Wanted: Heroes

We Look Back, Look Ahead

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Friends, yesterday was, of course, 9/11 and as I’ve done every year for the past few, I posted an essay I wrote five years ago about a trip we took to Shanksville, PA. It occurred to me that I had never posted that story here, at Day By Day, and several readers encouraged me to post it here as we have many members in this community whom, I’m certain, have not yet read it.

So, today, one day late, that’s what we’ll do. I apologize to those of you dear readers that have already read this story and thank you for humoring me.

The essay has been published and updated several times over the years, but what you’ll be reading below is the original iteration of the piece - the first, raw draft, written as a letter to Little Bean.

Times change, but not much has here. Perhaps there's some truth or grace that you might find in these words. I have no moral expectations in reprinting this here today. Only, perhaps, that it gives you pause and a chance to be mindful. I leave you to your thoughts and hope you're doing well.

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WANTED: HEROES

We are settled in for our ride across Southern Pennsylvania, fresh off a visit to Falling Water, cooler packed with treats, the long glorious highway stretching out before us.

Then, from the back seat, Meena says, “Isn't Shanksville in Pennsylvania?”

“The place where the plane went down on 9-11? I think so, why?”

She's quiet for a moment, focusing on her phone.

“Oh my gosh!” I say. “Today is the anniversary!”

“Get off at the next exit!” she yells.

None of this was planned, baby. Not the weather that forced us in this direction, not the Civil War valley of statues, not the Waffle Houses or Patsy Cline's home or the giant apples or the Frank Lloyd Wright tour.

Certainly not the Flight 93 National Memorial on the 17th anniversary of the event. But we'd been following our guts these last few days and, oh, the things we'd seen.

How were we to know the role you would somehow, incredibly, play in the lives of so many people today? But you would, and it would all begin in a Goodwill store in the middle of nowhere.

* * *

By the time we arrive, it's mid-afternoon. But the park is packed. We missed the President and the anniversary ceremony by only a couple hours. The bleachers are still set up and dozens of tour buses and RVs are buzzing around the site.

As we pull up, we watch in wonder as a pick up truck, decorated from top to bottom with flags, statues of liberty and world trade centers models slowly drives by. Thousands of bubbles float out from the truck bed, shimmering in the cloudy sky. There are vets on motorcycles hugging and shaking hands. Tour buses from all over the country idle, tour groups of folks in wheelchairs, on crutches and hunched over walkers mill around. Families push strollers.

To you, we are just going to a park. On the way here, I tried to explain this will be a special park, a place to think about things and remember people. But I'm not ready to talk to you about 9-11. I'm just not. So I don't really know how this will go.

As I'm unbuckling you and we're getting ready to walk the long path to the memorial, you say, “Daddy, I want to wear the costume!”

“Here?”

“Please, yes, please!”

At a stop off the highway, we took a bathroom break at a Goodwill store. You found a bright red mask and cape and we took it with us for the coming Halloween.

“Please let me wear it!” you moan.

I'm out of my league here. What are we doing? There are TV cameras, and vets in leather jackets on Harleys. Would that be... I don't know, disrespectful?

“Let her wear it.” You mother touches my elbow and smiles, always the voice of reason. The brave one. “It'll be ok.”

I fasten the Velcro cape around your shoulders and slide the red mask over your eyes.

“Like the Incredibles, daddy!”

I set you on the pavement, take a deep breath, your mother and I take a hand on either side of you, and we begin to walk.

* * *

The site sits on a couple thousand acres of farmland, and the memorial itself is enormous, and subdued at the same time; a long runway-like walkway leading to a small orientation visitor center, then a larger museum, then the wall of names and finally a lookout platform rising above a hillock that overlooks the actual crash site. The memorial is designed in the direction of the flight plan that the doomed airliner came in.

The National Parks Service took great pains to not sensationalize the site, to veer purposefully away from Nationalism and focus on the heroic acts of sacrifice of the passengers that fateful day. It is a beautiful, respectful tribute.

You don't know any of this, little one. You know we are outside. And it's one of the first warm days we've had. You know there is space to move, things to touch and flowers everywhere. And as we walk, I can't help but think that you become acutely aware that people are beginning to notice.

A docent near a large map of the park smiles and says, “Oh honey, you're so pretty!” A vet with a round belly and black vest filled with patches and medals smiles and gives me the thumbs up. I smile back, I don't know what else to do. Couples point at you. Some folks whisper. I'm shocked when one lady, as we pass on the long walkway up to the memorial, says, “Thank you.”

Near the viewing platform, a tall, dark haired park ranger watches you approach.

“Is that a policeman, daddy?” you ask.

“No baby, he's called a Park Ranger.”

“What does he do?”

“Let's ask him,” I say.

I lift you up, but even in my arms, the ranger still has a few inches on us. His name is David. I whisper in your ear, ask him.

“Mr. David, what do you do?”

“Well, sometimes people have questions, other times they just want to talk,” he says. “I try to help people.”

“Like a superhero?” you ask.

Park Ranger David takes off his sunglasses and hat and bends toward you, only inches from your face. There is no one here, no audience. This isn't a performance. He is talking only to you.

“What's your name?” he asks.

“Uma.”

“Well, Uma, this place was built to remember heroes. But today, you're the only superhero here.”

His eyes well up, as do mine. I hope you remember that moment, baby.

“I'm an Incredible,” you tell him.

“You sure are,” he says.

We part ways, and I put you down. There are only a few people at that lookout, but when they see you coming they move off. It's as though they are making room for you, clearing that space to allow you a moment's meditation. And you do. You walk right up to the edge and pause. Like you're reading the words.

Like you're a nearly four year old that somehow understands.

After, we visit the exhibit and your mother listens to some of the recordings. I can't, I don't want to cry. We check out the gift shop and you pick out a fridge magnet. We drive over to the sculpture called the Tower of Voices, a half built memorial with 40 wind chimes to commemorate the passengers. You call it a singing tower. We meet a couple from a nearby town who have a granddaughter like you. On our way back to the car, you pluck a daisy off the sidewalk and hold it tightly in the car, on the road, and as you fall asleep, the flower remains locked in your fist.

We're quiet as we drive away, heading east toward home, the day slowly seeping into night. Grateful for the road. Grateful for each other. And grateful for the sleeping superhero we call our daughter.