There’s something about memories, dreams, and nightmares that never leave me. I rarely recall the exact words spoken, but I never forget the emotion I felt. Beyond those feelings, colors exert a stronger pull as well, more vivid and almost unreal. Looking back on 9/11 as a schoolchild in McLean, Virginia, just a few miles from the Pentagon, I can’t truly put into words how blue the sky looked that morning as I made my way to school. Imagine the perfect autumn day: warmth with a hint of coolness, a gentle breeze, and a sky that seemed truly blue. That’s how I remember that morning’s trip to school with a couple of friends and classmates. We were third and fourth graders enjoying our usual ride, laughing, talking about our lunch boxes, and wondering what games we’d play at recess.
This is where my memory shifts from that dreamlike blue sky to what others later described as the smoke issuing from what we would come to learn was the Pentagon attack. That’s when this dream morphed into a nightmare.
My school day unfolded with an unusual sense of normalcy; in hindsight, I mainly recall teachers being unusually quiet and downcast. We had a complete school day because, as I later discovered, the school was uncertain whether any parents were at the Pentagon, and they didn’t know who would be picking up children whose families might have been directly affected by the events.
When I arrived home later that day, I remember receiving a big hug from both of my parents. In general, this was fairly typical in my family, where affection is openly expressed. Yet that evening my parents held me a little longer and a little closer than usual, I could just tell that something was wrong.
During dinner, both of my parents did their best to explain the day’s events in terms a child of eight could grasp.
“My parents held me a little longer and a little closer than would normally be the case”
“Some very bad people attacked us today,” my Dad — a New Yorker — said calmly, quietly, steadying his voice, and wiping away tears. I had never seen my father cry before. “But we love you, and we’re going to be okay. Things will be sad for a while, but we’re going to be okay,” he added.
I still recall my Mom squeezing my hand tighter as my Dad spoke. “Vamos a estar bien, hijo mío,” my mother, originally from Peru, told me in Spanish, “We’re going to be fine, my son.”
9/11 was an assault on the United States, but it struck especially close to home for those of us in New York, the Washington, D.C. area, and Pennsylvania. And it struck most personally for the families of the 2,977 people who died that day, including three Spaniards.
For me, to be American is to be an optimist. Not always because we choose to be positive, but because we must be; it’s part of our nature.
On 9/11, we had to reach deep for optimism. Symbols of American power, creativity, and ingenuity came crashing down, and the hopes, dreams, and aspirations of the 2,977 people lost that day were extinguished.
“For me, to be an American is to be an optimist. Not always because we want to be optimistic, but because we have to be”
Yet soon after, on that terrible day, we also witnessed the very best of America. First responders rushed toward danger, many saving countless lives at the cost of their own safety. Passengers on United Flight 93 confronted and overpowered the hijackers on their flight, and because of their courage we may never know what that plane’s intended target was — whether the U.S. Congress, the White House, or another emblem of our country and our values. People donated blood in unprecedented numbers.
Although 9/11 targeted the United States, at its core it was an assault on ideas that extend far beyond our borders. It was an attack on love, hope, and on dreams — and that is why it failed.
When you lose someone, that does not mean you stop loving them. As for hope, it’s contagious, and while the hopes of those who perished may have ended in a sense, their aspirations for a better world remain in the hearts of their loved ones to this day. And dreams know no bounds; they infiltrate our sleep and shape our days. The dreams of those who died continue to live in the lives of those who loved them.
Following the attacks that day, the French newspaper Le Monde published an editorial stating, “Nous sommes tous Américains,” which translates to, “We are all Americans.”
Much has changed in the 25 years since then, but the fact that this country, 250 years after its founding, remains a home to so many dreamers, innovators, and everyday people striving for a better tomorrow, confirms to me that the hijackers failed that day.
With that in mind, please take a moment today to call someone you love and tell them you love them. And if you happen to walk past a first responder — a firefighter, a paramedic, a police officer — please pause to thank them for what they do.
Never forget.
