Today I Bought an American Flag
by Alex Sinha

Today I bought an American flag.  Exiting onto the street, I draped it over my shoulders like a cape
and walked home, carrying the empty plastic bag through the empty streets.  Manhattan, devoid of
cars and city noises, mute like a peaceful wood, is not itself today.  I crossed Broadway without
looking both ways, catching the glances of soft-spoken pedestrians.  A busload of law enforcement
officers proceeded past me, heading south, undoubtedly.  Those of them I lock eyes with nod in
respect, approving of my choice of shawls.  I raise it up for them to see better, and nod solemnly back.

The date is September 12, 2001.  I stroll back to my dorm on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Tenth
Street in lower Manhattan.  I am an 18-year old college freshman, one of many rural kids who made
the trek to the big city to experience the excitement and vibrancy we see in movies and hear about
in songs.  I look up at the smoke in the sky, and trace it southward until it disappears among the
tops of tall buildings.  My mind tiptoes backward, following the smoke trail and bringing back
yesterday's events against my will…

A knock at the door.  I roll over in bed.  What time is it? 9:30?

"Coming..."

"You guys have to see this!  Two terrorist planes just crashed into the World Trade Center!  It's
burning!  Get out of the building!"

My roommate and I scramble to throw on some clothes, excitedly shaking off sleep.  Three weeks in
New York City, and I already get to see something extraordinary!  Five flights of stairs are quicker
than the elevator.  The four of us dash breathlessly onto the street, where cars have been - by some
remarkable transformation - replaced by people.  Students and pedestrians stand scattered across the
intersection of 10th street and Fifth Avenue.  We hurry down Fifth, just past the intersection, and look
up at the horizon.  And there it is, just as we've been told.  The twin towers, which stand so clearly
down the street, lined up almost perfectly behind the Washington Square Arch, are, indeed, burning.  Two gaping holes, black and orange, scar the flawless glass exteriors of the two giant buildings.  The crowd stands in a mild state of shock, strangers pointing and arguing the details of the crashes in agitated tones.  We literally scoff.  Who do they think they are?  Who do they think we are?  We stand for a few moments, listening to details of a plane crash at the Pentagon on a nearby car radio.  I clench my teeth and grimace.  No one messes with the United States. We shake our heads, looking at the towerand wondering how long it will burn before they can extinguish the flames.

And then it occurred to me, "Wait.  How do you fight a fire that's 90 stories in the air?"

A moment later, "Oh my God, the building is going to fall."

And, within minutes, though we still haven't entirely accepted this as a possibility, the first tower
trembles, and collapses in on itself.  The crowd's response to this is frightening for the first time. 
Women start to sob and scream and men begin shouting.  The change in attitude is palpable.  Excitement and astonishment are replaced with fury and utter disbelief.  The crime committed against us all is, all of a sudden, much more serious.  My initial reaction is horror at the defacement of such a magnificent marker of modern America.  My concern for loss of life doesn't even strike me until moments later, while I try to imagine what the horizon will look like once the smoke clears, with only one lonely tower.  At least, we thought, the second tower doesn't look as badly damaged.

But, as we stand there in the street, the little drops of orange slowly trickle downward, one floor at a time, one tiny rectangular window at a time, almost as tears, until against all expectations, the second tower also falls.  The crowd becomes hushed.  A sickening finality begins to settle over the onlookers.  More people begin to cry, but differently this time, quietly.  We remain to watch the thick plumes swirl upward from the phantom towers, which seem as if they should be there still, hidden behind the wall of smoke.  I turn away, eyes moist in outrage, and rush inside.  I am lucky that I know nobody who worked in the World Trade Center, but this does not occur to me yet.  I am too busy fighting tears as I sprint to the elevator.

The phone lines are out, so I email my parents and friends to assure them of my safety.  After a
shower and a quick glance at the news, my roommate and a couple of other friends hurry to
St. Vincent's Hospital to donate blood.  There are hundreds if not thousands there already, and we are sent to Beth Israel's Hospital instead.  Beth Israel's, we are told, is definitely accepting blood donations.  Upon arriving there, however, we see hundreds more crowded out front.  We opt instead to leave our names and numbers so that when they actually need us to donate, they will be able to reach us.

Then, after lunch, we devote the afternoon to walking down and getting as close as possible to the wreckage of the World Trade Center.  Three of us walk south until we hit police barricades. We are astonished at the quiet of the streets, the distinct lack of the sounds of a city.  Once police halt our progress south, we begin to skirt around the barricades eastward.  We come across a small grassy triangle where dozens of volunteers are hammering incessantly.  The overlapping constant tapping echoes throughout the little park.  Getting closer, we see that they are constructing stretchers out of scrap wood.  Three pieces of wood and about thirty seconds are all it takes to assemble a makeshift stretcher: a focused volunteer simply sets two 2X4s parallel and nails a piece of plywood across the top.  Large trucks, also loaded with volunteers, quickly transport the rapidly constructed devices to their destination.  Our walk takes us toward the Brooklyn Bridge. The thick plume of smoke, still swirling after eight hours, blocks out the sun, thinning occasionally to show the sun as if in eclipse.  As we proceed south toward the bridge, we notice that we are leaving footprints in the street.  The roads and sidewalks, the cars and benches and trees, are white with a thick layer of ash and dust.  It's as if a snowstorm has come and gone, or a volcano erupted not far away.  Papers with blackened edges, splinters of wood, pieces of gauze, and miniature tumbleweeds of carpet fiber litter the ground.  Somber, we cross the Brooklyn Bridge, stopping occasionally to look back at the horribly altered skyline.  Thick smoke radiates from where the towers stood, and travels high over our heads towards Brooklyn. We can only shake our heads in awe.  Crossing the bridge and looking for a subway station, we overhear someone on a payphone mention that building #7 of the World Trade Center compound has collapsed.  Minutes later, we notice the trail of smoke now carries with it countless pieces of debris, papers that fly shimmering over us in the black band in the sky.  An ash-laced book jacket falls to the ground near us, and I run to pick it up.  Every Spy A Prince, it reads, and proclaims itself a "Complete History of Israel's Intelligence Community."  I take it with me, as we proceed to the subway station, where passengers are given - just for today - a free ride to their destination.

