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Blog draft written on Monday, September 11, 2023
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MY PERSONAL VIEW OF 9/11
My view of 9/11 is more personal than many, and on this day, the twenty-second anniversary of 9/11/2001, I feel compelled to spell it all out. No, thank God, I was not in New York City but in Venice, Florida, that day. I lost no personal friends and, to the best of my knowledge, have met only one person who was in the towers that day. Nonetheless . . .
My tale begins about two years earlier (best guess, some time in 1999). I lived on a quiet street in South Venice, an unpretentious neighborhood separated from truly delightful downtown Venice by a small airport and the Intracoastal Waterway. As I drove home several times over the course of a few months, I saw a truly unusual sight. South Venice was full of Florida "good ol' boys," retirees from the Mid-west (Venice is a straight run down I-75), and a few stray New Englanders like my parents and myself. Which is a not-too-subtle way of saying, both Venice and South Venice were pretty much lily white. And yet, as I drove home, I saw a strongly Arabic man walking purposefully down my street, heading toward the airport (or possibly the library). He was always highly focused, striding along, looking neither left nor right. And giving off what I have to call non-American vibes. But, hey, this was the U S of A, home to millions of immigrants. Then again, he stood out like a sore thumb in South Venice. In addition, no one walked in South Venice. Bicycles, motorcycles, trucks, cars - yes. Walking? You've got to be kidding!
Fast forward to September 11, 2001. I was at home when the phone rang and my daughter in Orlando called to say, "Turn on your TV!" and abruptly hung up. Like so many, I watched with horror the "accident" at the World Trade Center. I needed to go the library, however, so off I went, where, naturally, I kept an eye on the TV coverage of the disaster - and was standing there, staring at the ceiling-mounted screen, when the second plane hit, and we all realized this was not an accident but an attack.
No need to rehash the next few days as we all sat, transfixed to our screens, watching the horror unfold. (The hair on my arms is rising while I'm typing this sentence.) The shock of the Pentagon being hit. The heroic passengers who downed their plane rather than let it hit the Capitol building. The horror of the rising body count that would keep on increasing as the First Responders succumbed to illnesses born of their heroism that day.
But back in Venice . . .
On Day 2, the FBI swarmed into Venice, confiscated every computer in the Venice Library (yes, the library where I watched a plane hit the second tower), and shut down a flight school at Venice Airport (a scant mile from my house). And the story came tumbling out: Mohammed Atta, the head of the airplane hijackers, had coordinated his attackers from the computers in Venice Library. He had lived for months in South Venice - until he was ousted from the home where he was staying for disrespecting the wife of the house. And where did Mohammed Atta learn to fly? At that modest-sized flight school at the Venice Airport. A business that promptly closed, never to open again. Not surprisingly, I compared his photo to the man I had seen a couple of years earlier marching down my street. If he wasn't Mohammad Atta, he was his twin. Interestingly, years later when I took Sarasota County's 8-week Sheriff's Class, one of our speakers mentioned he had been one of the local investigators on the county's ties to 9/11, and when I told him my story, I thought he was going to swallow his tongue. He gulped, hemmed & hawed, and finally came up with something totally inane. Which left no doubt in my mind that the Powers That Be knew that the months just before 9/11 were not Atta's first visit to South Venice, but I suspect since our area already had so much egg on its face, this had been deliberately kept a deep, dark secret.
Addendum:
Several days after the disaster, I learned that a relative by marriage ( no spring chicken) had been in New York's lower east side that morning, and when all transportation shut down, he had to walk, through the smoke and pandemonium, the long, long distance back to his apartment on the upper west side. Not that he was complaining - he was infinitely grateful that he had made it home alive.
About a year or so later, the speaker at Sarasota's Ivy League Club was a former stockbroker who had walked down from the 82nd story - I believe it was in the second tower. He moved to Florida to get away from it all, but admitted he had been unable to settle back into work. At that time he was simply telling his story to anyone who would listen and hoping he would eventually get his life back to normal. Multiply his story by thousands of others, let alone the trauma of the First Responders, and you begin to understand that the horrendous personal tragedy of 9/11 extended far beyond the loss of the thousands killed that day. And continues to extend not only to those who lived through it, but to their children, and grandchildren.
~ * ~
IN MEMORIAM
To all who died due to the attacks on the World Trade Center,
the Pentagon, and United Flight 93;
to the Firemen and Policemen who gave their all,
and to the many who have suffered physical and mental trauma ever since.
Requiescat in Pace
~ * ~
Featured this week, the most "downbeat" of all my books, even though it was written for a Christmas anthology.
Marriage, yes. Love, no. Lady Christine Ashworth's glorious Season in London comes to an abrupt close with the death of her father. Her home now belongs to someone else; her fiancé is conspicuous by his absence; and her younger sister is as miserable in their new home as she is. What can she do but accept an offer from the despised heir, even if Christine now considers all men anathema, particularly the perfect stranger who has taken her father's place?
Author's Note: This novella was first published in a Christmas anthology as The Last Surprise, but I always felt it needed more scope. Therefore, ten thousand-plus words have been added. A Lady Learns to Love is a poignant tale of those faced with tragedy, amplified by unforeseen circumstances, who still manage to survive, aided by the spirit of Christmas.
Thanks for stopping by,
Grace (Blair Bancroft)
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