Introduction

Where were you on 9/11? Were you at home watching television? Were you in New York? Perhaps near the towers? Or were you in an airport waiting to board a plane? Maybe you were working or in school. If you are old enough to remember that day, chances are you gave a vivid answer to that question.

It seems as though every generation has a few moments in history that remain frozen in time. These moments are the ones for which everyone has an answer to “Where were you when…” Bearing witnesses through radio, television, and/or social media has elevated the impact that these moments have had on our collective consciousness (LaCapra 2014).. I can still visualize where I was when I saw the Space Shuttle Challenger explode. I was in my fourth grade classroom. Miss Tiunis had just rolled the big tube TV into the room. Completely unexpected, I had no idea then how that moment would remain forever etched in my mind. Similarly, the events of 9/11 have been carved into the memories of millions of people around the world.

The question becomes, then, how is our collective memory shaped by the stories we tell after a tragic event? How will future generations make sense of something they were not present to witness? Post 9/11 literature, both fiction and nonfiction, provide new understanding, perspective, and insight into that event.

“Writers are treating 9/11 in increasingly imaginative ways; however, this is where time does matter. The historical moment is not yet ‘over,’ temporally or psychologically. The international consequences of that day continue to unfold, migrate, deepen, and shift. The ground is still settling, and with it, our narratives” (Frost 2010).

We all have a story to tell about that day, but what about the days that followed? The weeks? The months? The years? How long did the impact follow you around? What about today? How often do you think about the events of September 11, 2001? Do you have daily reminders? Yes, we all have a story to tell, and “Conversations With My Father” is my story. It is my way of adding to the dialogue and reflecting on my relationship surrounding one of the most momentous events in history.

I remember.

I arrived at my office in Chelsea on time, right around 9:00 AM. My express bus commute had been uneventful. Typical. Routine. As I exited the elevator onto the 12th floor loft of the small PR firm where I worked, I could hear low murmurs of voices from various corners of the room. Some were in groups gathered around their computer screens. I could see people out on the fire escape. World Trade Center. Plane. Hit. It only took me a second to put the words into the correct order in my mind.

“No. My father works there,” I blurted. I ran outside, pushing past the others. Right around the same time that my mind was able to register what I was seeing, the second plane hit.

I screamed.

Confusion and fear took over. My legs collapsed and I fell slowly to the floor. It was hard to breathe. I don’t remember anyone saying anything to me. It was chaotic. A hot wave of anxiety flushed over my entire body. I called my mother. Her voice was piercing and filled with terror. In between her shrieks and cries I could hear “He’s OK….Owen talked...to him...in his office….he was gonna leave.” I remember saying Yes and OK over and over again as I cried and nodded in understanding of what she was saying. “I have to go, Laura, in case he calls.”

Silence.

I remember.

When I watched the first towers collapse followed by the second, I was only thinking one thing: Is my father still alive? In that moment, I told myself “yes.” At the time, there was no concrete evidence to prove otherwise.

That would not come until many months later.

While thousands of people in lower Manhattan were running away, I was running towards the site of impact. In a way, I feel like I’ve been running ever since. Trying to find my father, perhaps. Trying to find myself? Trying to piece together the fragments that remained. While the world struggled to make sense of the events that were unfolding, I was struggling to accept the possibility that my father did not survive. I clung to the hope that he had somehow managed to escape for as long as I could. It was quite some time before I allowed myself to let go of my hope, to accept the reality that he was gone.

He died in those towers.

I would never know how or when, but one day in early October, I finally acknowledged the fact that my father died on September 11, 2001. That same night, I had a dream or a dream-like conversation with him. He told me about how wonderful heaven was and how much he missed my mom and that he wouldn’t be coming back to visit me anytime soon. It was very real for me. I could see his face and hear his voice clearly. While not a believer in the supernatural, I don’t look back on this experience as an encounter with my father’s spirit. But, rather, I see it as a genuine representation of my mind and heart’s projection of my father.

Inspired by that experience, my creative project, “Conversations with My Father,” is, in a way, an extension of the relationship that was cut short. It’s an exploration of what was, what might have been, and what never could be. It attempts to make sense, create meaning, and discover the truth about what happened that day and what has been happening to myself and the world ever since. It also attempts to uncover how the events of September 11, 2001 may impact my future.