We're Not Innocent Anymore

Note from Adams: I purposely delayed this editorial. Was a hard one to write, at least until the end. Here goes.

My son was born on 9/11.

He turned 9 on ‘that’ 9/11, and had football practice that day. It was a bright Alabama day, blue skies completely and eerily unpierced by the presence of airplanes. Parents sat on aluminum bleachers, creaking with each anxious shift, speaking in hushed tones of suspended disbelief, most with folded arms. Any feeling of laughter felt guilty.

I’d returned from my first ever speaking engagement the day before, elated from the experience, which quickly diminished to triviality. Celebration felt guilty. 

You know where you were too. Though we’d like to forget, each time we remove half our clothing in the airports under scrutiny of eyes trained to spot the ghostly outline of your favorite pocket knife you meant to remove, you’re reminded. 

But here’s what did NOT feel guilty…

1. Wanting to help the cause. Wanting to spread yourself too thin, to give more, to send more, to pray more. And conversely –
2. Wanting to kick the living organs out of something or someone. Maybe that was a guy reaction, or an American one. Not saying that feeling was right, but it seemed to offer solace.

That’s what I felt. Recently, watching some of the 15-year anniversary documentaries stirred both emotions, and like the Italian dressing bottle’s contents, I couldn’t make the bell pepper bits separate from the onion. They all swirled together until I just couldn’t watch anymore. My mind went to terrible places, unsettled places and that horribly infertile field called worry.

 

But once distant from the images, there was good. Like, lots of it. 

Watching the firefighters, police, paramedics, responders of every type seek to help total strangers. Watching a city covered in the dust and debris from a zillion pounds of Portland cement begin to clean up the aftermath one truckload, one wheelbarrow and eventually one dustpan at a time was absolutely inspirational. 

And you, dear contractors, are featured heroes too. While the nation watched politics, posturing and policy develop, somebody had to get the blooming water running again. 

Somebody had to untangle the god-awful miles of wiring and get the lights on. Somebody had to clean the air, condition the air and comfort the uncomfortable masses. 

Water. Light. Air. Seems God referenced those early on. Pretty valuable stuff, people. If you ever, ever, question your value, just consider your remarkable contribution to these cornerstones of civilization.  

That’s what was refreshingly (though inversely) idealistic about that time: We were pretty much reduced to “stuff that really matters.” 

The routine – so willingly cast aside before the tragedy – seemed like paradise. Churches – so easy to find fault while analyzing two sentences buried in Galatians – were filled with those offering prayer, thanks, support. 

I don’t remember seeing anyone making a statement during the National Anthem, or debating about gender-swapping rights, or proclaiming the cops weren’t doing their jobs well. (Maybe it’s worth walking a mile in their ballistic vest on a nightshift first?) 

Anyway, I could go on. And the cool thing is:

We, as in America, did go on, and will go on. 

Our family just celebrated my son’s 24th birthday in New York. Visited the memorial. Saw Hamilton. And remembered. It’s the struggles that make you tougher. By Sunday’s end, I was reminded that the key to achievement is not individual genius, but collective tenacity to pursue what’s important.

Here’s to you, contractors. Here’s to you, America. We will not forget.

Adams Hudson