The Courage to Ascend.
It was the same as this, early morning in Albuquerque, as I lay on my bed, eyes dreamy, looking at the Sandias that seemingly fell flushed to my bedroom window. The Northeast Heights was a thing of beauty. The morning dew rising from the base of the mountains felt cool as it slipped through my open window. I was pregnant and spent and sleep-deprived. I took note of the beauty around me to save from reaching its head and plucking the baby out myself; I was so exhausted.
The television spooled voices that twirled between a whisper and silence; On many nights, I’d leave it on, unmuted but quiet, because its flashing light would cajole sleep. It had stayed that way as morning broke.
Something on about Michael Jordan caught my attention, but I didn’t turn up the volume; I shifted instead to try to negotiate a more comfortable sprawl for my humungous load and me. I shut my eyes for fear that keeping them open would strip them of any iota of sleep I had left. A restless string of lapses into and out of slumber followed noncommittal sneak peeks at the television. I remained in that limbo until I saw what looked like the New York City skyline emitting plumes of smoke that trailed up into the sky. My sentiments incredulously nested in what I deemed distasteful cinematography. Then thoughts of, I wonder what would happen if that happened? That would be one heck of a tragedy if any of the Twin Towers caught on fire like that, not to mention a bad action movie, I supposed, then trailed off into another dreamy shift of consciousness.
When chance permitted another awakening, I was still looking at the harrowing image of a burning building. Now sleep disappeared. It wasn’t a daring action movie. I quickly propped myself up and wrestled with the sheets to find the remote. I saw another plane fly into the second building. It was certainly not a movie. At that moment, a conversation permeated the room, and it was between Bryant Gumbel and a reporter. She confirmed there had been a second explosion, and he was asking about her declaration, asserting that what was unfolding in New York was intentional. He sounded skeptical, but she affirmed, and rightfully so, that what she was commentating on looked as if “they” did it on purpose. In those moments, as the footage played back, I knew for a fact that we were under attack.
The following hours left me, and I know many others too, feeling violated, enraged, melancholy, and hopeless. Why? How? To what end? Neither the twenty years that have passed nor twenty more would suffice for the loss that we witnessed.
Questions ensued, as did doubt among neighbors and strangers alike. Fear rummaged through my heart and my home. I wanted to hug everyone to let them know people of our faith did not condone these atrocities. I longed to recite a thousand pledges just for a neighbor to see my heart, but I recoiled instead, hugged my son, and stayed home.
The days that followed birthed solidarity as I’d never seen since I moved here as a teenager. I remember those solemn moments when I peeled off the stickers and attached the flags to my car bumper, front door, laptop, and kitchen window. Still, most significantly, I remember how I stamped American pride on my heart and in my spirit.
Even as we hurt, we sought unity. Those who so viscously obliterated those lives designed an attack to bring us to our knees, but we didn’t break. When we landed on our knees, we didn’t fall. We knelt, instead, rooted in our belief in one nation. Then we stood up as one nation indivisible, united, and strong.
From that day to this one, that pride has never waned nor faltered. When shame has threatened, I’ve always managed to remain hopeful. Here still stands the home of the brave. I am grateful for every soul that attempted descent to flee strife and equally every soul that summed up the courage to forge an ascent to preserve life.
For all of them, our faithfully departed, I pray we never forget.
