Today is a day that remains in the minds of so many Americans.
Today we remember the devastating attacks that took place now 16 years ago.
Do you remember where you were on 9/11?
I was on my way to SIU as an undergraduate. I had an early class (an English one, no doubt). I watched the news (as I still do) before going to school, and I couldn’t believe the images and the words coming from the television.
Somehow I mustered enough energy to get to campus. It wasn’t long before I found myself in the Student Center with many others, crowded around televisions, frantically wondering what was going on.
For some, these attacks left them without a loved one, a parent, a friend. For others, these attacks became a call to action, a call to serve, and a surge in military careers took place.
For some, due to these attacks, their actions of going to war, serving our country, there are constant reminders, invisible wounds, devastation from Ground Zero, fear of air travel, and much more than we probably know or understand.
We should not forget what this day means. We should realize that as a country we need to come together in these hard, dark times. We need to help and love, show compassion, be kind, and honor the fallen.
In the classroom, when this day comes, I struggle with what to tell students–as some really do not know what this day signifies. I struggle with my own feelings, emotions, and words as I want to do my best to teach, educate, and share with students part of our history.
Innocent lives lost, the first responders, police, fire, EMT, military members, all who took action that fateful day—we remember.
Images and videos from September 11, 2001—we remember.
Life is short. We tend to take for granted so much—time spent with loved ones, small moments with family and friends—please remember those times, etch them in your mind.
Former poet laureate, Billy Collins wrote a poem called “The Names” about the 2,972 who perished. Here are some of the closing lines from that poem.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge,
Another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers, and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of a tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there
is barely room on the walls of the heart.
