Twenty-Five Years Later, I Still Remember

My memories of September 11, 2001

I was 26 years old and very pregnant with my oldest son, Cade.

At the time, I worked full-time at Red Lobster as the service manager, and I had to be at work at 11:00 that morning, so I was getting dressed.

We lived in the country in North Central Florida. It was a beautiful, sunny morning. The television was on in the background, but I was looking out the window because my Australian cattle dog, Taz, had gotten into the cow pasture and was herding my neighbor’s cows.

It was such an ordinary morning.

Then I happened to look over at the television.

I watched the second plane crash into the Twin Towers.

Paula Zahn was on CNN, visibly shaken and reporting live from a rooftop. It was happening right there in front of us, and no one seemed to understand exactly what was going on.

I had to sit down.

I watched in horror as people trapped on the upper floors began jumping from the towers. They had nowhere to go. Everything was complete chaos.

Then the towers began crumbling in on themselves.

We learned that another plane had struck the Pentagon. Not long after that, we heard about the plane that had crashed in Pennsylvania. We later learned that the passengers and crew of Flight 93 had fought back against the terrorists. They knew they might die, but they tried to take control of that plane and stop it from reaching Washington.

I remember thinking, what a senseless act of violence. I had goosebumps, my throat was dry, and tears ran down my face as I watched it unfold.

Through all of this, Cade had the hiccups. He had them all the time when I was pregnant with him.

I kept rubbing my belly. I am still not sure if I was doing it because I was anxious about what was happening or because I was trying to soothe him.

Maybe I was trying to soothe both of us.

My aunt and uncle, Walter and Carol, lived in Greenwich Village. My phone started ringing. It was the landline. I did not even own my first cell phone yet. First it was my sister, and then my aunt in California.

No one could reach Walter and Carol. The phone lines were jammed, and we had no idea if they were safe.

It was two or three days before we finally heard from them.

I still had to go to work that morning.

I remember driving to Red Lobster and how strange everything felt. We were normally busy for lunch, but hardly anyone came in that day.

My mentor, Karin, was the opening manager. Those of us who were there mostly stood together in the bar and watched everything unfold on television.

Sometime around 1:00, a Muslim couple walked toward the restaurant. The woman was wearing a hijab.

They looked scared.

It seemed like they were about to turn around and leave, so I opened the door and said, “Come on in.”

The woman looked me directly in the eyes and asked, “Are you sure it’s okay for us to come in?”

I will never forget that.

They had done absolutely nothing wrong, but they were afraid they would be blamed for the actions of terrorists simply because of their religion and how they looked.

That is something that has always bothered me about this world. People judge others because they practice a different religion, come from another country, or see the world differently. They take the actions of a few terrible people and use them to condemn an entire group.

I will never believe that is right, and I will never treat someone unfairly because of it.

We talk about how united America became after September 11, and in many ways, we did. Americans stood together in shock, grief, disbelief, and anger.

But I also remember a couple who was afraid to walk into a restaurant.

That moment has stayed with me.

September 11 changed our world. It changed airport security, how we traveled, and how safe we felt in our own country. It also showed us incredible courage. First responders ran toward the buildings while everyone else was trying to escape. The passengers and crew of Flight 93 fought back, knowing what it might cost them. Ordinary people helped complete strangers.

Years later, around the tenth anniversary of September 11, I visited Walter and Carol in New York.

My aunt told me what that day had been like for her in Greenwich Village.

She remembered stepping outside her front door, looking up, and seeing plumes of smoke, ash, and debris floating through the air.

The schools had released the children, and some were walking down the street crying. They couldn’t reach their parents. Some could not get into their homes. They were scared, alone, and surrounded by smoke and confusion.

My aunt brought them inside her house.

She got them out of the smoke and debris, tried to calm them down, and began putting a plan together to help find their parents.

She teared up as she told me that story, even though ten years had passed.

Now twenty-five years have passed.

It is strange how long ago it was and, at the same time, how close it still feels.

I remember the beautiful Florida morning.

I remember Taz herding the neighbor’s cows.

I remember looking over at the television and seeing the second plane.

I remember sitting on the couch with my hand on my pregnant belly while Cade hiccupped.

I remember waiting for days to learn whether Walter and Carol were safe.

I remember standing inside Red Lobster with Karin and the rest of our team, watching the television because none of us knew what else to do.

I remember opening the door for that couple.

And I remember my aunt telling me how she opened her door for frightened children who did not know where their parents were.

Maybe that’s what I want to hold onto twenty-five years later.

In a moment filled with unimaginable violence, there were still people opening doors.

There were people making room, offering safety, protecting strangers, and doing what they could to help the person standing in front of them.

Our country has not felt that united in a very long time. We disagree about almost everything now, and sometimes it feels as though we have forgotten how quickly life can change.

But I have not forgotten that morning.

I have not forgotten the people who lost their lives, the families who waited for phone calls that never came, or the first responders who ran toward danger.

I have not forgotten the courage of the passengers and crew of Flight 93.

I have not forgotten the children walking through Greenwich Village looking for somewhere safe.

And I have not forgotten the frightened woman who looked me in the eyes and asked if she was welcome.

Twenty-five years later, my answer is still the same.

Come on in. I will always make room for you at the table.

We will never forget.

God bless our military and the men and women who serve as first responders.

God bless the USA.