Monday Candle Moment: Remembering 9/11

“Where were you when the world stopped turning?”

That’s what Alan Jackson asked us in song shortly after September 11, 2001.

Each year, the anniversary brings back the memories, images and sense of being unable to awaken from a horrifying nightmare.

For us Baby Boomers, there have been a lot of moments during our lives which cause us to periodically query each other about our memories and perceptions of world-altering events. Where were you when . . .

John F. Kennedy was assassinated?
Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated?
Robert F. Kennedy was assassinated?
Neil Armstrong walked on the moon?
Nixon resigned?
John Lennon died?
Ronald Reagan was shot?
the space shuttle exploded?
the 1989 quake hit?

“Where were you when the first plane hit?” Note that no one ever asks quizzically, “What plane?”

On that morning, I was in Los Angeles at the Bonaventure Hotel in a room on the 28th floor.

I hate high-rise buildings. I especially hate the Bonaventure because in order to get to the upper levels, you have to ride in elevators that hang on the outside of the building. Tourists love to ride them up to the 35th floor to the rotating bar where you can look out over the city.

Not me.

I’m the one person facing the doors, back to the windows, holding my breath and praying for the elevator to get to my floor quickly so that I can get the hell out of it.

I wasn’t supposed to be in Los Angeles that day. I was supposed to fly down the day before, argue a motion in federal court, and come back home that evening. But it was the boss’s last day on the job and she had a speaking engagement scheduled in downtown Los Angeles at 8:30 a.m. When she heard that I was also going to L.A., she asked if I would mind staying over to handle the speaking engagement, returning home on Tuesday morning, September 10.

The only thing I was unhappy about was the fact that my hotel of choice had no rooms available so I was forced to stay at the Bonaventure — which had no rooms available on a lower floor.

I distinctly remember waking up and turning on the Today Show, as is my custom, as I was booting up the laptop to read e-mails and newspapers on-line. That’s when Matt Lauer announced that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. I looked up to see footage of the first plane hitting the tower.

During my first three trips to New York City, I stood outside the World Trade Center. I remember looking up . . . and up . . . and up . . . and thinking that I could not imagine being on the top floor. I remember being astonished, as I stood there, that folks actually ran down all 105 floors following the 1993 bombing.

As I stared at the television screen that mornning, my mind could not grasp what I was seeing. Those moments were for me, like the rest of the world, surreal.

When it was reported that the highjacked planes had been destined for Los Angeles, I determined to get out of that hotel as quickly as possible.

All I wanted to do, like Dorothy Gale, was get home because, after all, “there’s no place like home.”

By the time I got out of the shower, all aircraft had been grounded.

And as I waited in the garage lobby for the valet to bring my car around, I watched scenes from the Pentagon.

I wondered whether to follow through with the speaking engagement. Given that no one had called to say it was canceled, I decided I had better go to the venue. We were all in a state of shock, walking around in a daze. People could talk about nothing but the morning’s events, but were valiantly trying to carry on with the day’s business, unsure of the extent of the catastrophe unfolding on the East Coast or how it would impact those of us 3,000 miles removed from it.

I was the first speaker on the agenda, so I forged ahead with my presentation, wrapping up quickly.

Then I apologized to the audience, telling them, “I would love to stay and participate in the rest of the program, but I need to figure out how I am going to get back to Lodi.” They understood, of course.

They would disperse in just a few moments, anyway: As I exited the building, I was met by members of the S.W.A.T. team who were evacuating all of downtown Los Angeles.

Back in my rental car, I learned that all modes of public transportation were shut down. That left only one choice if I wanted to get home that day: Drive the rental car that I had picked up at the Burbank airport the previous day all the way back to Lodi.

The rental company representative was under a great deal of stress and did not think that was a great idea. He yelled at me, “You cannot take that car to Sacramento! You must return it to the Burbank airport today!” As I assured him that was not going to happen. I was already heading north on Interstate 5.

“Look, this is a national emergency. I need this car to get home to my kids — and I’m taking it whether you like it or not.”

When he continued badgering me, I lost my cool: “I’m taking the car. Got that? If you want to send the police to find me, go ahead. I’ll even give you a clue to pass on to them: I’m heading north on I5. But I’m taking this car to Lodi.”

I didn’t care about anything except being in my own little house in my own little town with my arms around my kids.

A couple of friends had been sent home from work so they called to offer me shelter at their homes until the airports reopened. “I appreciate the offer, but I just want to be in Lodi where nothing ever happens.”¹

I wasn’t supposed to drive that far. I was in the midst of treatment for a detached left retina. The first surgery had failed, causing me to undergo a second operation during which my eye was filled with silicone oil. I slept exclusively on my left side for nearly a year to cause the oil to rise and put pressure on the retina so that it would adhere and not slip off again. Looking at the world through the oil, rather than the eye’s natural vitreous humor, made everything appear distorted. Driving short distances was fine, but focusing on the road for more than six hours strained both of my eyes.

The whole way, I listened to descriptions of the day’s events as friends, coworkers, et. al. checked in periodically, as did BigBob who was monitoring my progress and trying to convince me to pull over and rest my eyes. But I preferred to forge on. By the time I reached Lodi, I was exhausted. But I did just what I wanted to do: I went into my own little house in my own little town and the Siess gang had a big “group hug.” Like the rest of America, we spent the evening focusing on all the folks who did not make it home at the end of that day to hug their families.

We are not the same nation we were before that morning. We are not as naively secure. We have been forever robbed of the sense of safety we used to take for granted. We are more vigilant, more tense. In New York City, security remains tight in all buildings, terminals, on the streets. Police and security guards are everywhere, all the time, preventing you from sitting down to relax and watch people go by. You must always keep moving.

When I visited Ground Zero, I was stunned to see how small the parcel of land upon which the World Trade Center stood is. The streets in Manhattan are narrow, the buildings close together, unlike here in California. It was a bustling construction site when I snapped these photos on March 26, 2007.

It would appear to be like any other construction zone were it not for the expansive list of names mounted above the fence that surrounds the property.

The flowers, pictures, stuffed animals and other mementos placed here or there in the fence remind visitors that the site is the only final resting place to which many families can go to honor loved ones whose remains were never recovered.

All that remains of the original complex is the sculpture which stood in the plaza.

It now stands in the park a couple of blocks away paying silent tribute until construction is complete.

On this anniversary, we must remember. Our own experiences.

And all those who were lost in New York, the Pentagon and on Flight 93.

We must also remember those who mourn on this anniversary. Their lives were forever changed.

Finally, we must remember the rescuers, many of whom gave their lives that day. You cannot drive by a firehouse in New York City without seeing a plaque on the front of the building bearing the names and likenesses of those lost by that house.

Those who survived did not escape unscathed. Many are suffering from mysterious respiratory ailments, while still more struggle to live with the memories of the sights and sounds to which they were exposed that day, their psyches and spirits permanently scarred.

I don’t have any profound thoughts or words to add to the dialog about the events of that day. Like you, all I can do is share my experiences and photos. Every American should visit Ground Zero and pay their own respects.

I can only use this forum to share what I believe: Regardless of where you were or how you experienced 9/11, we need to stand united by our memories, our prayers, and our resolve to remember and pay tribute on this and every subsequent anniversary. Unity is our best defense.