Years ago, I was reading a favorite author and came across a reference to "Two Tramps in Mud Time," by Robert Frost, an American poet whom my family often quoted. The final stanza struck me then. Its resonance has deepened through my adult years:
Why do I write about this today? Ten years ago today, on a beautiful Indian Summer September morning, I was working from my home in Arlington, VA.
I heard a thump in the corridor, where I thought workmen might have dropped something from a ladder. And then my phone rang a few times, which was unusual on a work morning, so I continued a bit more work. When I checked my messages, there were a number of inquiries from friends about whether I was okay. And then, I switched the television on. I had recently left a job in the Pentagon; and the news of my job change had not reached everyone. Several weeks earlier, though, I had volunteered with Red Cross after a minor system had passed through the Washington area. I had donned a disaster vest and walked door to door in Southwest, knocking on doors to ask residents if they had flood damage and if they needed Red Cross assistance.
Tuesday morning, September 11, I put that vest on again and went to my old workplace, parking on the ridge next to my old apartment. Every officer allowed me to pass with my Red Cross vest. Emerging from the tunnel, I found a tall beefy bald man with a bandanna on his head and a vest that matched mine. Keith, Mitch and I were among the first Red Crossers at the Pentagon.
Through the years, details emerge in my memory, but for a long time, they were a blur of constant motion and only a wink or two of sleep for the 18 days of the relief operation. We set up a base in the parking lot, offering water and snacks and comfort to emergency workers, soldiers and civilians emerging from the smoke. I still had a number of former colleagues in the building, as well as an intimate knowledge of the structure and a common language with the DoD employees, so I was able to help with navigation, to borrow "Gators" (golf carts on steroids), and to offer to bring canteen supplies to the makeshift morgue.
I walked an older man from the side of the road down to our tents in the parking lot and arranged for him to sit with one of our counselors while he waited for his wife to come out, watching the lists closely. I lost track of how many days he stayed with us.
Soon, the field next to the 4th and 5th corridors, where the plane struck, was a patchwork of fire engines, ambulances, Humvees, and the many first responders who rushed to the scene. Late, late that night, exhausted young soldiers caught a few moments of sleep on the ground under the stars that lit the clear beautiful night. Generators and floodlights illuminated the constant digging and search. I remember driving through what used to be a corridor, charred ribs of the building still smoking and baring their wounds. I caught glimpses in the darkness of desks and chairs and pictures on the wall. At some point in the middle of the night, an officer approached me and a coworker as we picked up discarded water bottles and snack wrappers. He asked if we could sing, if we could lead the National Anthem. As dawn broke over the Potomac River, we did so, watching that enormous flag drop from the top of the aching, gaping hole.
So much of what happened in those weeks formed the basis of the conversations I have had so often over the past five years, particularly the growing discussion of Whole Community engagement and resilience. Shortly thereafter, we were coordinating with FBI, Secret Service and the military to ensure the safety of the scene. Our disaster mental health teams worked closely with the military chaplains to provide psychological first aid to responders and to those who sought information about their loved ones. McDonalds and Outback brought food, and their employees volunteered to work with us. Massage therapists set up in a nearby hotel, where they ministered to exhausted responders. A back rub, a few moments to move from those awful scenes that played and replayed in the mind.
The Salvation Army joined our efforts to provide food, water and essential supplies to the first responders. The Southern Baptists were selflessly laboring over honking great pots of beans and chili. We formed Camp Unity. We worked with government, private sector, and non-governmental organizations for unity of effort, pooling our collective resources for the community.
And the public sent their prayers, their money, and countless sacks of dog food and socks/booties for the rescue dogs. This was where I learned the importance of helping people understand how to support disaster relief efforts: though there actually was plenty of dog food, we did need socks for the responders who were tramping through the wet pools left from the water hoses quashing the fires. I remember a request that we help those rescue dogs by hiding in piles of supplies so they could have a live rescue. In what later became a "neighbor to neighbor" psychological first aid program, I learned about being with neighbors and coworkers, listening, and trying to help them access resources if needed.
