Americans of a certain age can reflect on the events of September 11th, 2001 and tell you precisely what they were doing during those morning hours. It is a defining moment for those of my generation. We have no Pearl Harbor. No grassy knoll. No man on the moon. We have 9/11. I can faintly recall the day President Regan was shot. Aside from hearing my mom cry, there's nothing particularly searing about that moment. I was young. And Regan lived. September 11th is different.
People were transfixed by indelible images of people staggering across the Brooklyn Bridge to flee the ruins of mangled steel left behind on the island of Manhattan.
By late afternoon the world bore witness to tender moments of family members posting flyers for loved ones who they would never see again. I too had felt an indescribable closeness to these people who struggled some three thousand miles away. While filled with empathy I could not help but think about myself.
