Ad Arma Vocare! A Writer's Call to Arms

Little did I know how my life would become part of 9/11 . . .

Ad Arma Vocare! A Writer's Call to Arms

 

 

                           "An author ought to write for the youth of his own generation,

                         the critics of the next, and the school-masters of ever afterward."

                  (F. Scott Fitzgerald)

 
 "...Good morning Boston!" the perky blonde television anchor said, "It's a beautiful autumn morning today -- Tuesday, September eleventh, two thousand one. These are today's headlines..."

The TV reception wasn't the best in these airport coffee shops, but it would have to do. My attention switched from today's news to the tall, dark-haired woman who sat down at the counter. She was pretty -- quite pretty really - and probably in her early twenties. Her lilting voice carried across the room, downright cheery for this time of the morning. Still half asleep myself, I sipped a cup of Earl Grey.
 
"Thanks . . . that's great," she said, as the waiter poured a hot, steady stream of coffee into her cup. She tore open a packet of sweetener and pulled a small red cell phone from her backpack, punched three or four buttons, and held the phone to her ear. "Hi Dad, it's me," I heard her say loudly after a few moments. She motioned the waiter to turn the volume down on the large television that hung suspended in one corner of the room.

"Sorry Dad," she said loudly, "I can barely hear you over the TV here. Hold on a sec." The waiter grabbed the remote from behind the counter and quickly turned down the volume, waiting for her response. She nodded and went back to her conversation.
 
"I'm doing fine, Dad, just a little stressed trying to make it here on time. You know how I despise alarm clocks! But I'm all checked in now and just waiting to board. I thought I'd grab some decent java before I leave. Besides, I wanted to call and tell you that I made it here okay. I know how you worry," she said, catching my eye with a grin and a wink. I smiled in return and went back to my tea, trying to concentrate on the morning news instead of her conversation.
 
A few moments later, an announcement came booming over the loudspeaker. "Good morning. Welcome to United Airlines. We are now ready to board Flight 175 from Boston to Los Angeles. Those holding First Class tickets may board at this time."
 
"I have to run, Dad. They're starting to board my flight," I heard her say. "Yes . . . I will, don't worry. Will you and Mom be at the gate when I get there? Good. Bring bucks with you too, Dad. I'm dying for a good meal on the way home. Okay? Great. I have to get going now. I love you, Dad. See you there!" She blew a kiss into the receiver, turned off the phone, and dropped it into her backpack once again. "Cute girl," I thought to myself as I watched her drop a tip on the table, gather her copy of Cosmo, and walk away.

I returned to my tea, the morning news broadcast, and my own thoughts. I glanced at my watch. It was only five minutes past nine. I had plenty of time for another cup before I met my husband at nine-forty five. When I caught the waiter's eye, I raised my cup to indicate I needed a refill. Then I removed my favorite pen and brown leather journal from my purse. I found a clean, white page on which to record my thoughts. "Let's see," I said to myself as I uncapped my fountain pen, "the date today is..."
 
                       * * * * * * * * * * * *
 
They have identified her now. Her name was Lisa . . .

If I had known, I would have tried to stop her from leaving -- stop that lovely young woman from boarding that ill-fated flight and, most of all, stop her from having to die for someone's insane beliefs.
But I didn't know.

 

She boarded that plane. I drank my tea and wrote in my journal.

 

She never made it home. I was never the same.
 
How incredibly cheerless our world has been since that terrible day. Even the holidays and the Super Bowl lacked their usual flavor this year. It's been difficult to celebrate when so many are hurting. It just doesn't seem right.
 
Relentlessly, I ask myself if I could have saved her. I know the answer is no, but I can't seem to absolve myself of the feeling that I still must do something to make this world a better place because of her. So, I've decided to do what I do best and that is to write.

I write to ultimately be at peace with myself, releasing raw emotions from my head and my heart onto paper where I can begin to understand them. But where do I begin? Are there enough words to express how I, as a citizen of the world, feel about the horror of this tragedy?

