9/11 Post #2

When I think about it, September 11th, 2001 showed the very best and the very worst of humanity.

The people who attacked America on that day hated, absolutely hated, my nation. With a passion. They would die to prove this faith. Some of them did. They killed nearly 3,000 people who had done nothing but live in the US. They were mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, friends, husbands, and wives. They had come to work on a beautiful day in New York, expecting to leave that night and go home and come back the next day and do it all again.

Others were going to visit friends or family or go on vacation. They had made plans and packed suitcases. They were wondering what time the plane was going to land and what they were going to do when they got there. September 11th was normal all around until 8:47am.

That's when terrorists attacked some of the most iconic places in the world, reducing them to rubble within the next hour. Families were destroyed. People were throwing themselves out of windows in order to not die at the hands of a fire caused by hijackers who crashed a plane into the place they worked.

They're cowards, the hijackers. They died without names or faces. They died being absolutely hated by millions of people. They were the first casualties of war. They are the evil of the world.


But New York, America, the Earth, showed a brand of people, who unfortunately aren't acknowledged enough, that day. The heroes came out that day. They saved lives, even if it meant losing their own. Firefighters, policemen, fellow civilians all grabbed hands and dug people out and rescued those who couldn't rescue themselves. The bravery took over the cowardice on United flight 93, forcing the hijackers to crash land in a field in Pennsylvania, saving an unknown number of lives.

The raw fear of the day was swallowed and taken in stride by the incredible efforts and valor of city employees. Those people make me so proud to be an American. Their sacrifice brings tears to my eyes every time I think about it.

My dad was in New York at the time. He had a meeting in the South Tower at 10, meaning he would leave his hotel room (across Manhattan) at 9, getting to the tower at 9:30 in order to get to the 47th floor with plenty of time to prepare before his meeting.

Obviously, he never made it out of his hotel room--both towers had been hit by the time it was 9:00. He stayed in his room and was glued to the TV (similar to the rest of America), occasionally wandering over to the window to see the smoke billowing over the island.

The next day, he decided to venture out into the city. Recalling this, he said that the city was the most deserted and quietest he's ever seen. He stood in a line outside of a large building for about 8 hours to give blood. Street vendors came buy and gave them water and hotdogs. The bank across the street ordered all the people in line pizzas and paid for it all. My dad made friends with native New Yorkers and businessmen from Michigan and vacationers from California. They were all there to support the nation. At one point, the wind changed and blew back towards the city. The jet fuel smell hung in the air, ominous and saddening. For 15 minutes, the whole line of people were silent, the weight of what had happened the day before settling back on them.


America has never been the same. And I never want us to be. Americans are certainly not perfect; no one is perfect. But we came together. And we won't ever forget what happened to the Pentagon, those on flight 93, and in New York that day.

We came out on top. They served us a blow, but the American spirit stood strong and proud.

God bless the USA.