I want to write something. Tell what I was doing, where I was, what I felt. But everything I’ve tried to write was so trite, it would be insulting.
I was fortunate that I didn’t know a single person lost in the Twin Towers, The Pentagon, or on any of the four doomed flights. My company had people in NY, but they all came through safely. In any event, I didn’t know them personally.
Every American is my countryman. I may disagree with him on politics, religion, culture, sports, and who makes the best barbecue. But no matter how strong my disagreement, I am wounded when he is murdered.