As a native New Yorker, I have some very vivid memories of 9/11 and the devastation we all felt. Three especially come to mind.
My friend Maureen, who now lives in Chandler, is a nurse practitioner who was working at New York Hospital in Queens that morning. All medical personnel were asked to stay on once the news had reached them of the planes hitting the Twin Towers. Some had to leave because their loved ones were first responders. Maureen stayed as she and the others braced for an influx of victims. They waited all night and nobody came — the victims were all dead. Every year she commemorates the day at the Healing Field in Tempe Town Park. It is an overwhelming display of American flags, one for each of the thousands who died, at the towers, the Pentagon, and in Pennsylvania. It is impossible not to have an emotional response to this amazing tribute to those who lost their lives on that horrific day.
My mom, Helen Hurwitt, a New Yorker from Brooklyn, was living outside of West Palm Beach at the time. She was watching the news that morning and saw the first plane hit and thought it odd that they were replaying footage of the B-25 Bomber that hit the Empire State Building in 1945. On that day, she was working across the street and saw the plane crash into the building. Fourteen people died. It wasn't until the second plane hit the other tower that she realized this was happening in real time.
Lastly, the day impacted me personally for a variety of reasons. Originally from Long Island, I was working as the director of field experiences at Geneseo State College outside of Rochester, N.Y. Many of the staff volunteered to stay through the evening to counsel students who wanted to stop in. So many were traumatized, and we all were walking around like zombies. One of the students who I knew quite well was doing her practicum in an elementary special education setting and came to see me that evening. Her mom was very ill with breast cancer. When word of what had happened in NYC got to the principal, she went to every classroom and whispered what had occurred to the classroom teachers. Concerned about their students’ vulnerability, the teachers were told not to tell them, but rather to allow their parents to deal with the situation at the end of the school day. Amy, however, was not told. When she saw the whispering, she immediately assumed that her mom had died and the principal was whispering so they could wait for her dad to get there to break the sad news. When she learned later that her mom had not died, she felt a sense of relief that the whispering referred to something vastly different. Yet at the same time, the grief of our collective loss was hitting her. So much emotion for a young woman to absorb!
From that day, as New Yorkers, fellow Americans, and citizens around the globe rallied together, I felt a sense of hope that we would feel a sense of renewed kinship and kindness towards our neighbors near and far. Unfortunately that feeling was short-lived as we confront the divisiveness that exists today. Perhaps the memory of 20 years ago will snap us back to realizing what really matters and we will begin anew to understand and accept our differences to forge a path of compassion and support for one another.
─ Beth H Scott, EdD