The Day the Music Died

The eccentric souvenir of the human shape

Wrapped in seemings, crowd on curious crowd

                                                    -- Wallace Stevens

New York City firefighter calls for help amid the rubble

The morning of September 11, 2001, I walked lightly into the front room, as I did every morning before going to work, rolled out my yoga mat and turned on NPR news. Stretching my back while resting on my hands and knees, I heard that two airplanes had crashed into the World Trade Center in New York City.

The news startled me, my ears suddenly alert. We were under attack. Yet the voice over the radio spoke evenly with little emotion. I jumped up and called to Barbara who was still in bed.

"Something terrible is happening," I said. "Turn on the TV!"

By the time I left for my office, I understood that the airplanes were commercial jets that had been hijacked by suicide terrorists. Two additional airplanes attempted similar attacks, one on the Pentagon.

My initial thoughts were who are these terrorists who would so dramatically kill innocent people and themselves? What were they thinking? How perverted. How misled. How fortunate that we Americans, in our free country, would never entertain such an idea.

Twenty years later that thinking seems so naive. I sought comfort through a type of patriotism. That morning when I met my colleagues at work, I wanted to express gratefulness in the midst of chaos.  I hadn't learned yet about the extent of destruction, the horror for ordinary folks doing their jobs for themselves and their families.

I soon felt a greater sense of unity with my fellow Americans. 

The moment called for mourning and clean-up and we watched the FDNY perform heroic acts attempting to save lives and locate bodies amidst the toxic, choking air and rubble. You could almost smell the dust while watching the reports. But nothing could allow you to feel the unmitigated fear in the hearts of the victims careening to their death, or honestly imagine their voices, their final words or screams.

Before we had a chance to fully understand and digest what happened and why, the hawks flew in. They saw opportunity, souring, if that were possible, the already foul taste of our losses. Revenge filled the air. Blame. Racial stereotyping. Egos on fire. Sabers rattled.

"Shock and awe." This would be our strategy when we invaded Iraq. Why Iraq? Not because the leader of the terrorists was there. Because of unfinished business with Iraq's dictator. Because they had weapons of mass destruction, which they didn't. Because our leaders could not appear weak. Blah, blah, blah. The same old tune that was played in Vietnam: shuck and jive.

I talked to a good friend about it, who insisted we had to attack. "Would you send your son to fight in Iraq?" I asked. 

"Oh, no, he's not going," came the reply, tossing off the idea as if it were a far-fetched joke.

I attended a paddle-out that was arranged by a small group of surfers to protest going to war in Iraq. Paddle-outs are typically held when a fellow surfer dies. A circle is formed in the water, prayerful words are given followed by hooting and splashing. It feels ancient and sacred, a moment of brother- and sister-hood.

Very few surfers came to the protest paddle-out, causing the woman surfer sitting on her board next to me to say: "I don't understand. Doesn't everyone want peace?"

"Well, you know surfers," I replied, leaving it at that.

Many of the young hot-shot surfers were driving around in pick-up trucks with American flags fluttering in the wind. In the daily newspaper, the surf columnist wrote: "It's time to kick some ass in Iraq."

When the bombing started, I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted to cry. So began debacle upon debacle, for the next 20 years, only making matters worse. The hawks will tell you that it was worth it, because there has not been a major foreign terrorist attack on American soil during that period.

That's true. Most terrorist activities have been from within, shooting children at schools, or people in nightclubs, or folks attending concerts in places like Las Vegas. The worst president in the history of the U.S. was elected, who based his election campaign on a fear-mongering racist platform. Last January thousands of his followers staged a coup d' etat when they rampaged our Capitol because they didn't agree with our democratically held National Election.

I'll continue to look for silver linings and trust the hope in my heart, but September 11 will always be a day of mourning and sorrow for me.