Our driver dropped us off near the entrance of the 9/11 Memorial. It was POURING rain and the queue was long, so I rushed to the nearest cover by the museum’s exit, while Clint went to purchase tickets. At that place, a police officer and a museum maintenance worker were present. I eavesdropped on their casual conversation for a while and ultimately mustered the courage to ask them where they were on 9/11.
The museum staff member declared, “The 47th floor of the North Tower.” Thomas Canavan, one of the 20 people who lived through the collapse. Remarkable. He proceeded to describe his harrowing ordeal of being entombed alive, navigating through 46 feet of horizontal and approximately 30 feet of vertical rubble, emerging alive but severely injured (unmindful due to adrenaline), and sadly having lost the friends he started with.
We chatted for 20 minutes as if there were no other people around. I asked questions, and he gladly answered. One of the many points from that conversation that caught attention was his remark on how deceptive it is on television when you only observe a single dust cloud and a small hole from the plane. The reality you don’t recognize at home is that it included desks, filing cabinets, chairs, stairways, lifts, and people falling onto him. The tiny gaps in the Towers on TV caused by the planes were in reality six stories tall. The scale of this tragedy exceeds what many of us can grasp from our television screens. Something that is hard for us to comprehend.
As a result of the fall, his wristwatch stopped; an instant captured in time. The eeriness and contradiction. Tom told me that day was the last time he wore a watch. One could simply regard September 11 as a dreadful occurrence in our country’s history. We often neglect to remember that these were/are REAL INDIVIDUALS, many of whom still face the consequences every day. Even a seemingly insignificant matter, such as being unable to wear a watch, because it evokes disturbing memories.
We spent two hours in the museum, but we could have easily spent days exploring it. As we exited the museum, we saw Tom close by. We called out his name and ended up chatting a bit more. Prior to his departure, he noted in his Northern drawl, “See, we Yankees aren’t really that bad.” “You won’t know what insights you may discover about people until you have a conversation with them.” This made me reflect a bit… throughout my discussion with Tom, no fewer than 10 visitors came up to him inquiring about the restroom, the entrance to the museum, the nearest eatery, and similar matters. Nonetheless, I felt that only a handful of individuals took the time to ask about 9/11: the purpose of our meeting. No one knew everything he had gone through. I could only feel thankful that it rained that day and I selected that particular awning to rush under, or I might have missed this event and humbling turn of fate. I can only hope he was as inspired to share his story with us as we were to hear it.
When we bid him goodbye, I noted that we would take his story along to The South, which is why I wanted to tell you about it today. I may never see my FRIEND Tom again, which fills me with sadness, but each September 11th I will treasure the memories of him and all the men and women who lived and died confronting true evil. I still feel a sense of pride in being an American.
