Outside the Pentagon 19 years later, an enormous flag drapes the side of the building. There’s a sound check for NBC News live and a voice repeats, “Test, test, test.” Eerily, in the quiet, the sound of a jet passes over, piercing the silence that follows as news crews await 9/11 ceremonies about to begin in D.C., New York City and Shanksville, Pa.
The whir of jet engines fades, leaving a whisper of solemn voices gathering together. The weight of this day is heavy for all Americans, particularly those who lost family members and friends. Most of us knew someone who was there, who was lost.
The ceremony is about to get underway, and already I’ve shed a few tears as Steve and I read the morning news and listen to tributes. I look at my live feed on my phone, and a bright blue banner holds the caption, “Coming Up: 9/11 Observance Ceremonies” and, below that, a white field indicates that 9,572 are waiting to hear the names. Only a few minutes in and already 520 thumbs-up are displayed. I wonder how and why anyone would disparage such a ceremony, as sadly shown by a tally of 39 thumbs-down.
This year’s remembrance is threaded with loved ones who read the names of victims and heroes and are publicly thankful that ceremonies, almost canceled due to COVID-19, were able to happen after all with the perseverance and help of The Stephen Siller Tunnel to Towers Foundation, founded by a survivor in honor of his brother, a Brooklyn firefighter, husband and father of five who gave his life to protect so many others on Sept. 11, 2001.
NBC goes to New York City. The first moment of silence is observed with a solemn strike of a bell by an officer in full dress. A crowd of family, friends and first responders bow their heads in unison. Many wear masks. Sirens wail in the distance as the sound of water falls into the great twin reflecting pools where nearly 3,000 names are inscribed on its man-made banks of bronze parapets. Roses honor the dead.
The first person approaches the podium and reads the first name: Gorden A. Aamoth, Jr. The names will take hours to read.
Marie Rose Abad … Christian Adams … Emmanuel Akwasi Afuakwah.
The names are representative of varying ethnicities and races, and many Americans whose loved ones came together to mourn. They are representative of so many Americans who worshipped, worked and lived in different ways but who still came together.
The camera pans and zooms in on flowers lain as a remembrance. Names are read 25 at a time by each family member, each friend, each colleague.
Eric Allen … Anna S.W. Allison … Janet Marie Alanzo.
Many of the names come in couplets or pods of the same and I realized that many family members lost more than one loved one, some unborn. Another person comes forward honoring the memories of a father, Joseph Angelini Sr., and his son, Joseph Angelini Jr. The grief from loss of a father and son together rises as a lump in my throat.
Many years ago, I visited ground zero with my daughters before the memorial was built. We felt an overwhelming sense of loss and yet, at the same time, hope that we were with one another and gratitude that we live in a country that stands for so much good in the world.
As a mother and an educator, it’s important to teach my children that they can be a force for good in their lives. Lessons of hope and opportunity, of dignity and respect for one another, and of selflessness start with young children in the home. I could hear it in the voices as they spoke and I could understand it in the words they chose as they worked through their grief and continued to live their lives with hope and joy.
On the wall surrounding the fountains, there were thousands of names — representations of thousands of souls and the many thousands of families left behind.
Anil Tahilram … Rita Blau … John Brett Cahill.
A panoramic sweep captured the photos of loved ones, letters and sentiments. Ribboned bouquets. Fountains of water spill into the acre-sized memorials and fill the air with the sound of life. The names keep coming. Some readers share personal stories throughout the observance. Some just read. They all read the names as a privilege to do so. A cousin grieves saying, “We miss you, we love you, and you are always in our hearts.” She steels herself and steps quietly down as a man steps up to the microphone. He reads more than two dozen names and collects himself as he rests finally on his brother, firefighter, Michael, “… God bless you, all of you.”
The sirens of far-off ladder trucks cry even as the heroic work of first responders continues. Some of the men and women reading have courageously followed in the brave footsteps of family members who served as NYC firefighters and police officers, even after those heroic loved ones who lost their lives.
Frank Siller, brother of Stephen Siller, speaks. “It is of the utmost importance to read the names of the souls — 2,993 souls and the six souls who died in the 1993 World Trade Center attack. These names must be read out loud. … Three-year-old Dana Faulconburg. Isn’t it right that we read their names? They deserve their names read out loud. Terrorist attacks like that require that we remember in person on this day. We must never forget, may God bless the United States of America.”
A voice rises from the crowd, “Thank you!” And applause erupts.
“To read the names is healing,” said Kathy Cunningham, a board member of Tunnel to Towers whose brother, Donald W. Robertson Jr., was never recovered. “This is hallowed ground,” she said. Later she would read her brother’s name in the ceremony at NYC’s Memorial. “We keep your legacy alive though your beautiful children. … Donny, we will never forget you. God bless you all, and God bless the United States of America.”
