Losses that left indelible scars on a new generation

This summer was one of the hottest on record on Long Island, where I had the unfortunate experience of working at a day camp. Every day, I would suffer through the heat, and come home sweating and incredibly dirty from working with my three-and four-year-olds all day long. And on top of the dirt and grime, my pockets would be lined with feathers.

“My day was horrible,” I would lament to anyone who would listen. Usually then, I would dig my hands into my pockets out of frustration and pull out a bunch of feathers. “And I still have these goddamn feathers everywhere!”

The feathers came from one of the three-year-olds in my group, Delaney, and, to tell the truth, I couldn’t really get angry at her for picking them up. Delaney’s father died a year ago today, and after her family said her father was an angel and had wings, she thought feathers, actually from birds, were from her father when he “visited” her. She would give the feathers to people she liked because she felt her father was visiting everyone.

Delaney wasn’t the only kid in our group whose father died a year ago today; one of the sets of twins, Lara and Donald, also had a father who had worked in those towers. While us adults tried to monitor the conversations among the kids about death, they still brought it up often. For all the three and four year olds in our group, this was the summer they learned about death from Delaney, Lara and Donald.

For me, this summer was one that changed everything I knew about Sept. 11. The events became turned around in my head, the things I knew about those involved and things I knew about grief evolved into completely different theories. This was the first time I was face-to-face with the real sorrow and victims of the day.

My previous association with the tragedy had been with near-misses of family and friends who might have been there, but were not when those planes hit; and acquaintances who died. The people I knew who had died were people I barely knew, faces I might not even recognize if I saw them on the street.

But, from now on, I’ll never be able to think about the attacks without thinking about Delaney, Lara, Donald and other kids like them. A year ago today was the day they stopped being normal kids and instead became the kids I knew. Not that I didn’t love them for who they were, but there were times it was clear that they were not normal kids at all.

At my own private vigil today, I’ll be thinking of all those lost, but especially for whom Delaney, Lara and Donald lost. For everyone, today should be a day for remembering the lost, and nothing else.

Remembering the lost does not mean retaliation, it does not mean speeches by people who were not there, it does not even mean public memorials. It does not mean renaming Sept. 11 “Patriot’s Day,” because what is patriotic about this day? It should be a day for everybody, Americans and the rest of the world, to take time to remember that human beings died that day; fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, sons and daughters. Today is the anniversary of the murder of nearly 3,025 human beings, not an anniversary of a patriotic battle.

While there are public broadcasts for those lost, while American flags are touted out for everyone to see, while Congress is meeting in New York, while people are remembering the way they felt when the towers fell, I will be remembering the look on Delaney’s face after she fell down on the basketball court and yelled, “I want my daddy right now to make this better!”

As the years go by, it will be harder and harder for Delaney, Lara and Donald to even remember their fathers. They were babies last year, only two years old. I’ll never forget these kids or their fathers, even if I never met those two men and even if their kids don’t remember me next summer.

All three of the kids were robbed of some of their innocence that morning. When my boss was letting air out of a huge balloon one day, Delaney told me the balloon was dying. Donald asked me during a thunderstorm if something was falling from the sky.

Donald even lost his ability to understand magic. One day, a magician came to our camp, and when the magician made a rabbit disappear and then reappear, Donald looked terrified. I asked him what was wrong and he asked me, “Caroline, the rabbit was gone. How did it come back?”

“It’s magic, Donald,” I answered. He still looked terrified.

“But it was gone, Caroline,” he insisted. “Once someone is gone, they can’t come back. When you’re gone, you’re gone.”

What was I supposed to say? Is he right? What do I know about losing your father? What do I know about anything?

There were things I knew about those responsible for the attack that I found myself questioning. For instance, I knew Islamic extremists did not view Americans as people and thought the people in those towers were devoid of, well, anything. I knew they believed Americans were responsible for the spiritual death of the world.

But Delaney, Lara and Donald certainly didn’t know anything about politics, immigration, free trade, or even what happened the day their fathers died. Delaney once said her father died because he swallowed fire. They’re the youngest victims, and they can’t even understand what happened. Not that anyone, still, truly can understand what took place last Sept. 11.

Questions, that are probably illogical, keep burning in my mind: If those terrorists could see Donald’s goofy smile, or hear Lara sing a song or get a hug from Delaney, would they still have boarded those planes? How could they think men who had such beautiful children weren’t people? Would they care if they knew what they were robbing Delaney, Lara and Donald of? Or did they know and just ignore it?

I never used to believe in pure evil; but after spending a summer with Delaney, Lara and Donald, I now believe the people responsible for the attacks are truly evil. If anyone knows these things and still kills, they can’t be human.

Sometimes during the simplest activities during the summer, I would be hit with a wave of sadness just for Delaney, Lara and Donald. Other counselors would ask me how I didn’t just start crying during the day. For example, Delaney said once, “I’m going to play golf tomorrow. Like my daddy; he loves golf. He’s playing golf in heaven.”

Two weeks ago, after the weather cooled down, I was cleaning out my room and I came across a paper cup I had filled with feathers from Delaney. Since the summer was over and I’ll probably never see Delaney again, I rolled my eyes and took the cup to the bathroom to throw it away.

As I moved into the bathroom, I was hit with a memory of Delaney one day, holding a feather out to me, with a lollipop in one hand and the feather in the other. “Take care of this, Caroline,” she had said, handing me the feather. “It’s from my daddy.”

Tears blurred in my eyes and I froze. Even though I’m a 19-year-old adult and I know these feathers didn’t really come from Delaney’s father, I couldn’t throw them in the garbage. I returned the feathers to my desk, my own memorial to all those we lost.