10 Years...

It was a normal school day for me. I woke up at five thirty, showered, got dressed, left my house at six thirty. I picked up my friend Sarah. I can’t remember what we talked about as we drove to Eastview High School, but I’m pretty sure that it was normal teenage stuff. As we drove we listened to the morning show on the local top forty radio station. School starts at seven thirty. It was no different that day. Funny, I can’t even remember what my first hour class was. None of those details were important to me then, they are lost in the fog of time.
It’s interesting how some things are burned into our minds. There are moments when time slows down and you have all the time in the world to log each detail away so that you can remember it all your life. Those who remember Pearl Harbor know what I’m talking about. Those who remember President Kennedy’s assassination know what I’m talking about. During those moments you rarely know that your mind is actually locking those things into your memory. Usually the moment happens and you remember it forever without even realizing why.
I remember that my second hour class was AP Literature and Composition. I remember that my teacher’s name was Mr. Bayer and that he had a really casual teaching style that made his English class the most enjoyable English class I had ever taken in high school. I remember that the girl who sat next to me was named Katie, and that she was in color guard for the marching band. I remember that her boyfriend’s name was Cody because she talked about him all the time. I remember that I sat in the second row on the left hand side of the classroom as you look at it from the back. I remember that we were supposed to watch “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.”
My dad is an airline pilot. That has always made my life a little different. He was gone a lot when I was younger. People always looked at me with the same look that you would give a kid whose dad is in the military.
“Oh, that must have been hard for you.” People would say to me as I got older. The truth is that I never really thought about it. My dad was a pilot before I was born. I have never known anything different. Northwest Airlines, whom my father flies for, has their world headquarters in Eagan Minnesota which is, not coincidentally, where I grew up. That whole area is chuck full of airline families. All my friends in high school with the exception of two were from airline families. When I went off to college people would say things like “Oh wow, your dad’s a pilot?! That’s so cool! So do you, like get to fly for free?” Nobody said things like that in high school. They were all in the same boat as me. There was a mutual understanding among us. We talked smack about Northwest management when the pilots went on strike in 1998, and every time the mechanics went on strike we griped about how the CEO really didn’t know anything about his company. We talked about a lot of things having to do with the airline industry, but we never, ever talked about plane crashes. There is a solidarity among airline families. The same kind of solidarity you find among military families, and NASA families. The thing that airline families have in common with military families and NASA families is that we all know that at any moment, tragedy can strike. It never matters how safe flying is supposed to be, or how few accidents they’ve actually had in the space program, or whether your spouse was supposed to be a non combatant, there is always the knowledge in the back of your head that there is a possibility that when your family member leaves for work, he or she may not come home. You never talk about that possibility. You never think about that possibility. When I was in tenth grade I really, really liked this boy. I was convinced that I was going to marry him someday, as soon as he realized he loved me back. There was nothing that boy could do to make me stop liking him. At least, so I thought. When we were discussing flight plans for our summer missions trip with church, I asked what airline we would be flying. He cracked a joke about flying on Egypt Air. Earlier that month an Egypt Air flight had crashed shortly after take off. It was determined that it was pilot suicide. I hated that boy. I hated him with everything I had for that moment. (And for a while afterwards, until he finally apologized to me.) When TWA flight 800 blew up over the Atlantic, we were glued to the television. The reason is simple, we are a community, and we feel it when we lose a member of that community. The thing about the airline community is that when a plane goes down we don’t just lose one member of the community, we lose several. After it leaves the news, we never talk about it again. It’s not something we want to remember over and over again.
Everything that happened after that second hour class is vivid in my memory. I remember third hour Spanish and calling my mom and telling her that I wanted to go home. I remember Eastview High School going on lock down. I remember a girl named Maggie hysterically telling people that her mom was being forced to evacuate the IDS tower in downtown Minneapolis because “it was next.” I remember a fellow pilot’s daughter huddling next to her locker and telling me that her father was flying that day. I remember there being so much we didn’t know. I remember going home.
I wrote a poem for a scholarship about it. It was really good. It was too good. I never submitted it. I think I wanted to keep it especially for me. Every person had something about that day that they kept to themselves. I think everyone had to keep at least one thing to themselves because there were so many things we shared. American flags lined the streets of suburbia and every car had a “united we stand” bumper sticker. There were candlelight vigils and tributes to the heroic firefighters and police force members. There were bulletin boards covered in pictures of missing people and pictures on the news of their families crying as they pleaded for information about their loved one.
I remember Mr. Bayer turning on the television and turning off the lights in the classroom. I remember that in the split second it took for the video tape to register in the VCR we caught a glimpse of two buildings on fire. I remember thinking it was just a made for TV movie. Then, I remember seeing the CNN logo in the bottom corner. I remember the class shouting in unison, the same two words “GO BACK!!” I remember Mr. Bayer sinking into his chair as we watched unbelieving what was unfolding on the TV in front of us. I remember seeing the buildings fall. I remember the principal talking over the loudspeaker saying that school would remain in session, although teachers would be free to abandon their lessons and just watch the news all day. I remember the airline kids shooting terrified glances at each other. I remember thinking where is my dad? Is he flying? I remember calling my mom and finding out that he was safe at home. I remember waiting anxiously for the newscasters to tell us what airlines had been involved.
There were tributes to the pilots and flight attendants that died that day. But not until later. They seemed to us to be the forgotten victims. Then, we received stickers in the mail from the Airline Pilot Association. They said “we will not forget.” They are right. We won’t forget. I read in the newspaper about the husband of one of the flight attendants and how he rode his bike across the country to commemorate the life of his wife and the lives of her co-workers. There was a memorial put up to venerate the crew of United flight 93.
And me? I joined the ranks of those who would go on to be called the 9/11 generation. We now know what it’s like to be someone who remembers Pearl Harbor, or the Kennedy assassination. We know what it is to have a single moment in history burned into our eyes and ears, and for some of us, our noses as well. We know what it is to suddenly worry about our safety when we’ve never had to before. And, like two generations before us we know what it is like to feel overwhelmed with uncertainty about the future. We all know that someday, our children will ask us about that Tuesday morning, and we will help them write their history papers and projects about it. We will show them newspapers and video tapes of CNN and NBC broadcasts. They will ask us how it feels to remember such a pivotal event in our nation’s history. We will respond that we are not the first to experience it, and we will not be the last. Because, after all, history has a way of repeating itself.