In A New York Minute

All I wanted was my hand back. The old man behind the counter in the country store way out in Louisiana farm country clasped it with eagle talon strength, squeezing tighter and tighter, his pained, bloodshot eyes locked with mine.

Panicking, wishing I had not stopped for a cold drink, disregarding the $20 bill I plopped down to pay for it, I struggled to free my hand from his and escape. “They’ve hit us! They’ve hit us!” he half-shrieked, half-sobbed. “Me and my brother … we fought in the Pacific. My brother, he never come back. I seen war’s horror and destruction, but it was over yonder. Now I’m seeing it all over again, right here in the country I fought for … the country my brother died for!” It was September 11, 2001.

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“Mister, what in God’s name are you talking about?” I asked, massaging the hand he finally released as he turned away, weeping openly. He motioned me back into the tiny living quarters that had provided his only comfort over countless lonely years, eking out a living selling snacks, cold drinks and sundry items to a trickle of customers in this rural area. What I saw on his television simply would not register. One minute it seemed to be two giant sand castles — perhaps built by laughing, happy children — crumbling before an unseen wave; another minute, it appeared to be a scene of massive destruction from a King Kong movie. But in the minute I will never forget — the minute no American will ever forget — it was two commercial jets arcing across a blue New York sky, streaking into the World Trade Center, leaving thousands of innocent people injured, dead, or unaccounted for. Before that minute, the part of me that had been typically American — glad to be one, but not always mindful of, nor thankful enough, for the opportunities and freedoms I too often had taken for granted — became as American as the stars and stripes sewn by Betsy Ross. In that minute, I grasped the true meaning of E Pluribus Unum: from many, one. In that minute, I became every American who ever was, is, or yet to be. I became the first Pilgrim stepping on Plymouth Rock. I became Neil Armstrong stepping on the moon. I became Generals Lee and Grant, saluting each other at Appomattox. I became Alvin York of World War I. I became Audie Murphy of World War II. I became Ira Hayes, hoisting Old Glory at Iwo Jima. I became Roy Rogers, John Wayne, Spencer Tracy, Ronald Reagan. I became Kate Smith, Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, Willie Nelson, Elvis Presley. I became Jesse Owens, Knute Rockne, Chris Evert, Babe Ruth, Ted Williams, John Elway, Dale Earnhardt. I became Orville and Wilbur Wright, Charles Lindbergh, Amelia Earhart, Chuck Yeager. I became Billy Graham, Jonas Salk, William Faulkner. I became you, my fellow American, and you became me. We became one … one nation under God … in a New York minute.

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