When Will We Ever Learn?
Every generation has it's moment.
In this case, the moment is the single event when everyone stopped, and a lasting impression was made on their soul. For the Greatest Generation, it was the attack on Pearl Harbor. For the Baby Boomers, the moment was the murder of President Kennedy. Gen X had the fall of the Berlin Wall, and the more recent generations have September 11th, 2001.
These are the moments when the country...and really...the entire world stopped. Then as a group, we first experienced a stomach-wrenching shock, then endured hours of heartache, followed by breathing a collective sigh. And as the dust settled on the day, we find ourselves holding the hand of a stranger in order to comfort that stranger as well as ourselves.
Everyone has a story from 9/11. Here is mine:
"Where are you?" said the voice on my cell phone.
"I'm on the Viaduct, heading towards the station," I replied.
I was awakened like several others that day. The phone rang, and the voice on the other end said "Turn on your TV." Some heard panic in that voice, others heard sheer disbelief, and others detected a sense of utter bewilderment. The phone call was brief, and yet demanded immediate action. I remember jumping out of bed and running into the living room. I didn't even have to think "what channel?" The voice that awakened me had convinced me it would be very easy to find what I needed to see with my own eyes.
Reporters and news people in general often get a bad rap for the way they are seemingly desensitized to an event that leaves the rest of the world in tears. But on days like this, a stoic reporter's voice was the only calm I could find in a sea of smoke, chaos, and devastation. I remembered this, because before too long, I knew I would have to be reporting this story myself. This wasn't a time for me to cry or process what had happened; this was a time for me to help others know what they needed to know so they could process.
"How close are you to the Space Needle?" Pete asked me.
After seeing 10 minutes of the coverage of what was happening in New York, I quickly dressed and jumped into my news car. I figured I needed to get to work. I was flying down the Viaduct when my Editor called with my assignment.
"Brian, we don't know a whole lot, but there's information out there pointing to more terrorist targets throughout the country," Pete said.
That took me back for a second. In the coverage I had seen on TV, it was still early, and most still believe a plane had accidentally crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers. I was listening to the radio when the second plane hit the other tower, and still, hadn't made the connection that this was foul play.
"They've listed the Columbia Tower and the Space Needle as possible targets," Pete told me. "Head to the Space Needle."
Looking back, I can now smile about this. In that moment, I never even questioned the logic of pointing my news vehicle toward an object that could be the target of terrorists. I will never forget the moment my mother called. I had been parked a couple blocks away from the Space Needle for about an hour.
"Where are you?" the frantic voice asked.
"I'm underneath the Space Needle," I calmly responded.
"Do you know what happened in New York, Brian?"
"Yes mom, that's why I'm here"
"Why would you be at the Space Needle?" the concerned voice pondered.
Without thinking, I told her what Pete had told me about potential terrorist targets. As you might imagine, my mother's reaction was a predictable as rain in Seattle.
"Get away from there!" she yelled into the phone.
I had three minutes to talk my mom down before my next live broadcast on the radio. I was not successful, and it was one of the few times in my life I had to hang up on my mother. It was a terrible thing to put her through, but I knew my job, and had convinced myself I needed to do the best I could with her irrationalities with the time I had. For those of you thinking I'm the worst son ever, I made it a point to call my mother nearly every hour for the remainder of the day to assure her I was okay.
The hours passed and it became clear that no, I was not sitting underneath a potential terrorist target, and the focus of our coverage of 9/11 shifted back to the East Coast. The hours turned into days, the days turning into weeks. Why did this happen? How did this happen? Could we have prevented it? Will we find the remains of everyone lost that day?
I felt compelled to write about the 10th anniversary of 9/11 because I know there are plenty of others who will be doing the same. And each post, each article will affect it's reader differently. Each recollection will touch those who need to be touched, will comfort those who need to be comforted, and will anger those still dealing with the questions surrounding that day.
Everyone processes things differently. We grieve differently, and we heal differently.
And yet, my most vivid memory of the events of 9/11 is not about our differences. Anything that would mark us as dissimilar and unfamiliar was checked at the door that morning, and for the first time in a long time, we were all the same. Strangers were holding strangers, neighbors who never spoke were having dinner together, and you couldn't find an American flag for sale even if you were Bill Gates (It took me three weeks and a trip south to Portland to finally find the flag decal I proudly displayed on the back of my Jeep). We came together for what seemed like months. The unity lasted well into the holiday season, which propelled it into early 2002.
The question I asked as the title of this post has to do with this feeling. While I know there are some who believe with every hair on their head that it just takes tragedy to meld hearts, I believe otherwise. Why can't we wake up each day with at least the intention to be proud of where we live, to be compassionate to those around us, and to be united in seeking what's right.
