On October 8, 2001, an American Airlines flight was headed to Chicago. Suddenly, a passenger started screaming, “Save the Sears Tower. Save yourselves.”
He was convinced the plane was headed towards the country’s tallest building and tried to break into the cockpit to stop it.
The man was subdued by passengers and crew. No damage was done.
The pilot requested a military escort and the Air Force scrambled two F-16 fighter jets to provide it.
Sonic booms rang out as the F-16s raced toward the passenger plane, setting the city on edge. They took positions on each wing of the plane and escorted it safely to the ground.
I remember reading an interview with one of the passengers on that flight.
“We all felt safer when we saw those fighters arrive,” he said. “Until we realized that they weren’t there to protect us. They were there to shoot us out of the sky if something went wrong.”
Three days later, I was on a plane bound for Chicago. There was no in-flight entertainment on short flights in those days. So I used the time to write.
Dear Alex:
As America marks the one-month anniversary of the terrorist attacks, I’m back on a plane again. This is the first time I’ve flown since September 11.
It’s a different experience—long lines through airport security and soldiers with automatic weapons standing guard. For a brief moment, I felt as if I was in another country.
But this is the new America—an America constantly looking over its shoulder for the next terrorist attack. The media speculates endlessly. The economy is spinning out of control. And now, Anthrax.
It’s difficult to come to grips with the events of September 11. At first, I desperately looked for something to do to contribute to the nation’s recovery.
The Red Cross put out a call for blood. I was one of millions of Americans who answered. I waited seven hours to give blood on September 12, only to be told that I couldn’t donate because of my melanoma diagnosis last year (received on September 11, coincidentally).
I walked away frustrated.
The next day, I was sitting at work when it occurred to me to fly the American flag at home. Again, the same thought occurred to many other Americans. There were none to be found.
I returned to my office and Michael told me he ordered several car flags from flags.com. I looked at their website and saw they were headquartered in Manchester, Md.
I got directions and made the two and one-half hour round trip to Manchester to buy my flag. It now hangs in our yard, visible to all who pass by. It will stay there as long as we do.
Jake asked why we fly the flag—and why he has seen so many flags in recent weeks. I asked if he remembered the buildings that fell down.
“The bad men,” he responded.
I explained that we fly the flag to show those men we are not afraid of them.
He nodded in agreement.
So I fly the flag and wear a flag pin every day. But in spite of the symbolism, I am afraid.
I’m afraid for you and the reality in which you’ll be raised.
I’m afraid for our country and the impact these tragic events may ultimately have on our economy and our freedom.
Mostly, I’m afraid for the human race and the impact a few lunatics may have on all of us.
When I was young, war was something that happened somewhere else to someone else. It wasn’t until I was almost 30 that the Gulf War broke out and war took on a personal meaning. Even then, it was on the other side of the world.
But you watched our country come under attack. And even though I didn’t think you understood, you did.
A couple weeks after the attacks, you started complaining about going to school. You developed stomach aches each morning, claiming to be too sick to go to school.
After a week of this, I made a dinner date with you to get to the root of the problem. On the way to the restaurant, you said, “Look Dad, that cloud looks like a building and a plane is about to crash into it.”
And now it’s Anthrax.
Every time I turn on the television, this potentially deadly spore has turned up somewhere else. There was even a scare at your school this week. Someone found a white powdery substance and the authorities were called. It turned out to be sugar.
The media can’t cover Anthrax enough. I’ve stopped watching.
But this too is part of your childhood. Somebody, we don’t know who, is trying to kill innocent people in this country with biological and chemical weapons.
I’m afraid that our country will take inappropriate short cuts on its way to justice.
Former Pennsylvania Governor Tom Ridge has been appointed to a new cabinet post—Director of Homeland Security. What does that mean? It sounds very “Big Brother-like” and makes me uncomfortable.
We all have to sacrifice a bit of our privacy and freedom for the greater good. I don’t mind that.
But I hope the government knows where to draw the line. I hope we don’t sacrifice the things that make the United States great.
The U.S. economy has taken an incredibly hard hit. No one wants to spend money. Many industries are hurting.
Hundreds of thousands of people will be laid off. This news will cause people to spend less. Business will be hurt even more. More layoffs. And the cycle continues.
“Experts” say it will right itself. “Everything is cyclical. It will come back.” But I’m not so confident. This is unlike anything most of us have ever seen.
I’m not terribly savvy when it comes to economics. For most of my adult life, I haven’t paid attention. It never seemed to make a noticeable impact.
But this time I feel it. I can sense the impact in my gut. I see it affecting big businesses and small. I see it affecting people I know in addition to faces on television.
Perhaps it’s just a keener awareness on my part, but I doubt it. If I feel it, it must be more significant than anything that’s happened in my lifetime.
Mostly, I’m afraid for humanity. That murdering thousands of people in the name of a god makes sense even to a small group of people is frightening. That their numbers grow larger with the U.S. response is even more frightening.
The people responsible for the attacks were raised on hatred. The next generation is being raised the same way. They would sooner kill an American than get to know him. What does that say about us as a race?
Then there’s Anthrax. How many ways will we invent to kill one another before we finally wipe each other out?
Don’t get me wrong. I fully support the United States’ War on Terror and the actions we’re taking in response to September 11.
And when I see the people who would sooner kill me than talk to me, I want to kill them first.
Perhaps I should rephrase that. I want President Bush to see to it that they’re killed. It might be a different story if I had to do it myself.
But my soul is saddened to see this hatred. I want it to end.
I don’t want to be put in a position where somebody has to die in order for us to live without the fear of attack. But that’s the new America. That’s the legacy of Osama bin Laden and everyone like him.
The best I can do to combat that is not let it consume my life. So I get up each morning, swallow that fear and go on with my life. To do otherwise would be letting the terrorists win. I won’t do that.
And here I am 35,000 feet in the air.
Somewhere on this plane, there’s an armed marshal watching out for terrorists.
Somewhere on the ground, someone’s opening an envelope containing a deadly powder.
And somewhere in a cave, a lunatic sits and plots the next attack.
Business as usual in the new America.
Love ,
Dad
Twenty-five years later, I still remember the fear and uncertainty of those weeks after September 11. We’re still living it today.
We’re still trying to make sense of the world for our children while trying to understand it ourselves.
Reading this now, what strikes me is how desperately I wanted the world to feel safe again. I still do.
My answer now is the same as it was then.
Keep moving forward.
Raise my children. (Okay, grandchildren now.)
Go to work.
Board airplanes.
Do not let fear define my life.
That part still matters.
Mitch and Dakota are participating in the Million Mile this month in Alex’s memory. They are raising funds for childhood cancer research so Alex’s story doesn’t have to be someone else’s story.
You can donate here.
All donations are matched by Alex’s Lemonade Stand Foundation.