9/11: Remembering Whitney

When I think about 9/11, I think of Whitney Houston. I’ll tell you why in a minute. No, I don’t have emotional incontinence or Pseudobulbar Affect (it’s a real thing…Danny Glover wouldn’t lie).  

What I have, thank God, is something 2,977 (at current count) were robbed of — I have my life. And I have a sense of humor. And I’m committed to live every day that I’m given - however many there are - doing my damnedest to be joyful and to get out there and live. 

And along the way, I want to sprinkle seeds of goodness. I want people who know me to know God’s love. I don’t feel the need to leave my mark here on Earth. If I leave my mark on a few people’s hearts and souls, then mission accomplished. If I’m given the chance, I will lighten the mood and I will make you smile. Because here’s the stark truth:  life is short. Whether you live to be 116 or you end 47 years here in a smoke-filled office building stairwell, you should be able to look back at whatever is behind you and feel like you did your best. You gave it your all. You worked hard, but you played hard, too. When someone reads your book, I hope it has all the elements:  romance, drama, action, comedy. My wish for you is that it is a real page-turner.

So, when someone like my sweet daughter, who was still three years from the beginning of her book, asks about my personal 9/11 experience, here’s what I share from that day 14 years ago.

It was a stunningly beautiful fall morning. Not a cloud in the breathtakingly blue sky. And for a short period of time, a small group of people thought we'd lost Whitney Houston.

Yes, there were the news reports and then the endless media coverage and speculation and reporting. There were the images forever imprinted in the minds of those of us who are old enough to remember….the planes, the smoke, the people waving and then jumping from the buildings, crumbling skyscrapers, the brave rescue workers, the sense of “what in the world is happening?” and the stunned numbness that followed.

We were huddled in a conference room at my office, all crowded around a small TV someone had brought in, but none of us really watching any longer. It was the afternoon and the emotional and physical toll had set in from being on edge all day, from going through motions but being frozen at the same time. A woman ran in and yelled, “did y’all hear?!” Oh no, we thought, and someone asked aloud, Has there been another plane? 

“No,” she answered. “Whitney Houston just died.” And even though Whitney had faded from the headlines and her stardom was fading, people were just on edge enough to take this alleged passing really hard. Someone broke out in tears, openly sobbing. Someone else, a man I remember, said in a loud, melodramatic tone, “what else is going to happen to us?!” It was all very surreal. For a few minutes, a group of eight or 10 of us sat there with, literally, the world going up in flames around us, but we were mourning someone who was not actually dead. Later that afternoon, a retraction was provided for us in that conference room when the woman said she’d misunderstood a news report and that Whitney was, in fact, alive and well.

This is why, when I think of 9/11, I chuckle to myself. Certainly I will not forget. I won’t forget the senseless tragedy of that day. The terror. The evil. I also won’t forget the acts of selfless heroism, the patriotism, and the goodness and kindness that emerged that day and the days that followed.

Your book is not over until it goes off to the giant printing press in the sky. So, no lame cop outs about “I wish I had” or “If I was younger or thinner.” You grab that pen and start writing. Do it for yourself. Do it for those 2,977 souls and their survivors whose stories were forever altered that day. Just do it.