When will we ever learn?
In this case, the moment is the single event when everyone stopped, and a lasting impression was made on their soul. For the Greatest Generation, it was the attack on Pearl Harbor. For the Baby Boomers, the moment was the murder of President Kennedy. Gen X had the fall of the Berlin Wall, and the more recent generations have September 11th, 2001.
These are the moments when the country...and really...the entire world stopped. Then as a group, we first experienced a stomach-wrenching shock, then endured hours of heartache, followed by breathing a collective sigh. And as the dust settled on the day, we find ourselves holding the hand of a stranger in order to comfort that stranger as well as ourselves.
Everyone has a story from 9/11. Here is mine:
"Where are you?" said the voice on my cell phone.
"I'm on the Viaduct, heading towards the station," I replied.
I was awakened like several others that day. The phone rang, and the voice on the other end said "Turn on your TV." Some heard panic in that voice, others heard sheer disbelief, and others detected a sense of utter bewilderment. The phone call was brief, and yet demanded immediate action. I remember jumping out of bed and running into the living room. I didn't even have to think "what channel?" The voice that awakened me had convinced me it would be very easy to find what I needed to see with my own eyes.
Reporters and news people in general often get a bad rap for the way they are seemingly desensitized to an event that leaves the rest of the world in tears. But on days like this, a stoic reporter's voice was the only calm I could find in a sea of smoke, chaos, and devastation. I remembered this, because before too long, I knew I would have to be reporting this story myself. This wasn't a time for me to cry or process what had happened; this was a time for me to help others know what they needed to know so they could process.
"How close are you to the Space Needle?" Pete asked me.
After seeing 10 minutes of the coverage of what was happening in New York, I quickly dressed and jumped into my news car. I figured I needed to get to work. I was flying down the Viaduct when my Editor called with my assignment.
"Brian, we don't know a whole lot, but there's information out there pointing to more terrorist targets throughout the country," Pete said.
That took me back for a second. In the coverage I had seen on TV, it was still early, and most still believe a plane had accidentally crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers. I was listening to the radio when the second plane hit the other tower, and still, hadn't made the connection that this was foul play.
"They've listed the Columbia Tower and the Space Needle as possible targets," Pete told me. "Head to the Space Needle."
Looking back, I can now smile about this. In that moment, I never even questioned the logic of pointing my news vehicle toward an object that could be the target of terrorists. I will never forget the moment my mother called. I had been parked a couple blocks away from the Space Needle for about an hour.
"Where are you?" the frantic voice asked.
"I'm underneath the Space Needle," I calmly responded.
"Do you know what happened in New York, Brian?"
"Yes mom, that's why I'm here"
"Why would you be at the Space Needle?" the concerned voice pondered.
Without thinking, I told her what Pete had told me about potential terrorist targets. As you might imagine, my mother's reaction was a predictable as rain in Seattle.
"Get away from there!" she yelled into the phone.
I had three minutes to talk my mom down before my next live broadcast on the radio. I was not successful, and it was one of the few times in my life I had to hang up on my mother. It was a terrible thing to put her through, but I knew my job, and had convinced myself I needed to do the best I could with her irrationalities with the time I had. For those of you thinking I'm the worst son ever, I made it a point to call my mother nearly every hour for the remainder of the day to assure her I was okay.
The hours passed and it became clear that no, I was not sitting underneath a potential terrorist target, and the focus of our coverage of 9/11 shifted back to the East Coast. The hours turned into days, the days turning into weeks. Why did this happen? How did this happen? Could we have prevented it? Will we find the remains of everyone lost that day?
I felt compelled to write about the 10th anniversary of 9/11 because I know there are plenty of others who will be doing the same. And each post, each article will affect it's reader differently. Each recollection will touch those who need to be touched, will comfort those who need to be comforted, and will anger those still dealing with the questions surrounding that day.
Everyone processes things differently. We grieve differently, and we heal differently.
And yet, my most vivid memory of the events of 9/11 is not about our differences. Anything that would mark us as dissimilar and unfamiliar was checked at the door that morning, and for the first time in a long time, we were all the same. Strangers were holding strangers, neighbors who never spoke were having dinner together, and you couldn't find an American flag for sale even if you were Bill Gates (It took me three weeks and a trip south to Portland to finally find the flag decal I proudly displayed on the back of my Jeep). We came together for what seemed like months. The unity lasted well into the holiday season, which propelled it into early 2002.
The question I asked as the title of this post has to do with this feeling. While I know there are some who believe with every hair on their head that it just takes tragedy to meld hearts, I believe otherwise. Why can't we wake up each day with at least the intention to be proud of where we live, to be compassionate to those around us, and to be united in seeking what's right.
When will we ever learn?
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