A journal entry from 9.11.2018
It’s September 11th and I’m sitting at my gate in the Charlotte airport.
On September 11th, 2001, I was in elementary school in Norfolk, VA. I remember seeing the news, hearing what happened.
Just as vividly, I remember sitting at an airport terminal six months later with my family, bound for Montana. My dad had a conference, and we were going to learn to ski.
I remember feeling frightened to fly. As the oldest of four kids at the time, I felt it was my duty to be brave and to help my young sisters feel likewise. After finding my seat at our gate, I scanned the other passengers.
My eye stopped at one lone figure. He had bold features, dark hair and eyes. He was wearing a long tunic and a headscarf. Nice shoes. I don’t remember much else.
I scanned him up and down and panicked. I was scared to get on a plane with this man.
My dad investigated. “What is wrong? Why are you crying?”
“Do you see that man?” I whispered.
“Yes,” his voice soft.
“I’m scared. Scared to get on the plane.”
My dad quickly assured me that there was nothing to worry about. He said something to my mom, then I watched as he walked, unhurried, toward the man.
He was reading a book. My dad interrupted politely and offered his hand. It looked like friendly words were exchanged, then with some concern on his face, my dad pointed over to me.
“My family is over there, and that’s my daughter.” He paused, then continued, sensitively: “She’s ten, and she’s afraid to get on this plane with you. Would you be so kind as to speak with her?” There was a hurried nod, hand motions, more nodding.
My dad came over, took my hand, and walked me - a reluctant child - to this man. I was still crying and felt both frightened and embarrassed. I put forth a valiant effort towards choking back my tears but it felt impossible.
The stranger's eyes were kind, his face warm and smiling. He crouched to my level. This man spoke with a thick accent and clasped the gold cross which hung around his neck. He shared that he was a Christian, and that he was traveling to visit his family. I don’t remember what else was said, but at some point I stopped crying, smiling as I wiped back the tears. We shook hands. My dad gave the man a heartfelt thanks, and we returned to our seats. Our travels resumed, and my sisters and I returned to our tasks of asking for snacks and drawing pictures of ponies.
I could philosophize about what happened in that moment, but I wanted to share the experience as it was. To my haters: no, I'm not too proud to admit that I stereotyped this poor man. I was a child and I watched the news. No one told me to fear this man: I just did.
I’m grateful for my dad, who addressed my fear head-on and made a stranger a friend. I’m grateful for this man, who showed no offense, but graciously spoke with compassion and kindness to a little girl frightened by news she could not fully understand. I’m grateful for those who serve our country, who help keep us safe. For those who labor, unrecognized, at all hours and in all conditions, so that my child one day doesn’t have to be scared to get on an airplane with a stranger.
Let us show love to each other; let us grieve with the grieving; let us Never Forget.