Over the last ten years, I have heard innumerable stories from friends, family and strangers about their experiences on September 11th, 2001. From a friend whose father was supposed to be on the plane that hit the North Tower to another whose uncle lost his life at the Pentagon, there are hopeful and painful stories from that terrible day. Just this morning, my yoga instructor began class by telling us how she was supposed to fly to South Korea on the morning of 9/11 and found out about the attacks at the ticketing line in the airport.
I'm always struck by how people want to, or really need to, tell their stories. Perhaps it's our way of processing what occurred, since, even ten years later, what occurred remains unfathomable. Or it's our way of reaching out and connecting with each other, reminding us that we as humans are capable of loving and caring for one another, in spite of the evidence to the contrary. Maybe the process of telling our stories is these things and a lot more.
It has become clear, in the ten years since that, with regard to 9/11, we have a collective story. It is ours, as participants in this country (in this world): a cacophony of memories. A discordant mixture of stories that together join to form one. We each need to tell our story because of our desire to be a member of the cacophony.
It's very much like what happens when yoga students chant "Om" at the end of a class. Om, or Aum, is the Hindu symbol representing the energetic vibration of all life (think Einstein's E=MC2 but without the downward facing dog). We chant together and our voices unite. It's not necessarily a pretty sound but, because we are participating in it together and sending it out, it can become beautiful. In this way, our cacophony of memories is not necessarily pretty. It's filled with unimaginable grief but, because of its unifying nature, it's beautiful.
I am convinced this universal desire to contribute to the collective story of 9/11 is one of our most amazing weapons against the hatred that brought the towers down. Our willingness to tell our stories to one another and, even more, to listen to others' stories is illustrative of our universal refusal to become like those who attacked us. Our stories bind even the most different of us together and help us to see one another's worth, something our attackers failed to do. Indeed, the binding in which we have participated acts as a daily reminder to search for the humanity in each other. If we were more than just "enemies" to these men -- if we were fellow humans with lives and, of course, with stories to them -- I don't believe 3,000 of us would have died that day.
Ten years ago today I was a sophomore at Boston College. I was far from my parents and siblings but surrounded by my wonderful family of friends. We gathered together as a school and prayed, having lost 22 alumni, and we connected and supported each other. We were bound together that day so tightly by our shock and grief and our willingness to connect with one another. I pray that we can practice this willingness with the same kind of fervor we did ten years ago.
