Sunday CrossTalk: Twenty-Five Years Later, What Do We Remember?

There are moments in life that never really leave you. You may get older, move forward, build a career, raise a family and watch decades pass, but some images remain frozen exactly where they were when you first saw them.

For me, September 11, 2001 is one of those moments.

I was 10 years old and in the fifth grade. At that age, you understand fear before you understand history. You can recognize panic before you understand why everyone is panicking. You know something is terribly wrong because the adults around you suddenly look as unsure and frightened as you feel.

From my fifth-grade classroom, I could see the buildings burning in the distance.

Twenty-five years later, I can still remember it.

I remember the smoke. I remember the uncertainty. I remember schools falling into complete chaos as parents tried to reach their children and families desperately attempted to find out where their loved ones were. I had family members in the city that morning, and like so many people across New York, we simply did not know what was happening or whether everyone we loved was safe.

There were no smartphones showing someone's location. There were no family group chats providing constant updates. Phone lines became overloaded. Information changed by the minute. Rumors traveled quickly, and the adults around us were trying to understand something almost impossible to comprehend while also attempting to keep children calm.

For a 10-year-old, it was terrifying.

Looking back now, I understand that the fear we felt in a classroom was only a small piece of what was happening throughout the city and across the country. Nearly 3,000 people had begun that morning expecting another ordinary Tuesday. They kissed their families goodbye, went to work, boarded airplanes, grabbed coffee, sat at desks and started their day.

They had no reason to believe they would not be coming home.

That is one of the details that becomes even harder to process with age. Those killed on September 11 were not names destined for memorial walls when they woke up that morning. They were mothers and fathers. Sons and daughters. Husbands and wives. Brothers and sisters. Friends, coworkers and neighbors.

They had plans for that evening. Plans for the weekend. Plans for birthdays, graduations, anniversaries and holidays years into the future.

Thousands of those tomorrows disappeared in a matter of hours.

Then there were those who ran toward the danger.

Firefighters climbed stairwells while thousands of people were trying to escape. Police officers, paramedics and emergency workers entered scenes most of us could never imagine. Ordinary people helped strangers they had never met and would never see again. On Flight 93, passengers faced an unimaginable situation and chose courage.

Those stories are not political.

They are human.

That distinction matters, especially now.

September 11 has always been part of my generation's memory, but the 25th anniversary feels different. Enough time has passed that there are now adults who were not alive when the attacks happened. For millions of young Americans, September 11 exists only through documentaries, photographs, classroom lessons and stories told by people who were there.

That means those of us who remember it now carry another responsibility.

We have to tell the story.

Not simply the story of what happened to the buildings, but what happened to people. We have to tell younger generations about the families who waited for phone calls that never came, the first responders who sacrificed everything, the survivors who carried the physical and emotional scars forward, and the countless families whose lives were divided forever into before September 11 and after September 11.

But there is another part of the story that deserves to survive alongside the tragedy.

What happened next.

The America of September 12 is something difficult to explain to anyone who did not experience it.

For a period of time, the divisions that normally dominated our lives seemed insignificant. Neighbors checked on neighbors. Strangers hugged strangers. People stood outside firehouses to thank firefighters. American flags appeared on homes, cars, businesses and highway overpasses.

Communities organized blood drives, food drives and fundraisers. Volunteers traveled to New York to help however they could.

There was grief everywhere, but there was also a remarkable sense that we were going to face that grief together.

Nobody asked who you voted for before offering help.

Nobody checked your political affiliation before asking whether your family was safe.

Nobody needed to know which side of an argument you were on before putting an arm around your shoulder.

We were simply Americans trying to help other Americans.

Twenty-five years later, that may be one of the hardest parts to remember.

Because somewhere along the way, we lost too much of it.

We became more comfortable dividing ourselves. Politics became deeply personal. Disagreement became hostility. Social media gave everyone an endless opportunity to find another reason to be angry at someone they had never met. Too often, we no longer debate ideas; we question the character of the person holding them.

Everything seems to require a side.

September 11 cannot become another one of those things.

It cannot belong to Democrats or Republicans. It cannot belong to conservatives or liberals. It cannot be reduced to a campaign speech, a political attack or an argument about who loves the country more.

No political party owns September 11.

The families do.

The survivors do.

The first responders do.

The children who grew up without parents do.

The parents who buried their children do.

The husbands and wives who spent a lifetime wondering what the years might have looked like if that Tuesday morning had simply remained ordinary do.

The rest of us are entrusted with remembering.

That should be enough.

I think back to that 10-year-old boy sitting in his classroom and staring toward lower Manhattan. He did not understand terrorism. He did not understand foreign policy, war or the political debates that would follow.

He understood that buildings were burning.

He understood that people were scared.

He understood that his family was somewhere out there, and nobody seemed to know exactly what was happening.

Twenty-five years later, that fifth grader has grown into a husband, a father and a teacher.

And the memories are still vivid.

Maybe they are supposed to be.

Because remembrance is not simply about looking backward. At its best, remembrance should challenge us to decide what we are going to carry forward.

We should tell our children what happened on September 11.

But we should also tell them what happened on September 12.

Tell them about the lines to donate blood. Tell them about strangers helping one another. Tell them about the flags hanging from homes. Tell them about communities taking care of families they had never met. Tell them there was a moment when Americans were reminded, painfully and tragically, that what connected us was greater than what separated us.

And then tell them we should never require another tragedy to remember that lesson.

We are going to disagree with one another. We always have. That is part of this country. There will always be differences in politics, beliefs, backgrounds and opinions.

But disagreement does not require cruelty.

Political differences do not require hatred.

Being on opposite sides of an issue does not make two people enemies.

We understood that once.

Maybe this anniversary is an opportunity to understand it again.

September 11 showed us how much can be taken from us in a single morning. The days that followed showed us something equally important: how much strength can be found when people decide to stand beside one another instead of against one another.

That should be part of the legacy too.

So when we mark 25 years this September, remember the names. Remember the firefighters climbing the stairs. Remember the police officers and emergency workers answering the call. Remember the passengers aboard Flight 93. Remember the people working inside the towers and the Pentagon. Remember the families waiting at home for news that would change their lives forever.

Remember the nearly 3,000 people who woke up that morning believing they still had decades ahead of them.

And then remember the country that woke up the next morning determined not to let grief divide it.

Twenty-five years later, perhaps the most meaningful tribute we can give those who were lost is not another argument about America.

It is to show that we still understand what being part of America requires of us.

Compassion for people we do not know.

Respect for people with whom we disagree.

The willingness to help a neighbor without asking which side they are on.

And the understanding that some moments are simply bigger than politics.

I was 10 years old when I looked out of a fifth-grade classroom and watched smoke rise over New York City.

I am 35 now, and I still see it.

I hope I always do.

Because if we truly mean the words **Never Forget**, then we cannot only remember the horror of September 11.

We must also remember the humanity that followed it.

And maybe, 25 years later, America needs that reminder more than ever.