25 years

Like most Americans, I’ve spent the past couple of days reflecting on the events of 9/11.

Yesterday, the principal of my school shared a recount of the events over the loud speaker at the beginning of my AP Lit class. It was meant as a way to address and honor the event, but it turned into a surreal and somewhat absurd experience for me, personally.

When the principal started her narrative, I stood in the front of the room and observed all the earnest faces of my students. These are teenagers, good kids who intellectually know the importance of the event, but have no emotional attachment to it. They listened as the principal recounted minute by minute what happened on that horrible day, but I was surprised that not one of them seemed sad.

Realizing that none of these students had any idea what it felt like on that day, my body put into gear a weird and awful switch-a-roo. All of those feelings that I thought I had forgotten about 9/11, certainly all those feelings that were not meant for public consumption (especially in front of a bunch of teenagers!) began to bubble to the surface. I began to feel like I was starring in a bad play where I, an unknowing audience member, suddenly was becoming the main act.

By the end of the 3-minute announcement, I had tears rolling down my cheeks and angry hives forming on my neck and my students were staring at me with a fair bit of shock. And what was I to do then?! I blubbered something about what a perfect day 9/11 had been, and the irony that the perfect day became the setting for such horror. It was such a stupid comment, but I was unprepared.

The truth is, the students in my classroom have absolutely no idea what the day of 9/11 was like. None of my future students will have emotional experience with that day. And yet, it is our responsibility to share with them the gravity of that day. In hindsight I wish I had a story ready to share, that would have added to their understanding.

At the time of 9/11 I was working in the Communications Department of the Diocese of Bridgeport. I remember watching the news reports on my boss’s television and the utter shock and dismay that my fellow workers and I had as the towers fell. One person in that room, Father Frank McGrath, said, “I just lost a lot of good men right there.” In addition to his work in the Catholic Center and at Our Lady of Peace Parish, Father McGrath volunteered as a chaplain at Rescue One in Downtown Manhattan. Father McGrath knew that the firefighters in Rescue One had rushed into the Twin Towers when the planes hit. They were the people who went into the dangers so that others could evacuate out. Dozens of those firefighters perished when the towers collapsed.

Recently, I came across this StoryCorps presentation of Father Mychal Judge. He was the Franciscan priest who, like the firefighters of Rescue One, rushed into the towers to assist and ultimately perished when the towers collapsed. He is counted at the first person on the 9/11 death certificates. I remember his story from 25 years ago, I think because of how much I associate it with the work of Father McGrath.

After 9/11 Father McGrath officiated dozens of funerals. I don’t have the exact number, but I just remember how busy he was attending to the families and loved-ones of those who died from Rescue One. I also remember how he had a very clear sense of purpose then. He saw that shepherding those families through their grief was his responsibility. I was only 24 at the time, and I could not grasp how he could set aside his own heartache to take care of these families, but I had a deep respect for Father McGrath’s vocation.

I know that everyone (over the age of 25) has a story to tell. I know it’s easy to keep the memories of that horrible day locked up in our hearts. However, we must keep these stories alive. These stories keep the heroes of 9/11 alive. These stories remind us that ordinary people can be brave and honorable and compassionate. These stories remind us that Americans have the capacity to come together and heal.

Father McGrath has since passed away. His legacy, like that of Father Mychal Judge, lives on in his service and love. I am so blessed that he baptized my oldest son in 2003 and that he remained a part of my family’s life for some time. I hope that the next time I am tasked with recalling a memory from that fateful day, that I can impart Father McGrath’s courage and compassion.