When contemplating 9/11 many terrible things come to mind: The mind-numbing footage of two jets crashing into New York’s twin towers and the towers’ collapse mere hours later, the Pentagon on fire due to another attack-the crash of flight 93 in a field in Pennsylvania-the loss of life, the utter failure of our so-called intelligence agencies, the ineffectiveness of our multi-billion-dollar military in intercepting any of the four simultaneously hijacked commercial jets and the shock and awe of all that has followed. I also think about myself, because Sept. 11 is my birthday.
For most of my life, my birthday was just an ordinary birthday on an ordinary day. Each 9/11 would approach and I would feel growing anticipation. I knew I would hear from my father who would sing an out-of-tune “Happy Birthday” embellished with an ornate flourish. My mother would call to tell me her “stomach ached” and she was thinking of me. My children, of course, might not call on the day itself, but I knew I’d hear from them soon enough. My wife, attentive and loving, would give me a card and gifts, though I have all I could ever want from her already. Friends would say congratulations, smile, shake my hand, give me a hug. Then, on Sept. 11, 2001 everything about my birthday changed.
Sept. 11 has eclipsed Dec. 7 as the day that will live in infamy. When people ask me, “When’s your birthday?” and I tell them, their expression drops and they say, “I’m sorry,” as if someone has died, which of course is true. The notion of a birthday party on 9/11 feels macabre, an unseemly celebration on a day of national mourning. For weeks ahead, the media trumpets 9/11 with retrospectives, flashbacks and dramatic footage. People get depressed and anxious. My mother says she feels guilty, as if she in some strange way has done a terrible thing to me.
I am not alone, of course. If we simply divide the population of the world’s seven-billion by 365 days, over 19 million people were born on 9/11. None of us chose that day, it’s just something that happened. And, as the late Kurt Vonnegut observed and named a “grandfaloon,” we all too often make the mistake of conflating unrelated events and make too much of it, as if coincidence is evidence of some grand cosmic scheme.
We tend to think of birthdays as the one day each year on which we can justifiably think about ourselves. We consider the passing of yet another year, perhaps look back or even think of birthdays yet to come. If lucky, we briefly become the center of attention – bask in the pleasure of party and cake, laughter and smiles all around.
Try as I may I don’t look forward to Sept. 11 anymore. The world has changed too much; war, fear and pain was born on my birthday, and it will be this way for the rest of my life. I view it like this: For 53 years I had the self-centered luxury of claiming 9/11 for myself, but in 2001 all that ended. Instead, on my birthday I now join with others in contemplating suffering and compassion, which actually is not too bad. In fact, it’s not too bad at all.