Vice President Mike Pence and his wife, Karen, address the families with verses from Ecclesiastes and Psalms 23, names engraved form a backdrop in the wall behind them. “In memory of all those lost on that day … heroes, loved ones left behind … I pray these words will comfort your hearts and ours.”
Someone cries out, “Thank you, vice president!” A chant mounts, “Four more years!”
A comment on my Twitter feed asks that we remain reflective. “This is no time for politics.” Others disagree. But for the most part, comments are respectful.
A bell rings out again. There are tears and remembrances of fallen firefighters, police officers and civilians both in the towers and aboard the flights. The list of names falls forth like a stream trickling over stones.
A daughter remembers her firefighter father. “Not a day goes by that we don’t think of you. We miss you and we love you.”
A surviving niece to her uncle, John Michael Collins: “You’re the reason I became an EMT. … You’re my hero, and we’ll never forget.”
A friend and brother-in-law reads: “God bless all of the victims, the victims’ families and the United States of America.”
During the observance ceremonies on the 19th anniversary of the attacks, the sound was lost so I switched from NBC to Reuters, where the chyron read, “Flags are at half-staff and families remember.”
Another young woman remembers her father and uncle, both firefighters.
A young woman after her begins, “My mother …”
Again a bell rings out and softly echoes, and she pauses for what seems like a minute. She composes herself and continues, “Susan Patrice Clancy Conlon … we try to find peace by living through your spirit every day.”
The readers are like trees in a storm, bending with the wind and rain and standing tall when the skies clear, though their voices sometimes waver they press on. The pain of loss is visceral. Through it all, a uniformed police officer stands like a strong oak, his brimmed hat forward, white-gloved hands clasped, brass buttons shining in rows.
A woman approaches the lectern and begins:“My nephew, Charles Francis Xavier Heeran, at 23, you were taken from us. … You are dearly missed by your brothers and sisters. … Babies have your name. … Until we meet in heaven, we love you.”
A man wears a navy jacket with a button on his lapel, a photo of his parents. Every reader wears the red, white and blue ribbon. “And my father, Jesus Sanchez, I want to thank the towers for doing this, I didn’t think it was going to happen. God bless America.”
Eight American flags wave gently from their floor stands.
The bell rings once again, and in the moment of silence, I remember where I was when my mother called, asking me if I knew what was happening. My rush to turn on the TV. My horror as the towers fell, one after the other. My husband, Steve, coming through the door half covered in mud from his job site and both of us waiting anxiously for our kids to return home from school. Dinner with our kids and our neighbors and their kids even as we’d just met. It felt safer somehow and it felt right. The sound of the ride-on lawn mower under quiet skies a few days later as Steve carved a patriotic swath of giant letters, USA, in our back field on Elmwood.
We all came together.
Again the clarion ring of a bell sounds.
Another moment of silence.
My daughter sends a picture of her sons as they remember the day. “We always remember the day, Mom,” and she adds, “never forget.”
Another woman approaches the microphone. “It is with great honor that I am able to say these names.” She honors her father, Robert James Crawford, Safety Battalion 1. “We have an obligation to speak for those who no longer have a voice.”
Some of the tweets before I lost connection as so many were watching reminded us that we must unite. We must remember we are all Americans.
“We are one nation and we need to remember to respect one another despite our differences.”
“Kevin was a man who took off his coat for a homeless man and cried at his passing. Our hearts still feel heavy.”
“They are not just lights. They are not just names. They are men and women in blue and red who walk toward danger not running from it. … Their names are a benediction of what we as Americans are capable of.”
“One nation under God. Thank you for our police officers, firefighters, military who protect us every day.”
“So many names. So many hearts broken.”
My screen shows thousands are watching online from all over the country and even the world. A steady stream of heart-shaped icons of every color bursts upward like effervescent bubbles. There’s a joy in that, and it gives me hope.
A New York City police officer, one in a long family line of those who served, says she’s “reading the names for all of the children who lost their parents, and for all of the parents who lost their children.”
We must never forget.
Bonnie J. Toomey teaches at Plymouth State University and writes about writing, learning and life in the 21st century. You can follow Parent Forward on Twitter at https://twitter.com/bonniejtoomey. Learn more at www.parentforward.blogspot.com or visit bonniejtoomey.com.
The Link LonkSeptember 13, 2020 at 08:01PM
https://www.sentinelandenterprise.com/americans-will-never-forget
Americans will never forget - Sentinel & Enterprise
https://news.google.com/search?q=forget&hl=en-US&gl=US&ceid=US:en
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