Twenty years ago, I remember the morning of April 19th very clearly. I was waiting for the bus, shivering in the early spring morning, listening to the birds in the Darrah's garden, aware that something horrible had happened someplace where my grandmother's family lived, but unsure what was going on. The adults had talked in quiet voices to one another, over our heads both literally and figuratively. To us children, the adults, both parents and teachers, explained that evil people had done something awful, but that we shouldn't be afraid. My parents told me a little more about what happened- about the bomb, and the building collapsing, and the deaths- and they asked me not to scare my siblings, and instead come to them, my parents, with my questions or my fears.
I remember the front page of the Rocky Mountain News the next morning- the picture of the firefighter carrying away a tiny, broken body from the debris. I remember the news coverage of the building's broken shell as search and recovery efforts continued forward, and of reading the short biographies of the victims...and how so many of them were far, far too short. I remember my friends collecting pennies at school to send to the city in a childish gesture of love. I also remember feeling relieved above all that my mother's cousins and aunts and uncles were alive, and thus, in my innocence, believing their lives had been shadowed sparingly by the tragedy. Though I know better know, I am thankful I had that comfort to cling to while trying to understand how anyone could do something so terrible.
I remember our visit to Oklahoma City early the next year, and our pilgrimage to the site. The chain-link fence, which seemed to stretch for miles, was stuffed full of ribbons and toys and signs, of photos and candles and flowers. I remember the sound of the wind between the memorial items, whispering a quiet requiem that smelled of sunshine and dust.
We watched the building come down on the news, and we learned about terrorism for the first time in school. When Timothy McVeigh was tried in Denver, I confronted my ethical stance on the death penalty for the first time. I remember that I wanted him to be spared, locked in a tiny room surrounded by the photos of those he killed and injured and hurt, to spend his life haunted by his guilt. I remember hating him for making me think it might be okay to wish someone was dead.
I remember my first visit to the finished memorial site. Now an adult, and working to combat terrorism as a career and having studied the findings of the bombing extensively, I thought the museum would be an interesting academic voyage. I wasn't expecting the flood of memories and emotions it would bring. Outside is a field of chairs, placed to represent the location of each victim at the time of their death. They marched along in lines, some far apart and some clustered together, but each a precise and disciplined soldier keeping vigil over a legacy. It was Christmastime, so they were adorned with red wreathes. The Survivor's Tree- complete with the scars from the bomb- furled out its branches to the sky, a tangible legacy of survival, endurance, patience, and time. The reflecting pool- filling the space where the blast left a crater eight feed deep- rippled peacefully in the prairie wind, bracketed in each side by doorways. Inside, the exhibits left me breathless and aching with
tears. The cases of watches and shoes and keys reminded me of the Holocaust museums in Berlin and London. The timeline of events put perspective and history on my childhood memories, and helped connect those impressions I gathered as a young girl with my knowledge as an adult homeland security professional.
People in my field often cite the events of September 11, 2001 as the starting point or motivation for their career choice. Almost everyone over thirty has a war story about 9/11, and it crops up as the image or video or story of choice in almost every major terrorism-themed lecture, film, or class I've seen in the last ten years. For me, though...that moment is a dual-toned memory. I remember that photograph, and the realization that a person- an American- willingly caused so much hurt and suffering to innocent people. I remember the fear, the sorrow, and the anger. I remember my gut wrenching and my throat closing as I stood looking at the watches, all stopped at 8:02 am, piled together in a curator's case.
Twenty years is a long time. I've grown up, gone to college (twice), fallen in and out and back in love, moved across the country, and chased down several fantastic jobs. I've watched my siblings grow into adults, and kissed most of my grandparents goodbye for the last time. I've been given a wonderful gift, because I've been here to see my world change and grow, which is as it should be...so today, I say to those whose lives stopped more than half my lifetime ago, and for those who continued on without them: Thank you for your lessons. Thank you for your lives. I remember you.