Back in the dorm, a group of my hall-mates chooses to grab dinner at a fast food restaurant and
bring it back to the dorm so that we can see the President address the nation.  From the President's address until three in the morning I am on the computer and on the phone, assuring friends and family that all is well.  A friend of mine falls asleep on my bed as I sit in late conversation with another friend on the phone.

The next afternoon, the Resident Assistant for my floor announces that, if possible, we should go
home.  Classes will probably be cancelled for the rest of the week and it would be a good idea to
for us to spend some time with our families.  As others from our hall pack their bags, I defiantly
accompany my friend on her search for an open post office.  On the way there, I see a store that
just might have what I'm looking for.

And my mind finally delivers me at the present so that I momentarily fully understand how it is that I got where I am at that very instant, walking, with an American flag proudly resting on my shoulders, down Tenth Street, where the wind has changed - from Southeast to North - and is now carrying ash and smoke over my head instead of towards Brooklyn like the day before.

As I breathe in the cremated flesh of innocents, I physically internalize the very event my mind
refuses to accept.  Ash and asbestos - or are those choked back tears? - irritate my throat, as I
struggle to put into words a flood of emotion I can compare to nothing else.

Cowards!  Who could commit such an act, commit it with such a clearly defined purpose and believe that it is somehow right?  Who could destroy something so beautiful - spend so much life - to illustrate a point?  Who could believe that their God demanded this of his followers?  And who, with their disgustingly clear conscience, pulling strings from thousands of miles away, can watch the corpses be dragged from the wreckage, listen to estimated death tolls, and sit with smug satisfaction that his work was done well; and then, prove himself to be an animal, a dishonorable coward, by refusing to claim the very act that took so much planning and coordination and deceit and evil?

It is impossible for me to stop myself from projecting into the future and looking back on this tragedy as an old man.  I picture myself, now nearly 80, now with school-aged grandchildren, sitting in my favorite chair and reading one afternoon.  My grandchild will enter and tell me his new homework assignment: interview someone who witnessed a historic event.  He will tell me what his mother told him: that I was present at the collapse of the World Trade Center way back in the year 2001.  I will acknowledge this as true, and put down my book and sink, slightly, into my seat as I begin to replay that horrible day.  He will ask me questions, and tell me what his textbook says the economic and political implications of the attack were.  And I, an old man who hasn't forgotten for a single day what happened when he was eighteen, will tell him, as old men would tell me now if I were the grandchild, "I don't care about any of that. I was there, and I remember what it felt like to watch those towers collapse on thousands of innocent people.  I know I was there when the world changed that day, and anyone who wasn't alive then will never be able to relate to it."  Maybe, then, if my grandchild is old enough to understand how stubborn I am on this point, he will humor me, and smile and nod and not understand at all.  And if he is younger, he will say something like, "Of course I understand how important it was, grandpa.  It was especially important politically…"  Then I will either humor him and go on believing that only a select few of us, a dying breed really, remember how it felt; or I will become animated and argue - to no avail, of course - with my own grandchild.

Even at that age, however, I will never understand the ideology that allowed someone to organize and execute such an attack, nor will I ever comprehend what it is that runs through the minds of those cheering masses in the streets of the West Bank, shrieking in delight at the sheer damage and number of casualties we have suffered.  I will never be able to look at the world the same way again, and every time I turn my head south, my mind will return to the tragedy that occurred on what would have been another beautiful Tuesday morning in my new life, in my new home: Manhattan.  I will never forget; indeed I will work to remember what happened on September 11, 2001, as I file through the photographs I have saved and stored and reviewed every single day.  And I will never forgive those responsible, or even those who supported and cheered for, the most atrocious act I believe I will ever witness in my life.  That much I promise.

The anger this entire event stirs inside of me assures me that my heart is in the right place.  I am
an American!  This is my home and I believe in it with all my spirit.  I will not forgive and forget;
I will not accept peace as the solution, for it won't end until they are all gone.  My patriotism has
been provoked, and I know with an admittedly frightening certainty unlike any other I have felt
in over eighteen years of experience that I would go to war, and go willingly, to defend what was
attacked yesterday.  I would risk my life just to prove to the coward responsible that he did not
destroy or paralyze America, but simply started something he can't finish.

I would like to be the one to finish what he has started.  As idealistic as it seems, I feel that
achieving revenge for those killed by assassinating the man responsible just might be possible;
that to steal his life would be vicious but honorable, a favor to not just America but to this world,
and I would go to my grave a happy old man, a grandfather who watched the towers tumble,
but who avenged the deaths of those innocent Americans who were murdered on September 11,
2001; a grandfather who could proudly tell his grandchildren for their school report that yes, he
was there, but that he took the one life that would cause him no remorse; a grandfather who
made the world a safer place because he had committed himself to defend what was attacked that day and whose last, silent wish could very well be that he be remembered by that one act; that it, in fact, be etched into his tombstone.

Yesterday was September 11, 2001; the day America was attacked, the World Trade Center
destroyed, the Pentagon damaged, the State Department car-bombed, Camp David targeted, the
very strength and resolve of this nation challenged.  And today is the day I bought an American flag.