I remember early on that someone asked me for a large American flag. And when I was home for a few hours, I pulled a flag from the mahogany case that I was given after my grandfather's funeral and brought it back to the Pentagon grounds. I'd requested years earlier from my former employer, Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan, that the flag be flown over the U.S. Capitol in honor of my grandfather, a career Marine Corps pilot who had served in the Pacific in WWII and in Korea. This was the flag that was draped over his coffin earlier in 2001, just after his 79th birthday. Somehow, this completed a circle that began when my grandfather was notified of my mother's birth in 1944 by Red Cross people in the Pacific.
Over the next five years, I built upon that early deployment, taking disaster and preparedness courses at my local Red Cross chapter, joining the Disaster Action Team, working as part of the leadership team to recruit, respond, and build capacity, and deploying to large scale national disasters like Hurricanes Charley, Frances, Ivan and Jeanne, then Hurricane Katrina. And I found my niche of building collaborative teams and telling the stories to external and partner audiences, garnering awareness and support. I have so much love and respect for the work of my colleagues who ensure that people affected by disaster have a roof over their head, food and water, and emotional support. It is a privilege to support that service.
Today, Sunday, I met my colleagues in the office to complete final planning for the Red Cross/Red Crescent Global Communications Forum this week. We will join with the International Committee of the Red Cross, with National Society communicators, with IFRC staff, and with partners and crisis communication experts to build our capacity to tell the Red Cross story, and ultimately to provide humanitarian service to vulnerable people worldwide.
September 11 was more than a disaster for me. It was a clarion call. I needed to be there. I needed to translate my heart's constant pull to public service in this discipline of emergency management. "The time when most I loved my task; The two must make me love it more."
The poem was written in 1934 in the midst of America's Great Depression. The author is chopping wood when two tramps emerge from the forest, one stopping to watch the author, wanting - no, needing - to substitute his own hands on the axe in order to earn a bite to eat, an indoor refuge from the mud and chill of an outdoor bed.But yield who will to their separation,My object in living is to uniteMy avocation and my vocationAs my two eyes make one in sight.Only where love and need are one,And the work is play for mortal stakes,Is the deed ever really doneFor Heaven and the future's sakes.
Why do I write about this today? Ten years ago today, on a beautiful Indian Summer September morning, I was working from my home in Arlington, VA.
I heard a thump in the corridor, where I thought workmen might have dropped something from a ladder. And then my phone rang a few times, which was unusual on a work morning, so I continued a bit more work. When I checked my messages, there were a number of inquiries from friends about whether I was okay. And then, I switched the television on. I had recently left a job in the Pentagon; and the news of my job change had not reached everyone. Several weeks earlier, though, I had volunteered with Red Cross after a minor system had passed through the Washington area. I had donned a disaster vest and walked door to door in Southwest, knocking on doors to ask residents if they had flood damage and if they needed Red Cross assistance.
Tuesday morning, September 11, I put that vest on again and went to my old workplace, parking on the ridge next to my old apartment. Every officer allowed me to pass with my Red Cross vest. Emerging from the tunnel, I found a tall beefy bald man with a bandanna on his head and a vest that matched mine. Keith, Mitch and I were among the first Red Crossers at the Pentagon.
Through the years, details emerge in my memory, but for a long time, they were a blur of constant motion and only a wink or two of sleep for the 18 days of the relief operation. We set up a base in the parking lot, offering water and snacks and comfort to emergency workers, soldiers and civilians emerging from the smoke. I still had a number of former colleagues in the building, as well as an intimate knowledge of the structure and a common language with the DoD employees, so I was able to help with navigation, to borrow "Gators" (golf carts on steroids), and to offer to bring canteen supplies to the makeshift morgue.
I walked an older man from the side of the road down to our tents in the parking lot and arranged for him to sit with one of our counselors while he waited for his wife to come out, watching the lists closely. I lost track of how many days he stayed with us.