Never before have I worried about flying off to Scotland on holiday or about the high-rise buildings that I work in toppling down on me. I've never really considered that the nuclear power plant just down the road might be sabotaged. I've never reacted in fear at the sound of a plane engine overhead, even though I've lived near an airport for years. I've never draped an American flag on my living room wall or flown one from my car antenna, even on a national holiday. And I've certainly never been so affected by a news event that I couldn't even go into work.

I can't say I've ever turned on the news first thing in the morning, fully expecting to hear of another plane highjack being thwarted, an airport being evacuated, or a historic bridge under 24-hour protection. I've never had to worry when my daughter flew across country to attend a business meeting; she's independent and has always taken care of herself. And I've never been terrified that that my granddaughter would turn on the television to watch cartoons, only to see an airplane, just like the one Mommy took to Houston, slam into the side of a building.

I've never thought of wearing gloves to open my junk mail or considered my prized antique nail file, knitting needles, or the plastic box cutter I keep in my kitchen gadget drawer to be weapons. I've never felt the need to be within three feet of my cell phone at all times. I've never questioned the motives of the quiet computer programmer from Saudi Arabia sitting next to me during staff meeting. Even here in earthquake country, I've never bought an extra month's worth of groceries, drinking water, and first aid supplies just to keep "on hand."

I could never have imagined that I would not take my granddaughter to Disneyland for her birthday, just because of security issues. I can't say I've ever called every member of my family within a half-hour period just to assure myself of their safety and God knows that during the whole 17 years I've lived in Southern California, I've never once preferred staying at home to going somewhere fun.

I've never gladly given up my favorite television shows just to watch CNN or hear the president speak. I've never told a flight attendant on one of my business trips that I appreciated the courage it took for her just to come to work. I've never really paid much attention to the huge American flag gently waving high above a building that I pass every day on the way to work. I've never crocheted an afghan for the family of someone who died, especially if it was someone I didn't even know. I've never given any real thought to civil liberties and my freedom to move around freely. And I don't remember EVER being moved to tears when someone sang "God Bless America."

Until now.
 
Am I the only one who has felt this way? I think not. So I say to you, the writers of the world: "Ad Arma Vocare!"  Take up arms beside me!

 

Let us seize our own weapons - pens, typewriters, laptops, PDAs, and PCs -- using them as a magnifying glass to observe our thoughts, feelings, emotions, and actions, revealing who we have become in the days following that Tuesday tragedy.

True, words may not be the first weapons most soldiers would prefer in a time of war. But they are honest weapons in the battle for peace, truth, and freedom.  By putting pen to paper we can do more than just record the tragic events, we can also explain, preserve, honor, and attempt to understand -- confirming again, "The pen is mightier than the sword."
 
As writers, it is our honor and responsibility to help preserve our history, not only as it was on September 11, but as it was the day before and the days after. My grandchildren's history books will most assuredly touch on the highlights of those events -- the cast of characters, the thousands of victims, the effect it had on our economy -- and record for posterity the bitter aftermath of war. We must also preserve the minor details, the human stories, and the emotions we have all experienced during this terrifying time. It's so very important if the little Sarahs, Haileys, and Jimmys of the world are to truly understand (and never have cause to repeat) the circumstances surrounding that dreadful day.

We have changed as a country. We have all changed individually. Every aspect of our lives has somehow been touched by the finger of September 11. But our children's world will change most of all. Flying anywhere will no doubt be problematic and frightening for them. The sight of armed security guards and long queues leading to explosive and metal detectors will be the norm for them. They are destined now to live in a world of uncertainty, with talk of war, bomb scares, and the possibility of new terrorist attacks.

While we cannot prevent these changes from occurring, we can pass along our history -- our personal thoughts, feelings, and stories -- to our children and grandchildren.  Witnessing the carnage, we have come to know the true meaning of the words "fear," "revenge," "anxiety," and "sorrow." But we have also found a new, heart-felt appreciation for words like "flag," "hero," "courage," and "brotherhood."

