The Foreign Service Journal, September 2003

84 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / S E P T E M B E R 2 0 0 3 It was a perfect day. One of those rare Washington days when the humidity is low and the 70-degree weather makes everything seem pos- sible. It was AFSA’s first Day on the Hill — a major endeavor. About 80 Foreign Service retirees had come from all across the country to lobby for increased funding for diplomacy. My father Ward, a retired FSO and AFSA staffer, and I were with our group in the Russell Senate Office Building when the briefer interrupted the orientation session to tell us that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Towers. We contin- ued our meeting. We all thought it was a small plane — an accident, no doubt. Ten minutes later the group split up and proceeded to meet legis- lators, according to plan. When the second tower was hit, we knew this was an act of war. My boss’s husband, a police officer, called and told us to get out. The Pentagon had been hit! There could be more planes! In the evacuation, my father and I got separated. My colleague, Marc, and I tried to use our cell phones as we walked. We discussed where to go. Not the Mall — it contained the most likely targets. We headed northwest. It was surreal that Armageddon should come on such a perfect day. I looked up at the azure sky and in the dis- tance, I could see the black smoke from the Pentagon hanging in the air like a dragon’s tail. We joined the river of people, try- ing to reach our families. The cell- phone circuits were jammed. We found a pay phone. There was a line. As we waited, lost to the world, in a sea of people, wondering if things would start blowing up, I scanned the crowds for my dad. In the mass- es of black suits, I recognized a canary-colored suit. It was my boss. I called to her. She yelled down the block. I turned. There was my dad, some distance away in his seven- league boots, determined to find me. To do as all fathers do — even those who are not former Marines or retired FSOs — to gather his flock to him and find safety. My dad and I walked to Virginia. There were rumors and fighter jets zipping through the air. At the prospect of a fourth plane coming down the Potomac, did we want to risk crossing the Key Bridge? We could go upriver and cross at a nar- rower point. I commented that it was a crystal-clear day. Wouldn’t we notice a plane falling from the sky? So we crossed the bridge. As soon as we made it to the car, we got gas and drove home. We spent the rest of the day recouping and returning all the concerned messages. The phone lines to England were blocked for hours so when I finally got through, my mom’s voice was audibly relieved, especially as she had been fielding calls from my relatives in Denmark. After that day, I took stock. One of my friends had died. He was in the World Trade Center, at his dream job, trading in futures. An accoun- tant, he had always known exactly what he wanted in life and all had gone according to plan. I remember him at dinner one January night in college. He laughed at the rest of us because he had already landed a job starting at $50,000, even before we graduated! On schedule, he got mar- ried three years ago, moved to Connecticut, fathered one son and was expecting the next. So far, his life had been perfect. He had it all planned out. Later I learned he had managed to make one call from his office in the tower. He called his 2-year-old son to tell him that he was now the man of the house — as daddy wasn’t coming home. ■ I looked up at the azure sky and in the distance, I could see the black smoke from the Pentagon hanging in the air like a dragon’s tail. Mikkela Thompson is the Journal ’s Business Manager. The stamp is courtesy of the AAFSW Bookfair “Stamp Corner.” R EFLECTIONS The Perfect Day B Y M IKKELA T HOMPSON