Fifteen years later, it’s personal

image image image imageIt was the tightest security we faced in New York City. I turned to my son after we got through it and said, “This is the true monument to 9/11.”

We were in the 9/11 Museum and were about to take our long journey downward.

Outside are the footprint fountains of the Twin Towers. Their size and power will overwhelm you — just reading all the names will suck the breath out of you. I had visited the World Trade Center first when I was in high school. I remember the lobby and the mall underneath. I remember standing next to Tower one and looking up as it tickled the sky. I also visited it when it was a smoldering ruin in early 2002. To see the area redeveloped now is incredible. The new World Trade Center is an architectural marvel. But still….

We rode the escalator down into the subbasement. Next to it were the stairs that a handful of people had survived on when the towers collapsed. I’m not sure if it was the air conditioning, but I definitely felt a chill. At the bottom, I think we were where the mall and the train station were. To one side was the iron cross that inspired so many. On the other was the giant retaining wall (the bathtub) that holds out the Hudson River was on one side. One of the greatest miracles of that dark day was that the wall held. The Hudson could have flooded much of lower New York, making the disaster so much worse.

But after looking at the photos of the victims, I thought, “how could it be worse?” There were artifacts like ID badges, glasses and wallets. A crushed fire truck told the story of the violence of the collapsing buildings. My oldest son was a baby on 9/11. My middle son wasn’t even born. He never knew a world where you could go to the gate to meet your loved one. They read the exhibits and wondered why their dad was crying.

Yes, I cried. I am not normally a crier, but there was one exhibit that totally got to me. There was a set of Pooh headphones and a stuffed bear that belonged to two girls on two of the crashed planes. We had just gotten off the plane and all I could do was picture my youngest son holding his BB-8 toy.

The museum had taken me down my lowest depth and completely gutted me. It successfully humanized one of our nation’s darkest days. As it should have. As we rode back up the escalator, I felt sadness and then I felt anger.

How dare those bastards do this?

I’ve felt that feeling off and on for 15 years. I felt it on the actual day. And I’ve felt it over and over when we watch the planes crashing or the victims jumping to escape the flames (if you’ve ever been burned, you know why they jumped.) But seeing those toys and hearing the last recordings of people who were about to die tore at my soul.

Sunday  we will remember. But this year, I’ll remember a little differently. It’ll be more personal.

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