat/Republican. We hugged each other. Cried for each other. Helped each other. Sometimes the very worst brings out the very best in us.
In honor of this day and all those we lost, let’s reinvigorate some of that compassionate spirit. In words said this morning by the wife of one of those lost, speaking at the 9/11 Memorial in New York City, “the call to action today is love.”