What I Remember

On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was driving to SIUE to register for spring semester classes before heading to work.

I'd already had my stint in radio and was helping build a digital media team and practice at Avatar Studios, St. Louis's biggest media production house at the time. I'd also gone back to school - Economics & Finance this time, a far cry from the Theatre Design degree I'd started with a few years earlier.

When news of the first plane came over the radio, my first thought - shaped by my years in radio - was: Wow, this is quite a radio stunt.

I held onto that all the way through parking, walking across campus to the Peck Building, and stepping into the Academic Advisement Center.

But when I walked in, the building didn't sound right.

No chatter of students in the hallways. No muffled instruction through open classroom doors. Just echoes - televisions and radios from every corner, all tuned to the same thing. It was eerie. Like the air had changed.

When I walked into the Advisement office and saw the television, I understood. This wasn't a stunt.

After registering for classes, I drove downtown to Avatar. Most of us just stood around the television in the lobby that day - a little 17- or 20-inch set, laughably small by today's standards. But we stood there together, watching, as the day unfolded.

When I'd run upstairs to my office to check email, see if anyone needed anything - they didn't - I remember the news websites buckling under the traffic. There were only a handful we trusted for real information back then, and they were all crashing or crawling. The infrastructure couldn't hold the weight of a nation trying to understand what had happened.

That evening, I had Economics on campus. Driving from downtown back to Edwardsville, every gas station had a mile-long line. People panic-buying fuel, bracing for whatever came next. I remember thinking how silly it was, even if the day led to a confrontation in the Middle East. We talked about it in class that night - the likely economic impacts, the irrational response, the fear underneath - academic theories applying to the real life of the day.

But what I remember most isn't the fear. It's what came after.

A sense of togetherness I hadn't felt before and haven't felt since. A revitalized patriotism - not the flag-waving kind, but something quieter. A sense that we were, actually, in this together. That our differences were smaller than what we shared.

I remember long lines at Confession in the weeks that followed. People who hadn't been to church in years, showing up. Something about the fragility of it all - the reminder that life can end in a moment, without warning - drove people back to the Sacraments.

And I remember a general sadness. A loss of innocence. The sense that something had been taken from us that we couldn't name but could feel.

What We Forgot

Twenty-five years later, I wonder how much of that we've kept.

We forgot that we're in this together.

The unity of those weeks didn't last. We're more divided now than we've ever been - politically, culturally, tribally. The "we" of September 12, 2001 has splintered into factions that barely speak the same language. We've sorted ourselves into camps, and the person across the aisle isn't a neighbor anymore. They're the enemy.

We forgot that life is fragile.

For a few weeks, we remembered that everything could change in a moment. That we weren't guaranteed tomorrow. The Confession lines were long because people suddenly felt the weight of their lives.

Those lines aren't long anymore.

We've returned to the illusion of permanence - the assumption that there's always more time, that we can defer the serious things indefinitely. The urgency faded. The comfort crept back. And with it, the complacency. 

We forgot what mattered.

In those weeks, the trivial fell away. People stopped caring about the petty stuff - the arguments, the grievances, the noise. The serious things surfaced. Family. Faith. Neighbors. Mortality.

That's why the Confession lines were long. That's why people called family they hadn't spoken to in years. That's why strangers were kinder to each other in grocery stores and gas stations. The weight of what had happened burned off the fog, and we could see clearly - maybe for the first time in a long time - what actually mattered.

We've let the trivial creep back. It's crowded out the serious again. We fight about things that won't matter in ten years while ignoring the things that will matter forever.

What We Could Remember

I don't think we can manufacture another September 12. And I wouldn't want to - the cost was too high.

But I wonder if we can remember without the tragedy.

Remember that life is fragile - and live accordingly. Go to Confession. Tell the people you love that you love them. Stop deferring the serious things.

Remember that we're in this together - even when we disagree. The parish, the neighborhood, the family. Start there. Build the unity in the spaces you actually inhabit.

Remember what matters. Let the trivial fall away before something forces it to. You already know what's serious. Act like it.

Twenty-five years ago, we remembered all of this. For a few weeks, at least.

We could remember again.