Gone To Graveyards

I saw the faces, but I couldn’t hear the voices.

Today was the 25th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks — a quarter of a century since the deadliest terrorist attack in American history.

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I was standing across the street when the planes hit the World Trade Center, and it was a long, horrible trip home as the towers collapsed and spread toxic clouds throughout lower Manhattan.

My mother was in the hospital for lung disease, which would end her life less than a year later, and my father marked his 80th birthday.

Twenty-five years.

I’ve returned to Ground Zero for some of the major anniversaries, but since I’ve started working remotely, the trips have been less frequent.

When I can’t get there, listening to the reading of the victims’ names is an essential part of the commemoration for me.

Today I had to be there. I hemmed and hawed about going all week, but I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t make the effort.

I was reluctant to take the day off because I work on my company’s stock market blog, and I didn’t want to stick my coworker with the morning chores — even though he very kindly offered to do it.

No, I figured I’d take my laptop with me, update the blog on the ferry, and then find a Starbucks or similar spot to crank out additional posts for the rest of the morning.

Well, it turns out the ferry’s Wi Fi was on the fritz, and I had to scramble. I eventually found a place where I could work, but I wish I had taken the day off so I could give my full attention to this special day.

I reminded myself that most of the 9/11 victims were at work when they died. It was just another day — until it wasn’t.

Shortly after the first plane hit the Trade Center, I stood on Greenwich Street and watched a stream of papers pouring out of a crack in the North Tower and falling around my feet.

Long Time Ago

These documents were probably vitally important a few minutes ago, I thought, and now they’re just debris.

The ceremony itself is reserved for family members, survivors, and politicians, but I would’ve liked to have observed my own moments of silence at 8:46 a.m., when American Airlines Flight 11 struck the North Tower, and at 9:03 a.m., when United Airlines Flight 175 struck the South Tower.

I located the spot where I stood with a small crowd in 2001 and watched the first building burn — and where the second building exploded in our faces when the second plane struck.

It was time to go to work, so I found a spot in the Westfield World Trade Center where I could connect to the internet and started posting.

I was working in a food court when I looked up at the row of wide screen TVs on the wall and saw grieving family members reading the names of the lost. Unfortunately, the sound was muted, and as a result, the emotional impact was muffled as well.

As the years go by, this portion of the ceremony is particularly painful, as young people stand before the world and mourn family members they will never know.

In fact, roughly 30% of the U.S. population was born after the terrorist attacks.

I watched those poor people silently crying out their pain while a young man mopped the floor and other customers talked amongst themselves. This awful attack was now background noise.

My coworker took over the blog, and I walked down Water Street to get the ferry home, recreating the first leg of my long voyage to Brooklyn on 9/11.

I passed a group of Jehovah’s Witnesses handing out a pamphlet entitled “Will Suffering End?”

When Will They Ever Learn?

Short answer: No.

In the 25 years since the attacks — when we briefly came together — we have become more divided, more hostile, and more ignorant than I ever would have imagined.

We’re fighting another war in the Mideast, after George Bush used the 9/11 nightmare to lie us into a war with Iraq. Now we swap out the “q,” replace it with an “n,” and we’re stuck in the Iran quagmire.

Inflicting suffering is something human beings are very good at, and we will continue to do so for as long as we inhabit this world.

There were some bright spots today.

My sister and several friends contacted me to see how I was handling the anniversary, and it lifts my spirits to know that I have such great people in my life.

I am grateful for these folks, and I remind myself of the promises I made as I walked over the Manhattan Bridge with thousands of other 9/11 refugees.

I swore that I would never complain, that I would be thankful for what I had, and that I would stop overreacting to every little disappointment or misstep.

It’s time to renew those vows and do my bit to end the suffering.