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Two days, two outlooks. On Tuesday, Sept. 11, I joined the rest of America in officially packaging up our false sense of national security and mailing it back to the black-and-white, Ozzie-and-Harriet world from which it was unjustly spawned. There can be no doubt that from the moment, at 8:45 a.m., when American Airlines Flight 11 slammed into the north tower of the World Trade Center, the future course of America was permanently altered.
Throughout the 20th Century the fight was always "over there." From the two World Wars, through Korea, Vietnam and Desert Storm, we observed attacks from a safe, detached distance. This time it was a home game and the overflow crowd was sent scurrying from the stadium in a state of shock -- fleeing for their lives.
At the time of this writing, President Bush has promised a firm, calculated response, not only to the terrorists responsible for the attacks, but to the countries that financed or harbored them, as well. By the time that you read this we very well may have begun a full-scale war against any number of nations, including Afghanistan, Iraq and possibly even Pakistan.
I cannot improve upon the President's description of the prevailing emotion of the American people as one of "quiet anger." I join the multitudes in believing that this is not the hour for pacifism or turn-the-other-cheek ideology, but one for a quick, devastating response -- on a scale unmatched in American military history.
As the sun rose on a still smoke-covered, eerily deserted, Manhattan skyline on Wednesday morning, the initial shock of the attacks began wearing off and I found myself becoming increasingly angered. You see, my wife was 9 months pregnant and due at any moment. Bob Dylan's words from the 1960's classic, "Masters of War," were pounding in my head.
"You go threatening my babies, unborn and unnamed.
You ain't worth the blood that runs through your veins."
Like an unwatched pot, my rage continued to fester and boil, reaching unprecedented heights -- until 3:30 p.m. Wednesday afternoon. It was then that I met my wife at her pre-scheduled doctor's appointment.
"My blood pressure's high, they're sending me to the hospital," she told me, tears spilling from her eyes in a sudden torrent.
"We'll probably induce her -- she'll be admitted," said Dr. Judith Ortman-Nabi, her OB/GYN.
Suddenly, my perspective shifted. My consciousness was forced from the Nation's heartbeat to that of the tiny one beating inside my wife's tummy.
Despite the inducement drugs administered by the nurses at the hospital, my wife's labor progression was nearly non-existent. The Thursday morning hours blended into the afternoon with little movement in the dilation of her cervix. Continuous network television coverage of the aftermath of the attacks served as a surreal backdrop to our labor room drama. Each hour brought new, disheartening statistics. 4,370 people declared missing. 94 already confirmed dead. Buildings adjacent to the World Trade Center on the verge of collapse. 20,000 body bags ordered. Many times I cried as the screen flickered with images of family members desperately seeking loved ones presumably buried under the tons of concrete, metal and soot.
At 4 p.m. the doctors broke my wife's water. An hour later, there still was no further dilation. Finally, at 5:15 p.m. the decision was made to perform a Caesarean section.
At 6:11 p.m. on Thursday, Sept. 13, Ryan Jacob Croisdale -- all 6 pounds, 11 ounces of him -- was born into the world. Only a little over 57 hours had passed since the first jumbo jet had flown into the World Trade Center tower.
As I held him for the first time, I contemplated the uncertainty of the world, which his mother and I had brought him into. A world that had just seen thousands of people senselessly murdered by unfeeling assassins cloaked in the shadows. It is also a world, however, that saw hundreds of brave police and fire personnel sacrifice their own lives to try to save others trapped in the burning towers. It is a world that most likely saw a group of passengers on United Flight 93, from Newark, over-power hijackers and crash the airplane into an abandoned field in Western Pennsylvania -- saving thousands of lives at the White House. It is a world that saw people from around the nation stand in line for hours to give blood to aid the Red Cross. And, most importantly, it is a world that saw billions of its citizens speak up -- in town squares and prayer circles -- about their resolve never to let the agents of darkness force the light from their souls.
In my head, Dylan's lyrics were supplanted by those of another 1960's icon, John Lennon.
"You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one.
I hope someday you'll join us, and the world will live as one."
When all of the retaliatory bombing and carnage is over, the truest response we can offer to this attack on our nation will come at the personal level. Ryan Jacob's mother and I will fight by empowering him with the concepts of compassion and tolerance. We'll teach him of the principles of freedom and democracy that this great country was founded upon. We'll make sure that he fully understands the storied history of the millions of brave men and women that have died in countless wars defending certain truths that we proudly hold to be self-evident -- among them, life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
We'll also make sure that his spirit echoes those of the thousands of rescue volunteers that have bravely given of themselves to save their fellow Americans.
We'll do these things -- and many more -- to help ensure that the world that our son will one day introduce his own children into, will be a kinder, gentler and safer one than he met today.