I have been successful at avoiding most of the 9/11 news stories and remembrances so far. I don't want to poke an angry, open wound to see it bleed again. Still, listening to NPR on the way to work today I listened to a story about the the first official death certificate issued that awful day in New York. It was a priest, and he was said to have known everyone from a homeless person to the mayor. The Clintons went to his funeral, and he was hailed as being kind, generous, and, dare I say it? A saint.
Now in real life, he probably had his faults like anyone else, but because of the way he died, he has been elevated to a position in our minds that few people ever get to.
Where was I that day? I was working in building next door to American Airline's headquarters. I had just arrived to work when the first plane hit. By the time the second plane hit, someone had brought in a small TV and we all saw it live. Our Help Desk was still located in the same office, and they were plugged into how many planes were missing and which specific flights had been hijacked. Security locked down the building and wouldn't let us leave because they were uncertain at the time whether the United States was the target or American Airlines.
Within days, our company worked in secret with government agencies and the future TSA to build software that would flag suspected terrorists on flights. Although it was never made public (and probably never will be), my colleagues helped stop other planes from being used as weapons of mass destruction. These people are heroes too in my mind, just like the fire fighters, police officers, and priests that died that day.
So going back and exploring those memories leaves my psyche slightly bruised. It's true what people say - the world will never be the same. But bruises fade with time, and life marches on.
