We Will Never Be The Same: 9/11

As we get older, hopefully we get smarter too. Recently I learned the meaning of the phrase, “paradigm shift”. It is a major change in a certain thought-pattern — a radical change which replaces a former way of thinking or organizing with something radically different. The events of 9/11/2001 are, for most people, a true paradigm shift. We will truly never be the same.

I was on vacation for two weeks in Paris, France, and I had just celebrated my birthday, Sept. 4th, with some friends who happened also to be in Paris at the time. Since I am a museum person, I took time to visit many of the major museums and churches in Paris and its environs. My two weeks in the beautiful City of Lights ended too soon and I was on the plane back home to Orlando, Florida or so I thought. It was an 8:30AM flight to Atlanta on 9/11.

About three hours out over the Atlantic, the pilot suddenly made an announcement. “There has been a terrorist attack and we have been diverted back to Paris.” Being a seasoned traveler, I took the announcement in stride. When we got back to the airport, I got off the plane and went immediately to the information counter. As I stood in line, I saw the television in the bar was showing some kind of explosion involving a building. I asked a policeman nearby what had happened. He said, “Terrorists have flown a plane into the World Trade Center in New York City.” I was stunned.

As I got to the front of the line, I simply asked the attendant when our flight would reboard for the U.S. She said she didn’t know at this point. I asked her for a Hotel voucher and she said they were not offering any. I asked what the airline procedures were for such a case and she said, “Sir, there are no procedures for the closing of all airports in the U.S. This has never happened before.” At that moment I thought to myself, “From today on, nothing will ever be the same.” I was right.

I couldn’t believe it. I felt very alone, like an abandoned child. After several hours, I managed to make my way back to my “priest hotel” where I had stayed for the last two weeks and pleaded for a room—at least for the night. All the hotels in Paris were filled with other tourists whose planes had been diverted. Miraculously it was arranged for me to stay five days at most.

For the next few days, I basically stayed in my small room, my computer connected to the internet, watching the news and the videos of the planes hitting the Towers and the devastation at the Pentagon. The one English channel on the hotel’s television showed the same half-hour summary of the CNN report for that day over and over again.

I made the short five-minute walk to the nearest Delta office each day and waited in line for several hours with other Americans, frantic to get back home. We were all in the same boat, and it felt like it was sinking. In the intervening days, I ventured outside only once. As I sat in a nearby park, I thought about this catastrophic event and how much I wished I were already home again.

Over the next four days, I made two attempts to board in standby. On one of those days, I was involved in a total evacuation of the airport terminal because someone had left a piece of baggage behind. We could hear the police putting several shots into the orphaned bag from a good distance, making sure it contained no explosives.

On the fifth day I was happily accepted on a flight back home. At the time, I lived near the Orlando Airport and we were used to the constant din of planes overhead. However, for the next three weeks, very few planes took off. An eery silence settled surrounded us. It was like a long silent retreat that didn’t seem to end. In our parish, we had several worship services for those who had died on that tragic day.

A few days after the first anniversary of 9/11, I travelled to New York City to visit Ground Zero. As I approached the small Episcopal Church, St. Paul’s Chapel, I saw the many impromptu memorials still hanging on the wrought iron fence surrounding the church. It was a poignant sight—a cloth with colorful children’s handprints from a first grade class in Glassboro, NJ; a picture of fireman Donald J. Regan who had lost his life saving others; a t-shirt proclaiming “God loves NY”; a picture of Miss Nereida De Jesus, another victim of the attack; a poster “In loving memory of Stephen Tomsett”, 40 years of age, accompanied by a picture of him with his little daughter, Emi, peeking over his shoulder.

Inside the small chapel there were posters of firemen, that of a cross formed from two girders of the Twin Towers, a giant banner proclaiming “Peace be with you” and a flag with stars and stripes made out of children’s handprints. A large cast bronze chalice had been fashioned from the metal of the fallen buildings—the base shaped like the Chapel’s fallen sycamore tree, the hands of God enfolding the large cup.

As I left Ground Zero that day, I caught a glimpse of the very long sign on the nearby Trinity Centre Building. It said: “We offer our prayers for the victims and their families and thanks to the American Red Cross and the NY Fire Fighters.” We too should offer our prayers for them and all those who lost loved ones in this tragedy that truly has changed everything.