We Jews have grown up with “Never Forget.” And most of us understand that by retelling stories, remembering the 6 million, and reminding the world of what happened to us we’re doing our part in making sure it never happens again.
There are, however, many people in the same world who would like us to just forget and to stop writing books, making movies, and opening museums. There are plenty of people who don’t understand why this Jew won’t ever buy a Volkswagen or a BMW. Or why the Argentina bar scene in X-Men: First Class gives me goosebumps like no other scene in any other superhero movie I have seen. We also never forget those we have lost. We light yahrzeit candles and say kaddish and have unveilings. And of course, we name our children after grandparents and great-grandparents or G-d forbid, parents, and siblings. It’s just what we do.
Twenty-five years ago today was the day that I won’t ever be able to forget. Not just me of course – I’ve seen “Never Forget” tattoos and T-shirts and bumper stickers throughout the years since that horrible Tuesday in 2001. Sadly though, we are collectively forgetting. We are forgetting not just what happened on that day but how we got there. Just this week…the week of the 25th Anniversary, news broke that non-ticketed passengers will once again be able to gain access to airport terminals and gates. What an unbelievable and unnecessary step to take at a specific time when our country’s place in the world is as low as it has ever been. We are forgetting.
Schools across the country have mostly been very lackluster or even somewhat nonchalant about teaching Holocaust history. We know this. And it seems the same can be said about 9/11 history. The events of 9/11 are no longer current events, but they are history. It is a part of American history and the fallout from that day will continue forever.
Twenty-five years later and I’m not quite sure what percentage of American kids can describe what exactly happened that day and why. We are forgetting.
On this 25th anniversary of 9/11, which also coincides with Erev Rosh Hashanah, I will light a yahrzeit candle at 8:46 a.m. EST – the time the first plane hit the North Tower. And before we celebrate the New Year over brisket and kugel – before we talk about all of the naches we hope to have, I will pause and say a brief personal prayer. I will remember the 350 (or so) Jewish victims of the 9/11 attacks. I will remember that for 25 years, 350 Jewish families have had an empty seat at their holiday table. And I know that for the next 25 years, I will continue to talk about that day. I’ll continue to watch every single documentary about it. I’ll make sure to take my kids to the 9/11 museum and memorial. I’ll stop at every roadside memorial I see like the ones I’ve seen in Rockville, Minnesota and Gila Bend, Arizona. I’ll never ever forget.
My 9/11 story is probably similar to many others – I didn’t know any of the victims personally and I wasn’t near downtown at all that day. But the events of the day shook me then and they still shake me now. I have what I call “siren trauma.” For days and weeks afterwards, the sounds of sirens filled the air in New York City. You couldn’t escape it unless…you escaped it. On 9/15/01, a group of us escaped the city and drove upstate to an apple orchard – less so for the apples and more for the peace and quiet. No more smoke. No more sirens. I’ve lived in Minnesota for almost 18 years now and I still have an intense internal reaction to fire trucks and ambulances driving by. No matter what I do, I can’t shake that feeling. And I have a hard time explaining it to others, so I try not to. I sit with it for a few seconds and it passes. But if there is something major going on and it’s more than one fire truck or ambulance, the feeling intensifies to a point where I might just freeze.
On October 11, 2006, I was at work when a buzz started circulating in the office. Someone said that a plane had crashed into a building on the Upper East Side. Before I could even think, a parade of emergency vehicles started heading up 2nd Ave – right outside the window I was sitting next to. That was the moment, five years and one month later, that I realized I couldn’t forget even if I tried. We turned on the news and eventually we learned that it was a small plane, not an airliner. We learned that it was an accident, not terrorism. And sadly, we also learned that it was a New York Yankees pitcher named Cory Lidle on that plane. None of the facts mattered though – I wasn’t able to work much that day. It’s weird to have such a strong response even though I wasn’t anywhere near Ground Zero. So much so that I avoided going downtown for over 15 years.
A couple of weeks ago, I dropped off my oldest at NYU. As we were walking somewhere, I turned a corner and looked left. The Freedom Tower was there in clear view. I was never a subway kid – we were more suburban out in Queens. So to this day, I don’t know which stairways to take or which corners to walk out of to get to the street. My goal is to get to the street and then figure out where I’m going. Until 9/11/2001, if I was anywhere south of Midtown, I would get to the street and try to find the towers. That was South and that’s how I knew which way to walk to get to my destination. When the towers fell, I lost that…and until I read a piece in the New York Times Magazine years later, I thought I was the only one. So when I saw the Freedom Tower peaking out from the buildings between it and me, I paused and said, “oh…South.”
Today, my oldest son is in New York – well-versed on the events of 9/11 since he was in third grade. And he’s planning on attending the ceremony at Ground Zero – so that years from now, he can tell his kids about that horrible Tuesday. Then he’ll hop on a train and head to Long Island to celebrate Rosh Hashanah with his grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins.