Twenty-Five Years After 9/11, Those Who Remember Have a Responsibility to Tell the Story

Over the last week or two, as the 25th anniversary of the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks approached, tributes and remembrances have appeared in the media, and many have taken the opportunity to rewatch footage from that day and the documentaries released in the years following. As we were discussing the coverage we'd have here at RedState, Sister Toldjah shared that she was in Times Square that morning and the survivor's guilt she felt.

A few others said that they didn't have a personal story to share, and that got me thinking. Two of my dearest friends lived in Manhattan that day, and have shared with me the terror they felt. I know probably a dozen other people who have a direct connection to that day, whether they were supposed to be at the World Trade Center then, by some twist of fate, weren't, or they're the child of a member of the NYPD or FDNY, or were working in the Pentagon, or their spouse was supposed to be on Flight 93 but decided to take a later flight. Everyone I've spoken to knows somebody else with a direct connection to the attacks.

And, of course, we were all impacted (and continue to be impacted) by the events of that day since the world has fundamentally changed, and not for the better.

So, everyone who's old enough to remember that day has a story to tell, and I believe it's important for us to do just that. Here's why: As time goes on, and there are fewer and fewer people alive who lived what happened that day and knew what America was like prior, the more likely it is that people will succumb to conspiracy theories or denialism of the attacks. We already see it in Islamist propaganda, such as Ilhan Omar's reprehensible and flippant, "Some people did something" remark. However, when first-hand stories are shared by people we know, we're less likely to dismiss them.

For example, over the time I've been involved in politics I've met people who were eager to share their special knowledge (yes, that's sarcasm) about the Holocaust, and how it was a made-up event. But I remember my grandmother telling me about experiences my grandfather had as part of the Signal Corps in the Ninth Army during World War 2, coming upon a concentration camp shortly after it was liberated, and the sights and, especially, the smells that stayed with him. Because I have that personal witness from my grandparents, I'm not at all inclined to entertain denialism.

So it's with that in mind that I share my memories of the day that changed life as we knew it, and brought us into what's been 25 years of open warfare with Islamists (they've been at war with us for much longer than that, but most of us didn't realize it until that morning). I was 29 years old, working as a freelance court reporter in the Raleigh, North Carolina area. I had two sons at that time, who were 7 and 4 years old (a few weeks away from turning 5). I was assigned to report a special meeting for the North Carolina Utilities Commission that day related to cell phone towers; since it was a forum for hundreds of industry workers to provide public comment on proposed regulations and not a formal hearing, it was held in a conference room at NC State University and not in downtown Raleigh.

The hearing started early, before the first plane hit the World Trade Center. I remember one attendee coming in a bit late and approaching the microphone. He apologized for his lateness, and explained that a small plane had hit the World Trade Center and that his sister, I think it was, worked there and had called him, delaying him. We kept on with the hearing.

About an hour later, the same man forcefully interrupted the person at the microphone to say that it wasn't a small plane after all, that a second jet had struck the other tower, and that the Pentagon had also been struck, and that all air travel in the country had been shut down. Knowing that the room was full of people who'd flown into Raleigh, he wanted those people to know what was happening so people could arrange alternate transportation home.

At that time we took a break for people to make phone calls, and I stood in the lobby with a bunch of burly construction workers, our eyes glued to the ceiling-mounted televisions to try to figure out what was going on. As we stood there, the first tower collapsed. The man in front of me was nearly a foot taller than me, with a long, blond ponytail (it's odd, the details one remembers at such a time). We all gasped, and the tears started flowing. I remember seeing tears flowing down his cheeks, too. I wondered, how many people just died in front of my eyes? How many moms and dads were never coming home?

I was able to duck into an office and call my then-husband, who had the 4-year-old, Jacob, at work with him. We owned a commercial office supply business, and on the days I had depositions or hearings, Jacob would just go hang out at the store with him. All I wanted to do was go get Jacob, then pick up our oldest, Spencer, from school, and hug them both. For the rest of the day. But Spencer's school wasn't allowing parents to pick up until they had a better handle on what was going on, and the meeting I was reporting hadn't been dismissed, so I wasn't free to leave.

Shortly after, the meeting was recessed indefinitely — I don't even know when it resumed, or if it did. By the time I got close to home, Spencer was already headed there on the school bus. Those hugs with my sons were the sweetest I'd ever experienced. We didn't snuggle them the rest of the day, though, because we wanted to know what was happening, and didn't want the boys exposed to such disturbing and violent images at such a young age.

We lived about 20 miles from Fort Bragg, and a large percentage of the dads at Spencer's elementary school were active-duty military. Within weeks, most of those dads were deployed, but the school community wasn't shy about sharing their patriotism. This sign, made of painted plastic cups, was displayed for over a month after the attacks.

We went to New York City right after Christmas that year, taking advantage of the low airfares and hotel prices to see the city at that time of year. We went down as close as we could get to Ground Zero to pay our respects to those who perished that day. The grief was still palpable throughout the city and especially in lower Manhattan. All day long, truck after truck left the site, each carrying just one steel beam. From the few vantage points from which we could see toward the rubble, and even though the fire was officially extinguished on December 20, we were able to see smoke still rising on December 26. 

My youngest son was born in 2003. To him, September 11 has always been history. To me, it is the day I stood among strangers and watched thousands of Americans die as those towers fell, then wanted nothing more in the world than to get home and hold his brothers while mourning what the world lost. I won't let him, or any of my grandchildren, forget.

Editor's Note: The Democrats are doing everything in their power to undermine the integrity of our elections.

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