Who, Not Where
Don’t want to read? Take a listen, here.
Last week marked twenty-five years since the attacks of September 11, 2001. Many people have reflected on it; we were all affected one way or another. If you’re looking for one of my “regular” blogs, this is not it. It is simply a reflection of my memories of that day.
Like others, I will always remember that morning. Just a few days before, on September 7, Eddie and I had closed on a new house in Franklin, a few miles from our first home in Birmingham. I was five and a half months pregnant with our first child, and we had a 15-month-old black lab. Eddie left on September 9 for the Frankfurt Auto Show, so when Tuesday, September 11 arrived, I was on my own — starting the day with an early Federation breakfast meeting at the Gallery restaurant with my committee chairs, David Foltyn and Sharon Hart.
I knew I wouldn’t be back home until late that day and I didn’t want to leave the puppy home alone, so my mom met me at the Gallery to have me unlock the car and retrieve the dog, who’d been waiting patiently in the car. When she arrived, right around 9, she shared terrible news: A plane had hit the World Trade Center. We were all shocked, and David remarked that he had planned to be in New York that day — unbelievably, at a meeting in the Twin Towers.
We wrapped up, and I went to the Federation building, where we all stood in Mark Davidoff’’s office — he had a small television, and he was away in Israel leading a solidarity mission. We watched live as the second tower was deliberately struck, and we knew then that it was not just a horrific accident.
That afternoon, glued to the screen, we told staff they could go home if they were uncomfortable staying. Rumors were spreading that skyscrapers around the country were being evacuated, and there was early speculation that Palestinian Islamic Jihad had claimed responsibility — which was quickly walked back, like so much of what we thought we knew that week. Police patrolled our lot; the mood was a mix of incredible tension and horrible sadness. Executive directors from every associated agency, and some other community organizations, came to the building that afternoon so we could share what we knew (which was close to nothing). Detroit Federation CEO Bob Aronson did his best to calm nerves. His steady presence was an important part of the day.
I also remember that 9/11 was when the CNN ticker started — there was simply too much happening for the traditional news cycle to keep up. But it wasn’t just that one day. The story kept unfolding for weeks — new names, new details, new fears — and I remember the strange sensation of everyone around me reeling in slow motion, trying to absorb something too big to take in all at once.
The day got stranger. I went home, and our dear friend Danny Rice called to ask if I wanted to go with him to our friends Sue and Billy’s that night. Billy and Sue, together for many years, had been married at the Ferndale courthouse that morning, and we’d all been invited to “celebrate” with them. I remember the drive there — watching gas prices climb in real time as gouging began almost instantly. Their party was hardly a celebration, but it was an important night for us all to be together. Certainly better than being home alone, with my husband on the other side of the world.
The world changed. David and I still talk every year on September 11 — other times too, but always, without fail, on that day. Twenty-five years later, it’s become its own small ritual: a call that doesn’t need much explanation, because we were both there for the same morning. Billy passed away in 2004 from cancer; we think of him frequently and do our best to honor his memory.
All of these details – and many more – are why I wanted to write this down. Memory doesn’t keep itself; someone has to choose to keep it, and then choose to pass it on. Twenty-five years from now, this story will only exist for my family if I tell it now, while I still remember the old art at the Gallery, the sound of my mother’s voice at the door, the particular color of that beautiful September sky before everything changed.
That, too, is a kind of legacy — not the philanthropic kind I usually write about, but the kind that lives in the stories and the calls we choose to keep making.
I try to end my weekly blogs with a question or two – and I only have one this week: Where were you? I’d love to hear your memories.
We say in Judaism when someone dies, “May their memory be for a blessing.” May those who lost their lives on 9/11 and from the fallout of that horrible day be remembered with love and gratitude, and may we hold the memories of those days in our hearts.
Shabbat Shalom — and if you are observing Yom Kippur, may you have an easy and meaningful fast,
kari
