There is something in memories, dreams, and nightmares that always stays with me. I rarely remember the details of who said what, but I never forget how I felt. And, beyond the emotions, there is something about the colors: they are more vivid, almost unreal.
When I remember 9/11 and think of that boy who used to go to school in McLean, Virginia, a few miles from the Pentagon, I find it impossible to describe in words how blue the sky looked that morning. Imagine a perfect autumn day: warm, but brushing up against the cool, with a light breeze and a truly blue sky. That is what I remember on the way to school that morning, alongside a couple of friends and classmates. We were third and fourth graders enjoying our usual route, laughing, talking about our lunch boxes and wondering what we would play during recess.
It is here where my memory leaves behind that dreamlike blue sky and moves to what others told me about the appearance of the smoke rising from the place where we would later discover that the attack on the Pentagon had occurred. That is when that dream turned into a nightmare.
My school day was surprisingly normal. Looking back, the thing I remember most is that the teachers were very quiet and quite downcast. We had classes all day because, as I later learned, the school did not know if any of the students had parents at the Pentagon or who would come to pick up the children whose families might have been directly affected by the attack.
When I came home that day, I remember my parents gave me a huge hug. Generally, it wasn’t unusual: in my family we have always openly shown affection. But that day my parents hugged me longer and with more force than usual. I simply knew that something was wrong.
During dinner, my parents did everything they could to explain what had happened that day in a way a child of eight could understand.
“That day my parents hugged me a little longer and a little harder than usual”
“Today we have been attacked by very bad people,” my father, a New Yorker, said calmly in a soft voice as he tried to keep his voice steady and wipe away his tears. I’ve never seen my father cry before. “But we love you and we will be okay. For a while we will be sad, but we will be okay,” he added.
I still remember how hard my mother squeezed my hand while my father spoke. “We will be okay, my son”, my mother, originally from Peru, told me in Spanish.
September 11 was an attack on the United States, but it hit especially close to those of us who lived in New York, in the Washington, D.C. area and in Pennsylvania. And it hit even closer—directly in our homes—for the families of the 2,977 people killed that day, among them three Spaniards.
For me, being American means being optimistic. Not always because we want to be, but because we have to be. It is something we carry inside us.
On 9/11 we had to search for that optimism at the deepest level. Symbols of American power, creativity, and ingenuity collapsed, and the hopes, dreams and aspirations of the 2,977 people killed that day were extinguished.
“To me, being American means being optimistic. Not always because we want to be, but because we have to be”
But soon after, during that terrible day, we also saw the best of America. Emergency services ran toward the danger and many of their members saved countless lives before losing their own. The passengers of United Airlines Flight 93 confronted the hijackers and rebelled against them. Thanks to their bravery, we will never know for sure what the plane’s intended target was: the United States Congress, the White House, or some other symbol of our country and our values. People donated blood in record numbers.
Although the 11-S had as its target the United States, at its core it was an attack on ideas that go far beyond our borders. It was an attack on love, hope and dreams. And that is why it failed.
When you lose someone, that does not mean you stop loving them. Hope, for its part, is contagious. And although the hopes of those who died may have ended with their lives, their hopes for a better world live on today in the hearts of their loved ones. And dreams know no bounds: they slip into our sleep and give meaning to our days. The dreams of those who died stay alive in the lives of those who loved them.
After the attacks that day, the French newspaper Le Monde published an editorial stating: “Nous sommes tous Américains”, i.e., “We are all Americans.”
Many things have changed in these last 25 years, but the fact that this country, 250 years after its founding, remains the home of so many dreamers, innovators and ordinary people who work to build a better tomorrow tells me the hijackers failed that day.
That is why, take a moment today to call someone you love and tell them, truly, that you love them. And if you cross paths with any emergency service member—a firefighter, a medic or a police officer—take a moment to thank them for what they do.
Never forget it.
