When TigerBlog went out to the first men's lacrosse fall practice Monday, when began when senior Bear Lockshin read a letter to the entire team that was written by then-head coach Bill Tierney before the start of the 2002 season, a few months after the 9/11 attacks.
The men's lacrosse team, of course, had lost alum John Schroeder, a senior on the 1992 NCAA championship team, in the attacks. Schroeder's father Jack became very close to that 2002 team.
TigerBlog, who knew Schroeder, was taken by the fact that of any current Tiger, Lockshin is the one whose personality most closely resembles that of Schroeder, a funny, outgoing guy who loved to have fun, loved to laugh and loved his team. All of that applies to Lockshin as well.
Lockshin never got to meet the man they called Stinky. He was a little over a year old on 9/11/01. The reading of the letter, though, shows the importance of remembering the day, remembering what happened, and making sure future generations remember it as well.
To that end, TigerBlog got an email from former women's soccer coach Julie Shackford, now the head coach at her alma mater, William & Mary. Shackford asked TB to share with his audience what she had shared with her team Monday.
I think only a few of you were even born (our grandmas) but I hope you will take some time to read or think about 9/11/01.
I was one of the last planes into Newark (after flying from a home visit in Williamsburg coincidentally). We passed the first tower in flames as we were coming in for a landing, and our pilot said the plane must have gotten in the wrong airspace.
After landing, the second one hit....as I got off the plane a guy next to me said it had to be terrorists. I took the monorail, got in my car, and on the way back home, the Pentagon was hit. It was the most surreal day to me, and the United States changed forever that day. There were 3,000 people who died and I am sure most everyone (I have a William and Mary friend who was killed) has a connection to one of them.
That night, Toni Morrison did a candlelight ceremony for all of our Princeton Community as we lost so many alums that day. I would like to share it as I always do once a year. It is cathartic for me to share this, but it is more important we all do our part to love and honor our country. Things changed forever on 9/11/01 at 8:14 am, and it is incumbent upon all of you (the next group of adults) to serve, protect and honor in your own ways...and always hug your people and check in. In any case, I will stop rambling.
Read the words of a genius:
Toni Morrison: The Dead of September 11
Saw her give this talk on Sept 11, 2001.
Some have God’s words; others have songs of comfort
for the bereaved. If I can pluck courage here, I would
like to speak directly to the dead–the September dead.
Those children of ancestors born in every continent
on the planet: Asia, Europe, Africa, the Americas…;
born of ancestors who wore kilts, obis, saris, geles,
wide straw hats, yarmulkes, goatskin, wooden shoes,
feathers and cloths to cover their hair. But I would not say
a word until I could set aside all I know or believe about
nations, wars, leaders, the governed and ungovernable;
all I suspect about armor and entrails. First I would freshen
my tongue, abandon sentences crafted to know evil—wanton
or studied; explosive or quietly sinister; whether born of
a sated appetite or hunger; of vengeance or the simple
compulsion to stand up before falling down. I would purge
my language of hyperbole; of its eagerness to analyze
the levels of wickedness; ranking them; calculating their
higher or lower status among others of its kind.
Speaking to the broken and the dead is too difficult for
a mouth full of blood. Too holy an act for impure thoughts.
Because the dead are free, absolute; they cannot be
seduced by blitz.
To speak to you, the dead of September 11, I must not claim
false intimacy or summon an overheated heart glazed
just in time for a camera. I must be steady and I must be clear,
knowing all the time that I have nothing to say–no words
stronger than the steel that pressed you into itself; no scripture
older or more elegant than the ancient atoms you
have become.
And I have nothing to give either–except this gesture,
this thread thrown between your humanity and mine:
I want to hold you in my arms and as your soul got shot of its box of flesh to understand,
as you have done, the wit
of eternity: its gift of unhinged release tearing through
the darkness of its knell.
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