My "First" Trips to Washington, D.C.
by Jessica Redmond
My very "first" trip to Washington, DC, was in the 8th grade. Though I never left my classroom seat in the last row near the window, I saw for the very first time our nation's capitol city. Up until then, to me, Washington was the place where the President lived and where laws were made. I had no visual picture of it in my mind. The memorials and monuments had been two dimensional on the pages of my textbook. They looked impressive and large but held no emotional value. They were just large carved stones. The words from my teacher were rehearsed. Mrs. Starling taught us about the construction of the city, the battles that were fought near it, and the thousands of men who died for it. It was supposed to be the most intimidating city in the world, the center of the most powerful country on Earth, and yet it held no real everyday value to me at the age of fourteen.
My next "first" trip was on September 11, 2001. This infamous day slammed pictures of the Pentagon, and of Washington, into the hearts of millions of Americans. The "Attack on America" had started around 8:30 Tuesday morning. During the span of about thirty minutes four hijacked planes crashed, two into the Twin Towers in New York City, another into the Pentagon in Washington. DC, and still another in a field in western Pennsylvania. Mentally, I was in Washington again, and the flash of pictures on the screen caused me to revisit the city again. I was saturated with pictures of a city I have never been to, and was crying for people I never knew. I saw the damage done to the towers, the smoldering hole in the field, and yet never really thought about the meaning behind the plane hitting the Pentagon. It was not a plan to kill thousands of Americans, as was the crash at the Trade Center; it was planned to make a statement. It said without one word, "Look, I can destroy the very thing that your country stands for, I can attack your freedom and make you fear me." The true essence of Washington, the so-called heart of America, is not in the buildings and statues; it is in the heart of Americans. This easily makes us a target, and the Pentagon could be seen as a bulls-eye that stands for the very idea of America. Before this Tuesday morning, I had never seen the Pentagon other than in a book, and I never thought about how it is the greatest home court advantage in the world, and now it was wounded.
Terrorists did not attack an individual or a group; they attacked a way of life and scarred a shrine for all Americans. During the days and weeks that followed, I noticed how we saw more of the Trade Center and the collapsing of such great buildings. The Pentagon seemed to take second place--maybe because fewer people were killed in that one plane crash, maybe because we only saw the aftermath footage, or maybe because we had forgotten what that one plane crash had said to Americans. I know I was not nearly as upset about the burning Pentagon as I was about seeing a plane hit the second tower in New York. However, that all changed during my "real" trip to Washington.
My third "first" trip to Washington started on October 12, 2001. It was Fall Break at Armstrong Atlantic State University and Tess, Lindsey, and I were off to visit my cousin Justin to tour Washington. Saturday morning, October 13, we hit all of the high points in DC, including the Washington, Vietnam, Korean, Roosevelt, and Lincoln memorials. On Sunday, we were off to a day at Arlington National Cemetery. There we saw the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, Robert E. Lee's house, JFK's memorial, and the thousands of graves at the 612-acre cemetery. Monday morning rolled around and Justin had to go to work. We did not know our way around the city well, so we decided to go to the mall. There we met Justin and his roommate Steve for lunch, and then we got his map of Virginia and were loose in a state foreign to us for a few hours. We had one mission in mind and no-one to tell us "No."
Our mission began weeks earlier after the "Attacks on America"; we wanted to see the wounded Pentagon firsthand, before it was repaired. Now here we were, just miles away and the drama began to unfold. After we figured out just how to get there, we headed East on Interstate 66, and after a few miles we were there. As we parked in the restricted parking area and walked slowly out to the lawn, my eyes began to water. I had never seen a building so massive and yet so weak at the same time. The Pentagon was larger than I had built it in my mind. Parking lots the size of football fields surrounded the gigantic five-sided building, and they were all empty. The hollowness of the figure reminded me of the heart of bin Laden--the one who had demonstrated his pure hatred of the American people. Though the structure suffered massive damage, it was standing strong. There was a hole longer than four buses in it, and yet it looked powerful still. Less than a week earlier, it was over 600 miles away, and now it was within 100 yards of me. There was an orange temporary fence around the patch of green grass that we sat on. The crisp fall wind softly blew my hair. As I was sitting there, different sounds ran through my head. There were the sounds of bulldozers and dump trucks relentlessly moving rubble. Over these sounds there was an unfamiliar scraping sound. Using both my eyes and ears I found the source. There were yellow plastic slides coming from several blown-out windows along the side of the building. There was the clunking sound of cement being slid down them. There were no sights of the men who worked inside the building. I could only imagine a human assembly line with brawny men wearing thick gloves tossing chunks of gravel across a room and out of the window.
I sat there and stared at something my mind could not even begin to grasp. I looked through a camera lens to get a closer view of the damage, and what I saw through a simple piece of bent glass changed my view of America altogether. I had finally learned what Washington DC and freedom were all about. I also heard the hum of hundreds of cars passing behind me on the Interstate. I wondered if they had become numb to the building and, over a month later, become unaware of the damage it suffered. The landscape has been altered, but had the minds of Americans been altered? A few days after returning from the trip, I sat and wrote down how I felt after seeing the Pentagon and Washington for the very first time. This was the first time I realized the power and prestige that one city held, and though it took three very different trips, I had finally gotten there. It was not just a place were laws were created and where the President lived. It was not a two-dimensional building on a page, or a rehearsed lecture from a teacher; it was a real place, the heart of America, and no tour guide or pamphlet was needed to learn that lesson. I thought about the hundreds of Americans who had given their lives in the rescuing of strangers in the World Trade Center attack. I thought about the heroes that had been created and the ones whose memorials were already carved out in history and in my mind. I wrote the following:
Forgetting Heroes
The human heart and mind so easily forget a first love and so readily remember a rumor. We are reserved about reaching out to a family member, but never blink an eye about giving money to a stranger. It seems to me those we love the most we remember the least.
In the dark days behind us and the still dim ones ahead, a new race of people are being born. Because of these attacks a new class of people has been created, and the names of these people will never be remembered. For it seems we remember the Hitlers, Husseins and McVeighs, but seldom do we recall a simple prayer or a hand reaching out to help. We can recite where and when the first shots were fired that started any war. Strange how sometimes it slips our memory where and when the conflicts ended. It is as though our minds only remember villains and violence. Heroes and humane acts are not retained within our hearts. The new Heroes being created are not defined by the things they do; they are defined by the things others will not do.
America has been changed, and we can move from this change with a different definition of love. For those of us young enough not to know war, for the first time we can see a picture of patriotism. We can either change the way we live or live the way we have been changed. The United States of America has experienced more unity in the last few weeks than it has in its entire 225 years of existence. Sad how the deaths of thousands remind us of the love we have for millions. We cannot allow this love to become missing from our lives or our memories. The passion of patriotism can only burn brightly if we remember everyday that we are a blessed people, not solely because of riches or power, but because we each have a strong and free hero within us.
My first trip to Washington DC will, hopefully, not be my last. Someday, when I have children and they are old enough, I want them to see with their own eyes how sacrificing and heroic Americans really are. We will probably have another memorial built in recognition of those who died to save the lives of strangers as well as of those who were killed to glorify the name of Osama bin Laden, a jealous man. By that time, I hope I will have not forgotten the sight of the wounded Pentagon, or the fact that there are heroes in us all. Though the Pentagon will be repaired, the smoldering scar on its side will be burnt into my memory.
