Photo courtesy of Mad African on Flickr
WASHINGTON — The thing I most remember is the silence that filled Washington. People on the Metro didn’t speak, even if they were sitting beside someone they knew. Many of them had red eyes and deflated body language that clearly suggested grief and mourning. You couldn’t help but wonder: Did they lose someone in New York? At the Pentagon? In Pennsylvania? The once-bustling National Airport was completely deserted. People downtown looked up mostly to avoid the armed guards patrolling the Golden Triangle district.
Then we began to understand what happened and life in the city returned somewhat to normal — the period of healing was under way. I remember feeling patriotic, of all things, when I purchased an airline ticket for the holidays. I remember craving to hear laughter as I walked to my office on K Street in the morning or in sandwich shops at lunchtime and eventually, the laughter came back. I also remember feeling perpetually linked to and protective of D.C. Perhaps after 7 years living in the area, it was finally my new hometown.
When outsiders gripe about the terrible Washington traffic or inefficient Congress, I am quick to stick up for this place, because I’ve seen what the community can do and has done in the face of hate and violence. I remember watching a report on the local news that people hoping to donate blood to support the victims at the Pentagon had to be turned away because of the outpouring of volunteers.
That’s a place I’m proud to call home.
