Listen Here
Column By Zachary Dehm, Assistant Professor of Religious Studies
My earliest memory of sleeplessness was the night of 9/11. The very idea felt impossible. I remember wandering from room to room in the dark and looking out the window, images of falling towers in my head. My parents either didn’t hear me or let me process in whatever way I could.
9/11 was supposed to be a day of celebration. It was my older brother’s thirteenth birthday. Like many, I recall that it was the most beautiful September morning. The tenor of the day changed dramatically just before 9. I heard a classmate mention to my teacher that a plane had struck a building in New York. Perhaps without foresight, in shock, or simply not imagining that this could have been a deliberate act, our class was permitted to watch the news just as a plane hit the second tower.
When I arrived home from school, I found my parents behaving in a manner that suggested the end was nigh. My mother, who normally possesses a calm and stoic demeaner, seemed panicked. My father had been in line at a gas station for several hours. Many feared an apocalyptic surge in oil prices or even that oil might become unavailable.
I can’t remember whether we celebrated my brother’s birthday. I can only say that we’ve seldomly celebrated it on the 11th since. I usually spend the anniversary watching memorial services and documentaries. I shed tears over the stories of victims and of the heroes who embodied the very best of the American spirit. It’s rare that I awake on the 12th well-rested.
