september 11, 2013

September Eleventh. A reminder that I'm not the only one to suffer loss, to be in shock at the unexpected death of a loved one, to cry over random things, to get nervous when you hear ambulance sirens.

September 11 has new meaning for me these days. Last year, my dad had just died three days before and his funeral was set for the 13th. I don't remember much about September 11 last year, and this feels in many ways like the first time the day has passed without our Dad.

Dad was an American. He loved baseball, and cracker jacks, he loved to talk about economic practices that involved more freedoms and less government regulation, he studied dudes like Thomas Jefferson and Thomas Payne and admired Ben Franklin (and looked quite like him when he wore his reading glasses low on his nose. Nerd.)

You remember where you were on September 11, don't you? And you remember how you felt about us going to war then, and how that feeling may have changed over the years as the war in Iraq continued. You probably remember wanting to do something for the New Yorkers, the ones at the Pentagon, the group that died in Pennsylvania.

September 11 seems far away. I was a sophomore in high school in 2001, and I remember being at home after school, watching the news with my dad in our living room, laying on opposite couches, and he talked to me about what was happening, what this meant for our country, mentioned Pearl Harbor and other historic moments. I always admired how he and my mom treated us as adults, how my dad thought I was old enough to handle truth, hard concepts, things he'd talk about with peers or colleagues.

September 11 impacted me, just like it did you. I had just begun writing for "fun" back then, and I wrote my parents a short story as their Christmas gift called "Christmas Without A Tree." It followed a fictional sixteen year old girl who's mom had a meeting in the World Trade Towers that morning. I focused on how she and her dad and her brother got through those few months without her mom. Both my parents loved the story (or so they said) and continued to encourage me to write.

And here we are, with a sudden loss in the family and the roller coaster of emotions that follows. My dad looked in to joining the Air Force during high school, but his vision would never have allowed him to fly, according to their regulations. So he went to UT and he made great friends and dated my mom (and maybe a few other girls freshman year that he loved to brag about) and he grew up to be this hands-on Dad, imperfect but our hero. He was a great man, a great friend, and so proud of his country. He loved current events and history and democracy. He taught us a lot. He should have lived forever.

More than 3,000 people died on September 11. I wonder how many were parents, simple, unknown, folks, just like my dad - still someone's hero, a child's role model, a son's best friend, a soul mate.

September 11 has brought me comfort this year. Who am I to pity myself? Who am I to ask God why?

My dad died in an accident, doing something he loved - flying - in a plane that had passed inspections and should have worked just fine. I cannot begin to imagine having a parent die in a terrorist attack. The anger. Someone who hates your country, and it's ideals and freedoms and daily life, planned, INTENTIONALLY, to kill. And your parent lost their life.

What empathy I have gained for the surviving family of 9/11 victims. How hurtful, how reckless, to see someone die when some men from a different country flew giant planes into buildings.

I force images of my dad's final moments out of my brain. I know that is the devil, wanting me to focus on the ugly part of death, the fear, the unknown. Did he know he was dying? Did he feel pain? There are blood stains on the baseball cap he was wearing. His glasses broke. His watch strap was broken. His iphone though, that was tucked in his khaki shorts pocket, was fine. Unscratched. If his brain and body couldn't survive, HOW did his iPhone make it? Questions and questions and visual images and really, none of it matters. None of it will fix him. I know that's the devil, wanting me to doubt, to wonder, to get angry.

 3,000 people died on September 11, 2001. And for each of them, someone out there, more than one "someone", has wondered about their final moments, as the plane hit the towers, or their office building collapsed, or their plane plunged to a field avoiding the White House, or an office worker in the Pentagon was killed in fire. Daughters have wondered if their dad's felt pain. Sons have avoided the images on TV, just like Gentry did last September. Wives have stopped asking and said "It is what it is" just like mine did.

September 11 is dangerous because we easily forget how crucial our firefighters and police are, and our counter-intelligence teams. Go hug a FBI agent today! I wonder how many deaths they've prevented through their thankless work. A good friend of my dad's and fellow pilot is currently in the middle east, spending an entire year away from family, friends, and his incredible wife. I am so thankful for his sacrifice for our country that I can't really even put it in words.

3,000 people died suddenly. When they woke up the morning of September 11, they didn't know it would be their last day on Earth. Many of them died heroically, but they all died needlessly. They were all essentially murdered - because of a group of people that hate Western ideals. How amazing and at peace do I feel to know my dad died celebrating life, at sunset, doing an activity that let him soar like an eagle.

Before I went to Africa this summer, I really viewed myself as only American. But now, my eyes are open to the fact that we're more global than that, we're bigger than the country where we were born. Being an American is a privilege. Something undeserved.

And guess what? September 11 has reminded me that losing my dad the way I did - maybe I shouldn't feel so sorry for myself and my family. There is hurt all over the world that people don't deserve. There are far war things than dying the way my dad did, living his dream in the hill country, celebrating thirty years of being married to his true love. Shoot, he had a giant piece of pie about an hour before he died. I said it could be worse.

I read in a magazine yesterday, on September 11, a story about the principal of Sandy Hook Elementary who died heroically blocking her students from the madman, the shooter.

Her daughter was engaged when the shooting happened. They had picked out her wedding dress together, just like my dad had gone to the dress shop to see me in mine before we made the final decision. She got married in July, six months after her mom was killed, suddenly, needlessly. You can do it, I thought as I read the article. I wanted to cheer her on, this daughter mourning a parent's sudden, tragic death. My mom and Mary and good friends have taught us, "we can do this" as they put one foot in front of the other.

We're not the only ones to have lost someone amazing. We're not the only family to see a great American, a hero in many ways, die too young.

We will not forget September 11, we will not forget the fallen, or their families.

We will remember, we will press on, and we will stand for freedom.