On the morning
September 11, 2001, I was sitting at the chair in front
of my computer, preparing lesson plans. It was quiet in my
classroom, for my second graders at Greene County Elementary School
were at the classroom of one of the specialist teachers. Thankful
for the peace and quiet for preparation, I set to
the task at hand. At about a quarter after nine or nine-twenty AM,
my assistant came into my room and said, “Some terrorists have
bombed the World Trade Center.” It didn’t register with me, for my
head was in my Virginia Geography lesson. “What?” I asked. “They’ve
run a plane into it, and there’s talk of another one, too!” In an
instant, I was in the school’s media center, standing there watching
the replay of the sordid event as the second plane slammed into the
Twin Towers. I recall the crowd small crowd of teachers in there.
In a few minutes, our principal called an emergency faculty meeting
in there with all of the teachers, while the assistants pulled
classes together and looked after our kids. We stood and watched
that terrifying event again as a surreal unreality sent a chill
through each of us. We cried. It was the most horrifically awful
thing that I had ever seen. And I knew that I’d never be the same.
Up to that point, I didn’t think
that this could happen in America. I grew up knowing about the
Holocaust, had even gone to school with a girl whose mother had a
concentration camp number tattooed on her right forearm. And I knew
of things that had happened to early Christians, being thoroughly
grounded in ancient Christianity. But I had never felt that hatred
so personally before. It had always been someone else’s lands,
someone else’s family, another person’s story or history—someone
else’s tragedy.
But looking at the media replay
the event again and again, I was struck with terror. With a numb
sense of duty, I went about my day. I went home as soon as I could
when the school day was over, and pulled my family together. I held
each of my three children, and clung to my husband. As a family, we
prayed. Once the shock left us, it was replaced by anger. And I
remember that for the first time in my life I felt real hatred—and
prejudice. And I wondered how this could have happened. Why had
God allowed this? Why had our government not protected its citizens
and the foreigners who worked at the Twin Towers? And why were some
people luckily alive and others not? And sadly, I knew that there
were really no answers to these rhetorical questions.
One thing that I am certain of:
September 11, 2001 was the day that I grew up—the day that America
left its childhood behind. This was an attack on the very soul of
our people, not just a couple of mammoth-sized edifices. And I knew
that we’d never be the same.
There are some who had cheered,
calling it a victory. That sickened me. But what sickened me even
more was that I felt that I hated them every bit as much as they
hated me—and I didn’t like myself for it. But I let the anger that
I felt propel me into a new zeal for my country and what we stood
for.
Freedom. Yes, it is a word that
we all heard in grade school—and took for granted. Suddenly, the
struggles of our forefathers who built this land became more than
two-dimensional images in my collection of books. Throughout the
history of the United States, men have given their lives so that I
could walk anywhere that I want to, say what’s on my mind, pick up a
newspaper, gather with friends on any street corner, pray in what
ever way I choose—or not to pray at all. This very idea of liberty
is at the heart of what our founding fathers pursued and defended.
And as a world community, we must also take up the gauntlet and
continue this struggle.
With the tragedy of 9/11, there is
a new awareness that we are not an isolated nation of people. We are
part of a global community. And I believe that on that day six
years ago, the world showed that it could band together and fight
for what is right; that there are good people—and bad—everywhere;
that the concept of good isn’t tied to any one credo or ideology;
that we can never again expect to take a plane trip without hours
upon hours of preparation and airport procedure. Gladly, I have
regained my confidence and faith in humankind, and lost those
momentarily unsettling feelings of hatred and prejudice. And I also
know that I will always thank those who came before me, the people
who have fought so valiantly for my right to offer this essay. So
on this day, I say thank you to the people who unwittingly gave so
much to us on that bleak day six years ago. And I thank my fathers
who came before me. And I pray that God will bless all those who
are dedicated to the principles of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of
Happiness, no matter where they happen to hang their hats, or in
whatever venue they choose to worship; that there will be peace in
these troubled times. And I will continually pray for the souls who
gave their lives for us on that grave day. “Greater love hath no
man than to lay down his life for his friend.”
About the author: Born in
Baltimore, Maryland, I am the third child of five. My parents
are
Stan and Margaret Passaris. A native of Virginia, I am very
familiar with the history of this wonderful state. I am a
graduate of Kempsville High School, Old Dominion University. I
have been a teacher in Virginia, Massachusetts, North Carolina,
Alabama, and Utah. I am married to a clergyman. We have been
married since 1983. We have three daughters, four cats, and two
dogs. Currently, we live in Utah. Barbara is the author of
Through Tempest Forged.
