This past Sunday, my husband and I caught the end of Sixty Minutes. Does anyone under they age of 50 watch Sixty Minutes? I’m genuinely curious.
Anywho, the reason we happened to tune in is because the football game had run over–and that meant that our DVR started recording what it anticipated to be Big Brother (I know…but please allow me my guilty pleasure TV this once.) If it wasn’t for the technological shortcomings of the DVR, I would never have caught the piece on The 9/11 Museum.
Jim and I were riveted to the screen from the first tics of the clock to the last and in that mere fifteen minutes I had made up my mind that we would need to get to The 9/11 Museum after it opens next year.
Of course I remember exactly what I was doing on that moment twelve years ago. I can replay few moments with as much crystal clarity as I can that cloudless Tuesday morning when it was planes-turned-bombs blocking out the sun. I really don’t need to visit the museum set in the belly of New York City, within the hallowed ground, to feel the magnitude of the event in our history. Our stories of that common day and our retelling of those stories has bound us together in a tight knot connecting the way it was with the way it is now. But my children have no memory of that day–in the days after 9/11 I was not even sure that my children would exist.
There was a point in the fifteen minute segment that they talked about the percentage of Americans who do not have September eleventh, two-thousand-one burned into their collective conscious. How will they know?
In time, my girls will hear my story of 9/11 and they will hear my husband’s story of 9/11 and they may begin to sense the mother’s hope that their lives represent. But to really feel the magnitude of their place in that fabric, I believe a visit to The 9/11 Museum will weave our stories together for them. So, when the time is right, as a family we will go there.