On September 11th, 2001 I was a world away. I was in Vittoria, Spain with a University chorus for an International Choral festival. On September 11th, we had spent most of the day at the Guggenheim Museum in Burgos. We returned back to Vittoria at about 4:30. After resting a bit I called my girlfriend Jessica in San Diego. She was trying to tell me something about a plane that had accidentally crashed into the World Trade Center. The details were very sketchy and not much known. Not having access to pictures or TV, I didn't have much to go on and couldn't quite comprehend what was happening.
After getting off the phone, I went and told my Choir director, Joe Huszti, what little I knew. Shortly afterwards, the director of the festival met with Huszti and told him of the attack that most Americans knew about already. Huszti gathered us together and told us the horrible news. We were given the choice of whether to perform our concert that night or not. It would have been no shame on us and perfectly acceptable, but Huszti chose for the concert to go on as it had been scheduled for years, but with exclusively Sacred music. We took the long bus ride out to the small town for our concert. The bus ride was about an hour, I believe and I had my little portable disc player to help console me. Renee Fleming sang the "Ave Maria" from Verdi's "Otello" through my headphones and I thought I was prepared for the concert that we would perform that night.
I can't remember much from that concert. We didn't move much, as we usually did. We were renowned for our folk music, which we didn't sing. We sang Sacred music imploring the Lord for mercy and help. We were advised to focus on the music, not the words that night, but my mind could not. The words of the "Ave Maria" poured out of me and the tears accompanied each word in an unending phrase of sorrow. I can't remember what else we sang; it all blended together. I cried through the entire concert and was unable to stop until after we stopped. It was such a lonely feeling. I heard the sound of the choir and saw the audience, but it all seemed so distant, like I was looking through a tunnel at what was happening. I knew the audience was crying and I knew other singers were as well, but I felt so alone in my grief. It was one of the toughest experiences of my life, but one I'll never forget and one that has made me a stronger performer.
After the concert, our hosts gave us a nice dinner and some wine and we were able to briefly, just briefly, put the horror at home out of our mind. The next day would be a different story.
We woke up in the monastery (our housing for the festival) and went down to breakfast as usual. As we walked into the cafeteria, people lined up to hug and kiss us. These were perfect strangers who didn't know us, our country or our language, but the sorrow and compassion on their faces was devastating. They expressed their sorrow for us and our country and cried with us. At once I felt comforted and not so alone in my grief.
That day, we had free around the city and we went walking into the local shopping centers, one of which had several plasma TVs tuned to CNN. It was dawn on the east coast. They were showing the smoke still billowing over Manhattan and footage that had been shown the previous day. Finally, we could see what people had been talking about since the previous day and it was unimaginable. The newspapers, one of which I still have, showed pictures of horror and bravery, the likes of which I had never seen. The pictures showed people jumping from 80 stories out of a burning building. They showed flames; they showed planes colliding with buildings and ordinary Americans in what looked like a war zone. It was surreal and incredible beyond belief. It really seemed a world away that day.
Upon returning to the States, I was in awe, truly in awe of the power of the human spirit. I saw Democrats and Republicans united unlike any time in my life time. I saw Americans giving all they could. I saw Americans praying and crying, hugging strangers and falling to the ground in grief. I saw flags. I saw so many flags. I heard people singing "God Bless America" at the top of their lungs. I heard words of love, compassion and stories of bravery and heroics that seemed beyond belief. We were the most united country in the world in those days. The President had my support as well as 90% of the country, and, as I saw first hand, the world stood with America.
Five years later, I look at pictures from those few weeks and cry. The images of destruction have been ingrained so deeply that they no longer move me. The images of funerals and processions and pain chill to the bone, but I do not cry because of those. I cry for our country. I cry because five years ago this country was the most respected and united in the world, with the power, influence and will to do good. There were no Republicans and Democrats five years ago. We were Americans. Five years later, fear and a misguided war have destroyed that unity and hugs and kisses I received half a world away on September 12th, 2001. This President cannot and does not want to return to the days of September 12th. Tonight he will talk about this anniversary strengthening our resolve in the "front on terror," Iraq. Yesterday, his Vice President asserted that anyone engaging in public debate on the current course of the Bush administration is simply emboldening the terrorists. These are not days when they will allow us to be unified. These are not days when we hug those across the aisle. These are not days when we sing full voiced in unity. These are not days when Spanish, French, Germans, British will hug and kiss us openly. These are days a world away.
