danajohnhill.org

I forget many things I have done, many people I have met, many places I have been. I have forgotten things I desperately wish I could remember. There are less than a handful of memories I wish I could erase - memories I’d gladly lose for a peace of mind that their recollection denies me.

Of those few memories is the clear morning, six years ago today, when I awoke, dressed, and drove the short distance from my apartment at 410 NW 13th Street to the 6th Street campus of Santa Fe Community College. My first class of the day was art appreciation at nine o’clock. As I was riding in my car I had the radio tuned to the news, and I heard a report of an aircraft crashing into the World Trade Center in New York City. It sounded like a freak accident, and I went into class, which proceeded completely as normal. But a bad feeling came over me, and I left school when class concluded, in spite of the fact that I had three more scheduled that day. As I drove home I listened to the radio again, and, of course, heard of a second crash. Without pictures, my mind was unable to contemplate an airplane crashing into a skyscraper. But, while struggling to grasp how this could be, it dawned on me that these airplanes must have been full of people, and I became grief-stricken.

At home I found Miriam watching television, and for the first time, saw the images. I was horrified beyond description. I spoke to my father on the telephone, who told me had had watched it happen. I did a mental inventory, to try and ascertain if I knew anyone in New York City. I discovered that the internet had ground to a halt. All I could do was watch the news on television, and that’s what I did, all day, alternating between stunned disbelief and fits of tears.

The next day, at work, we all sat in the conference room, watching a beat-up old TV on a rolling cart. The news in those early days was all about the search for survivors. When, at one point, they did find a living person in the rubble, we all closed our eyes tight for a moment, thanking God. But I recall only one such miracle. As the days passed, we sat in that conference room watching hours and hours of news coverage from Ground Zero, a memorial service in Washington, and reports from all over the world. I have a distinct memory of driving west along University Avenue at mid-day that week, when a report from London stated that during the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, the band had played the Star-Spangled Banner, an unprecedented act. I burst into tears as I heard the tune. I have never heard the song the same way since then; its once uplifting strains I associated with baseball and 4th of July have become a solemn funeral march.

I recall that television was not the same for ages after that day. I had heard someone ask if comedy was dead. How could anyone laugh at anything again? Regular programming was interrupted for weeks. I cannot recall, specifically, what was shown instead. But even when the late night talk shows returned, they were sombre: Conan O’Brien wept, David Letterman’s voice was breaking.

In town, within hours, flags were being flown anywhere flags could be flown. It was common to see pickup trucks with huge flags waving from improvised poles mounted in the bed. Stores ran out of flags. People used stickers instead. I had one. I even bought one for the state-owned car I drove for work. The city of Gainesville eventually mounted flags to every lamp post at every intersection in town. The feeling of patriotism was helpful in getting us through the grief at such a tremendous loss.

I am blessed to have lost no friends or family on September 11th. I only saw the World Trade Center once in person, in 1989. Nevertheless, the day still resounds to me, not as a triumph of American spirit, or of duty and sacrifice of many heroes–though it certainly was that–but as a crucible of profound loss for ordinary people - people like me. The walls plastered with “missing” posters, the long list of names, The Falling Man, the voices captured on answering machines saying goodbye. As I watched the news reports, and heard the tales of victims making calls to loved ones they would never meet again, I immediately recognized the value of communication. To hundreds of people that day–maybe more–it meant an opportunity to express undying love. The events of that day created in me an urgent need for a cellular phone, a technology I had previously dismissed. I feel a need to speak to my wife every day. In fact, from our first date, November 9, 2000, and even to the present, not a day has passed in which she has not been both the first person I have spoken to each morning, and the last before bed. The notion that she could not be the last person I speak to before I die is profoundly troubling to me.

I feel that the greatest legacy of that terrible day is love’s triumph over death, over alienation, over hatred. In spite of the evil deeds done and destruction wrought, the collective mass of unconditional love expressed that day far outweighed the greatest heap of rubble.

I don’t care if it did kill a bunch of children, I love Peter Pan peanut butter! It’s been off the shelf since February’s salmonella outbreak, the most interesting aspect thereof, to me, being that ConAgra, Peter Pan’s corporate parent, also, apparently, made Great Value peanut butter, the store brand of Wal-Mart.

I had three jars of the so-called “tainted” Peter Pan, one of which I had already eaten to no ill-effect, and two which Miriam forbade me to eat. During the embargo I was forced to purchase an alternative, first Jif, then, Skippy, which I found a reasonable substitute. But Peter Pan’s the best, and I am glad to have it back. Huzzah!