A quarter-century is a long time.
Long enough for children born after Sept. 11, 2001, to have now finished college, entered the workforce and begun building lives and families of their own.
Long enough for the images that remain painfully vivid to some of us to have become history to millions of others.
But 25 years is not long enough to forget.
Those of us who lived through that day still remember where we were when we heard — or, perhaps more accurately, when we finally understood. We remember the images, the uncertainty and the urgent need to hear the voices of those we loved. We remember a day on which thousands of people left home for an ordinary Tuesday and never returned.
As it happened — and I have shared this story before — I was travelling from one coast to the other — heading to speak at a conference early on that bright Tuesday morning in 2001. In fact, I was in the middle of that cross-country flight, literally running from one terminal to another in Dallas, Texas when my cellphone rang. I was annoyed — the hour was early, my flight in had been late, and the timing between that and my connection was uncomfortably short — particularly for a flight that was in another terminal.
The call was from my wife — I assumed she was simply checking to see if I had landed safely — and she was, though not for the reasons I thought. See, I had been on an American Airlines flight heading for Los Angeles, after all — and at that time, not much else was known about the first plane that struck the World Trade Center beyond it being an American Airlines flight headed to LA. I was breathless — could hardly make out what she was saying from the noise in the terminal. I was sure I was misunderstanding what she claimed to have seen on TV.
Would that I had…
And then as I slowed, for the first time it sank in — and I saw what my subconscious mind had seen, but not registered — the crowds surrounding the TV monitors throughout the terminal.
My first thought was to try and get on a flight back home — fortunately my travel agent’s first thought was to get me a hotel room. They’d be in short supply shortly — and, sure enough, on that most awful of days — I wound up stranded in a hotel room hundreds of insurmountable miles away from family and friends. It was, without a doubt, the longest day — and loneliest night — of my life.
In fact, I was to spend the next several days at that Dallas hotel. There were no planes flying, no rental cars to be had — nowhere to go for what turned out to be three interminably long days. As that long week drew to a close, I was finally able to get a rental car and begin a long two-day journey home. It was a long, lonely drive, but one that gave me a lot of time to think, though most of that drive was a blur, just mile after endless mile of open road with nothing but AM talk radio to fill the void.
And then, somewhere in a remote section of Arkansas, I spotted something approaching in my rearview mirror. There hadn’t been much traffic on the road — in fact, it had been a couple of hours since I had seen anyone at all, so the movement caught my eye. As they came into focus, I saw it was a group of bikers — at least a couple of dozen of them, spread out across the highway — led by a particularly “scruffy” looking guy with a long beard and lots of menacing tattoos on a big bike. Out in the middle of nowhere, all alone on this deserted highway — well, I was nervous to say the least as they pulled alongside.
And then, as the lead cyclist pulled past me, I saw unfurled behind him on that big bike an enormous American flag.
At that moment, for the first time in 72 hours, I felt a sense of peace — the comfort you feel inside when you know you are going … home.
Twenty-five years later, the memories remain vivid for those of us who were there — but memory is inevitably personal, imperfect and perishable. That is why remembering cannot be left only to those who remember.
We must tell the stories — not merely of how the attacks happened, but of the lives lost, the courage displayed and the countless acts of kindness that followed. We must explain to those who weren’t yet born why an enormous flag carried by a stranger on an empty Arkansas highway could bring comfort to someone desperate to get home.
On not a few mornings since that awful September day, I’ve thought about how many went to work, how many boarded a plane, not realizing that they would not get to come home —not just that day, but ever again. How many sacrificed their lives so that others could go home. And how many still put their lives on the line every day, here and abroad, to keep us safe.
We take a lot for granted in this life, perhaps nothing more cavalierly than the assumption that there will always be a tomorrow — to set the record straight, to right a wrong, or simply to tell those we love how precious they are.
A quarter-century later, let’s remember those who never made it home. Let’s treasure those with whom we are still fortunate enough to share ours.
And — for the sake of those who can’t remember that day — let’s keep telling them why they should.
Never forget.
- Nevin E. Adams, JD