We can help them learn to truly appreciate the quality of life and freedoms they have been given, and share with them the wisdom we have gained: peace is worth fighting for and tolerance must begin with them.

Already many books and articles litter the newsstands, recounting the facts and photos of the disastrous events. But these insights, presented without the emotions behind them, are as empty as a seashell washed by the tide upon the moonlit sand -- interesting to look at, but meaningless without an understanding of the life within.

Just as fact and photos are easily remembered -- the fodder for quiz shows, trivia games, and history books -- sentiment is often overlooked or too quickly forgotten. So I call upon every writer -- both the great and the small -- to hear the cry of future generations: "Tell us! We must know the complete story, so that we may understand...and learn!"

Web sites dealing with September 11 and its aftermath are falling off the Internet in record numbers. The time is now, my comrade writers, to begin writing while our memories are still fresh -- don't let them disappear!

Each of us can surely write a few paragraphs or pages during a lunch break or a quiet evening, sharing with our children our new world -- how we've seen it, how we've heard it, and (most importantly) how we have felt it. Consider keeping a small notebook and your favorite pen in your purse or near your favorite chair, someplace within easy reach to record your thoughts whenever you are reminded of that day and the events surrounding it.

You could even collect Internet items that have touched you since that day, perhaps a memorial or poem (just select "File>Save As" from your browser menu to save the web page). Later, you may want to print them or save them on a CD-ROM to give to your child or grandchild. If you have a poem, a news story, a prayer, a quotation, a humorous quip, or a personal devotion to share, please take the time to save it electronically or write it down.

We've all given generously from our pockets. Won't you join me now in giving generously of your words? Words that will demonstrate our compassion and patriotic resolve to the future generations that seek to know us?

The important thing is to capture a record of this time in your life. Americans need your words more than ever to help them begin to live and laugh again, to inspire them to become a nation of peace and tolerance, and to ensure that they never, ever forget the impact of these events on their lives. They need -- Lisa needs -- your words of hope, giving them a reason to believe once again in a future of peace.
 
Together, our collective voices can honor those, like Lisa, who sacrificed their lives so that we all might speak freely.

God, bless us all . . . and please God, bless America . . .

             ---------------------------------------
Dedicated to:

LISA FROST
Age 22
Rancho Santa Margarita, CA

Lisa was on her way home after graduating from Boston University with dual degrees in Communications and Business Hospitality.
She died on September 11, 2001
United Flight 175
World Trade Center
New York City

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[GC]

I hold this event very close to me because I lost many friends and family friends that day.

My school at the time was merely a few blocks away from the WTC, and I was sitting in history class, first full week of Senior year.
My teacher was recounting her experience in Israel over the summer, telling us about how a car bomb went off outside her school. That's when we heard the first impact, our attention shifted out the window.
The rest is history.

Thank you for sharing this story.

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I'm so touched by your words. I wasn't directly affected by by 9/11 in the sense that I, nor anyone I know, was anywhere near it when it happened but it has always affected my heart. I was only 15 when it happened but I remember going to school that day completely sick to my stomach. I was walking around and watching people act so normal when our country was falling apart and I couldn't understand that. Since then, I've collected many momentos to pass on to my future generations and to remind myself that judgement is the poison that is killing the world today. Every year on September 11th I watch a video of clips from that day so I never forget what our country is about, what our troops are fighting for and how our country came together that day. Why is it that only in the face of tragedy can we reach out to complete strangers to help?

I've never thought of writing my thoughts or story down because I really don't think it's that interesting but I suppose that if no one else does, my kids and grandchildren might like to hear it. Thank you for your reminder to appreciate every moment we have in this world.

(Writing note: In the beginning, I think you should make it more clear that the main character is a woman. I didn't realize that until she got to the point of talking about her husband and was a little shocked. Other than that, your words were very powerfully chose and this piece really spoke to me.)