I was glued to the television set. I couldn’t stop watching and crying. I was not angry. I was stunned, I was scared, I felt vulnerable, and could not believe this was happening to my country. I remember the images of the damage to the Pentagon and Flight 93 crashed in a Pennsylvania field. I was worried about reports of missing planes (which were all accounted for later). I finished getting Michael and myself ready and took him, and Shinsuke, a Japanese exchange student who had been staying with us, to their prospective schools. I listened to the new reports on the radio and hoped this was another Orson Wells prank, but deep in my heart, I know it wasn’t.
I can still remember how eerie the skies sounded when the FAA shut down all air traffic, yet I also remember the pride that erupted, and the determination not to let this enemy beat us. I was proud to be an American.
Back in the summer of 1985, I visited New York City and stood on the observation deck on the World Trade Center Tower Two. How small I felt and how big the world seemed. It both terrified and amazed me.
In May of this year, I pumped my fist in the air after I learned the United States had captured and killed the mastermind behind the terrorist attacks, Osama bin Laden. Only just a few weeks before, Ed and I had visited Washington, D.C. and quietly reflected on the events of 9-11 while we somberly walked through the Pentagon 9-11 Memorial.
May he rot in Hell and may we never forget.