Soon, the field next to the 4th and 5th corridors, where the plane struck, was a patchwork of fire engines, ambulances, Humvees, and the many first responders who rushed to the scene. Late, late that night, exhausted young soldiers caught a few moments of sleep on the ground under the stars that lit the clear beautiful night. Generators and floodlights illuminated the constant digging and search. I remember driving through what used to be a corridor, charred ribs of the building still smoking and baring their wounds. I caught glimpses in the darkness of desks and chairs and pictures on the wall. At some point in the middle of the night, an officer approached me and a coworker as we picked up discarded water bottles and snack wrappers. He asked if we could sing, if we could lead the National Anthem. As dawn broke over the Potomac River, we did so, watching that enormous flag drop from the top of the aching, gaping hole.
So much of what happened in those weeks formed the basis of the conversations I have had so often over the past five years, particularly the growing discussion of Whole Community engagement and resilience. Shortly thereafter, we were coordinating with FBI, Secret Service and the military to ensure the safety of the scene. Our disaster mental health teams worked closely with the military chaplains to provide psychological first aid to responders and to those who sought information about their loved ones. McDonalds and Outback brought food, and their employees volunteered to work with us. Massage therapists set up in a nearby hotel, where they ministered to exhausted responders. A back rub, a few moments to move from those awful scenes that played and replayed in the mind.
The Salvation Army joined our efforts to provide food, water and essential supplies to the first responders. The Southern Baptists were selflessly laboring over honking great pots of beans and chili. We formed Camp Unity. We worked with government, private sector, and non-governmental organizations for unity of effort, pooling our collective resources for the community.
And the public sent their prayers, their money, and countless sacks of dog food and socks/booties for the rescue dogs. This was where I learned the importance of helping people understand how to support disaster relief efforts: though there actually was plenty of dog food, we did need socks for the responders who were tramping through the wet pools left from the water hoses quashing the fires. I remember a request that we help those rescue dogs by hiding in piles of supplies so they could have a live rescue. In what later became a "neighbor to neighbor" psychological first aid program, I learned about being with neighbors and coworkers, listening, and trying to help them access resources if needed.
I remember early on that someone asked me for a large American flag. And when I was home for a few hours, I pulled a flag from the mahogany case that I was given after my grandfather's funeral and brought it back to the Pentagon grounds. I'd requested years earlier from my former employer, Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan, that the flag be flown over the U.S. Capitol in honor of my grandfather, a career Marine Corps pilot who had served in the Pacific in WWII and in Korea. This was the flag that was draped over his coffin earlier in 2001, just after his 79th birthday. Somehow, this completed a circle that began when my grandfather was notified of my mother's birth in 1944 by Red Cross people in the Pacific.
Over the next five years, I built upon that early deployment, taking disaster and preparedness courses at my local Red Cross chapter, joining the Disaster Action Team, working as part of the leadership team to recruit, respond, and build capacity, and deploying to large scale national disasters like Hurricanes Charley, Frances, Ivan and Jeanne, then Hurricane Katrina. And I found my niche of building collaborative teams and telling the stories to external and partner audiences, garnering awareness and support. I have so much love and respect for the work of my colleagues who ensure that people affected by disaster have a roof over their head, food and water, and emotional support. It is a privilege to support that service.
Today, Sunday, I met my colleagues in the office to complete final planning for the Red Cross/Red Crescent Global Communications Forum this week. We will join with the International Committee of the Red Cross, with National Society communicators, with IFRC staff, and with partners and crisis communication experts to build our capacity to tell the Red Cross story, and ultimately to provide humanitarian service to vulnerable people worldwide.
September 11 was more than a disaster for me. It was a clarion call. I needed to be there. I needed to translate my heart's constant pull to public service in this discipline of emergency management. "The time when most I loved my task; The two must make me love it more."
1 comment:
My heart echoes each of your feelings which you so eloquently express. My call came earlier but it still had the same clarity of vision. We are sisters my friend... along with all the rest of our global "family".
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