September 11, 2001

It was another day. My husband kissed me goodbye before he left for work, and a bit later my daughters did the same when they left for school. I drifted off back to sleep. I was tired. I was 7 months pregnant and sleep was precious and I grabbed it whenever I could. Comfort was no longer familiar to me, and even sleep was less comfortable than it had been before I got pregnant, but it was the most comfortable thing I could do. The ringing of the phone jarred me from my nap. I was groggy when I answered, and my husbands' words had a hard time penetrating. "Turn on the TV, it's like Armeggeddon." The house wasn't on fire, and the birds were chirping outside, all appeared to be well and his words just didn't make sense. I waddled to the TV and turned it on, and saw the smoke pouring out one of the World Trade Center buildings. An accident? A pilot had a heart attack? What? I watched, dumbfounded, speechless. My groggy brain couldn't really wrap itself around the image I was seeing. And then ... and then ... I saw the second plane hit. I still don't know if I was seeing it live or via tape, but at the time I thought it was live. Grogginess left me instantly and awareness slammed into me much the way the plane slammed into the building. No accident this, this was an outright attack, and it wasn't the last one. And I could only weep. I told my husband I couldn't talk on the phone anymore. I needed to cry, I couldn't stop, and I couldn't talk. All those people! Oh, Dear God, my God!

I don't remember the timeline of the events, but news came of the Pentagon, and Flight 93 in Pennsylvania. And the buildings came down, just pancaked flat, with all those people inside. At some point, all I could think to do was get my flag and hang it on the pole outside. In my helplessness, all I could think to do was weep and wave the flag of my country, my beloved country that was under attack. And then lay on the floor and weep some more. What kind of world was my baby son going to come into? In an instant his future became frightening to me.

I don't know how many buckets I cried in the days that followed. I could only watch, glued to the TV hoping for news of survivors even though I knew there weren't any. I waited to find out who had done this horrible thing, who hated us that much, I waited for us to catch them. I expected American might to move swiftly and powerfully. My expectations were naive.

I still cry when I see reminders of that day. In a way, I hope I never become so de-sensitized that I stop weeping in the face of suffering and pain. Death deserves to be mourned, especially death that is caused by another. Likewise, birth deserves to be celebrated. We need to move on, without forgetting. Those that don't learn from the past are doomed to repeat it, and we should always remember this day, remember what was done to us in the name of hatred.