The Fog of 9/11
An unexpected ring in the early morning hours woke me to a world that had changed forever. The distressed caller, a dear friend living in Texas, asked, “Did you see?”
“What?”
“Turn on the TV!”
Stunned by the nightmare scenes unfolding on the screen, my foggy, still-sleepy brain wished I was still dreaming and that it would all be over when the fog cleared. Twenty-five years later, we are all still waiting for that fog of 9/11 to lift.
My memories of the rest of the day are both vivid and fuzzy. They are filled with gasps, disbelief, not trusting my own eyes, and the desire to weep in front of my colleagues. Perhaps they wanted to weep too, but we all spent those eight hours cooped up in our offices and cubicles, browsing the internet in our quiet collective solitude. The only exception was a visit from our CEO who asked that we cancel all meetings for the day and made the rounds across local campuses to console the staff. As I recall, he acknowledged the enormity of the moment and asked us to take care of ourselves before we supported our healthcare clients.
September 11, 2001, was a day of tremendous loss matched only by tremendous courage. It was a moment when there was no Blue or Red United States of America. It was simply the United States of America. On that day, it didn’t matter which country’s emblem was on your passport; we were all simply Americans.
Becoming American, one memory at a time
By 2001 I had lived in America for five years; I had come from India to pursue my graduate studies. Like most immigrants, I appreciated much of what America offered – from clean air and water, a joy for an environmental engineer, to the global diversity of my university town of Manhattan, Kansas. Unlike most immigrants around me at the time, though, I wasn’t swept away by all things American.
So the moments of Americanness that followed that fateful September morning became memorable. They were defined not by symbols like flags or fireworks, but by a quiet realization that I, too, had become an integral part of American society through shared grief and collective history.
When the heart beats fast for India, faster for America
I was in France the following summer, where the drumbeats of war had not only diminished solidarity with America, but also raised resentment towards its aggressive foreign policy. After a visit to the Louvre, my husband and I sat outdoors at a restaurant next to the museum, right beside another young couple like us. Except they were white and visibly American. When the waiter asked for their order, the woman ordered something French, while the man ordered a burger and asked if he could get French fries on the side. I was stunned when I heard the waiter ask in return, “Would you like to make it a Happy Meal?”
The still-annoyed waiter walked a few steps to our table, rolled his eyes, said, “Those Americans!” under his breath, and took our order. I felt the indignation building immediately in my chest. I also felt a strange guilt – as if, by listening to the waiter’s disdain and not calling him out on it, I was somehow complicit in his anti-American sentiment. My quiet payback came completely by accident at the end of the meal. Running low on euros, we handed the waiter U.S. dollars to settle the bill. The sudden look of realization on his face as he recognized his gaffe was quite satisfying.
Twenty-two summers later we were once again seated outdoors near the Louvre, this time on the Pont des Arts on the Seine, watching the flotilla of athletes for the opening ceremony of the 2024 Olympics, the first outdoor opening ceremony of its kind.
By now we were American citizens. Our Indian-American eyes eagerly waited for two familiar flags. The first, a beloved tricolor we grew up with, arrived in a boat shared with Indonesia and Iran; the Indian delegation was led by badminton champion PV Sindhu, neatly draped in an orange, green, and white sari. Our hearts swelled with pride and cameras clicked almost instantly.
After cheering at the top of our lungs, we settled down but with an even greater sense of anticipation for the arrival of Team USA. As the host of the 2028 Olympics, the American boat would come in right before the French delegation. When the USA boat – carrying the likes of Stephen Curry, Simone Biles, and LeBron James – finally glided past, the cheers and applause were the loudest of all. This time, as an American, I felt a pride even greater than the deafening cheers that permeated the Parisian air.
I realized that the build-up of anticipation between the two boats was an evolution of my immigrant journey – a quiet awareness that you can belong to more than one place.
What being American means to me
In April 2002, on a trip to the East Coast, I visited New York specifically to pay homage to Ground Zero. It felt like hallowed ground. Though heavily cordoned off, the pit was visible from a viewing platform; heavy machinery was still clearing debris. It was surreal to walk the city where, only seven months ago, both the streets and the panicked people running through them were coated in ash and enveloped in smoke. A street corner had become a makeshift memorial – dried and fresh flowers, handwritten notes, firefighter badges, worn teddy bears, and scores of photos of missing loved ones.
I stood there in numbing disbelief, unable to fathom how humans could inflict so much pain on each other. Despite my hardcore belief in non-violence, for a split second, I understood the nation’s desire for retribution.
When I returned to the 9/11 memorial in New York in 2016, soon after becoming an American citizen, I saw that more than endless wars of retribution, it was the effort to preserve that truly mattered.
The twin reflecting pools set in the footprints of the original towers, feature waterfalls cascading into an inner void, representing the void the attacks left the nation with. The underground museum preserves and presents a diverse collection of artifacts capturing the enormity of the moment; a behemoth steel structure pays quiet tribute to the heroes who answered the call of duty, while an audio message from a spouse shares the heartbreaking sentiment that, despite the terror, she didn’t want the day to end because it was the last day she had with the love of her life.
Walking slowly toward the end of the exhibition, as grief-ridden as I was on the day decades ago, I gasped again at the sight of the museum gift shop with its offering of traditional souvenirs like plush toys, spoons, mugs, scarves, and magnets. After a brief eye roll, I ended up buying token souvenirs.
Is there anything more American than that?
(Photo by Shachi Patel)
Answers to that question are as varied as the country itself.
Some might say being American is the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness. Others may say it’s the civic duty to vote, participate in the democratic process, and adhere to the Constitution. For some, it’s a dreamy idea that if you work hard enough, you can be successful and move up in life.
For many immigrants like me, it may mean the constant challenge of finding a balance between assimilation and preserving one’s heritage.
For me, being an American is defined less by ancestry or inherited culture and more by a commitment to shared mindsets, values, and a social covenant.
Twenty-five years later, on that question at least, the fog has lifted.
(Featured Photo by Florian Wehde on Unsplash)
