My life is divided into two parts: Before September 11, 2001 and after September 11, 2001.
Even the most exciting things I’ve done in my life (marriage, children, etc.) haven’t affected me as strongly as September 11, 2001 did. That day stands as a bright line that breaks my world view into two entirely disparate segments. During the first part of my life, I was confident that “it can’t happen here.” I felt protected by America’s borders. I was safe within our country. During the second part, the time after September 11, I’ve known that it can and will happen here. My children are at risk. In 21st Century America, borders are only as strong as the people’s will — and our people aren’t as willing as they used to be.
Saying “Never Forget” isn’t the same as never forgetting. We remember the date now but, with every passing year, the emotional resonance lessens, until September 11 becomes a sad story rather than both a national tragedy and wake-up call. If we still remembered strongly as we should, we would not, as a nation, have succumbed to the frenzy that saw us put Barack Obama in the White House in 2008. And if we still remembered that day at a visceral level, the current presidential race wouldn’t see Obama holding even the narrowest lead.
I refuse to forget. Below the fold, you will find the names of all of the men, women, and children who died on September 11, 2001 at the hands of Islamic terrorists — terrorists who are still revered wherever radical Islam has a hold.
I’ve written memorials about three of the honored dead. (I prefer “honored dead,” a nicely Victorian phrase, to the word “victim,” which negates Americans’ fighting spirit):