My Independence Day

Does anyone remember what freedom felt like before the events of 9-11? Can you remember how you spent your July fourth holiday? Was the sky blue? Was there a marching band? Fireworks? Do you remember what you did on that fateful morning? Where were you when the first plane struck the tower? I remember.

The details are as clear as if it was yesterday. My husband and I live in a rural area. Life then was quiet and serene. My morning routine was the same as it was every work day. I wrote for an online newspaper. I would try to get up early enough to have coffee with my husband. After he left for work, I fixed my second cup of coffee and settled in my chair in the den to check my email and watch the morning news. That morning, the email was almost non-existent so I opened my blog window. I remember the next part as if it were in slow motion. My hands were poised over the keyboard of my laptop, fingers spread slightly to hit the appropriate keys, when I looked up at the television screen.

The anchor people were chattering on with the live feed of the Twin Towers as a backdrop behind them. I watched in horror as the first plane exploded into the Towers mere split seconds before the anchors focused on the explosions on their monitors. Then the second plane hit. What I cannot remember  is what went through my mind next. My fingertips reached the keyboard and I deposited my thoughts, my impressions, my disgust at whoever was responsible for such an inhuman action. Without thinking, or reading or editing my words, I posted my blog entry. Someone on the other side was reading my blog.

He was just sitting there, waiting for someone -- anyone -- to raise a rant against the perpetraters of their dastardly deed. He jumped in and posted a comment to my post, stating how we, the "infidels" of the arrogant United States were getting what we deserved. He left a link to his blog.

I look back, and really despise my predictability. He knew just what to say to get someone like me worked up and respond to his taunts. I clicked the link, but wasn't prepared for what I saw. His entire blog was full of anti-American sentiment. His morning post told of a dream he had the night before about all the symbols of Infidel Democracy exploding into blood and glass and twisted metal. Of course, I responded. Yes, it was his blog, and no, I didn't call him the names I was thinking. I basically told him he needed to get his own country (since he was obviously not a true American), straightened out before condemning mine. I think I added the words: "Every human being has a right to live the way they choose."

Big mistake. He went to my blog and blasted propaganda about death to all infidels! I'm guessing he wasn't prepared for what I did next. I'm not always predictable. The first action I did was to contact the owner of the blog site and report all that was said. I wanted to delete all traces of that idiot off my blog. But, I wasn't done. I went back to his blog and read back through the jerk's posts. It wasn't just the telling of his intuitive dream -- his blog was filled with hateful diatribes against all democratic entities. Most of it was directly aimed at the United States with promises of judgment yet to come. I quickly copied his urls and screen printed both his and my blog pages, and logged out completely. With shaking hands, I looked up the phone number of the local F.B.I. field office, and reported all that happened. I was told to hold on to the printed material; they would request it if necessary. What I didn't know at that time was that Al Queda pilots had received their elementary flight training at an airport less than 30 miles from our home.

Over the next few days, things happened too quickly. The next morning, I did not log on to my blog. In fact, I didn't even turn on my laptop. That afternoon, I had reason to contact the F.B.I. field office again. My kitchen phone rang while I washed the lunchtime dishes. There was a mechanical sounding voice on the other end. "You are dead. Your children are dead. Your children's children are dead. All you have ever known or will know are dead!"

I know I was in shock. The voice terminated the call and I stood there with the receiver in my hand, not moving and barely breathing. It took what felt like a lifetime to compose myself enough to call the F.B.I. agent back. He was out of the office, and I didn't feel safe leaving a detailed message. I just left a call back number. I then called my husband, but scared him when I didn't make sense. He took off from work early and showed up with one of our friends who was upset that I hadn't called him. Over the next few hours, our friend introduced me to one of his "special" friends, and took me out back for some target practice. Meanwhile, my husband packed up some supplies. The idea was to get me to a safe place, warn the kids about strangers, and hide out. Somewhere during those frantic hours, the agent recieved my message and showed up. The agent and our gun carrying friend talked privately. It seems the blog guy was a "student" in London and had ties to a London cell. My name was on a hit list, followed by "and others to be named". The agent was going to put me in a safe house, but our friend convinced him that our plans were safer and the fewer who knew about it was best. I changed clothes, put on a red-blonde wig and darker makeup than I ever wore. I dug out the contacts I used to wear and tucked away my glasses. When I walked outside, only my husband recognized me. Our friend gave me enough rounds to take out half the state and hung around until dark. It would be safer for me to travel at night.

I gave the agent the documentation I collected. He requested that I keep that blog open; it would help aid them with the capture of any additional threats. I was happy to get rid of the documents and more than happy to give up that blog account. I would have gone to any lengths to protect my family. So, I went into hiding for almost six months. It was a horrible experience to be alone and know that the only way to protect my family was to stay away from them. My husband and I had a special code to stay in touch and only used it when necessary.

It was a horrible experience, but I couldn't return home until the danger was gone. After six months, I found out that my name had not been erased from the list, and had been moved down so far as to keep me and my family out of danger. On my return home, I took a chance (still dressed in my floozy outfit complete with full makeup and wig) and stopped at my son's house, being careful to park down the street. He did not recognize me. In fact, he told me that he didn't need what I was selling.

Since that time, I haven't gone out of my way to be known, but I have remained much of a recluse. Before 9-11, I really didn't think too much about our freedom. I honestly have to admit that I took a lot of our freedom for granted. It was impossible to think that anyone would use the United States as a target. Part of my heritage comes from my Cherokee ancestors. We protect our own.

No, I am not a hero. Am I a patriot? Damned straight! Would I do it again? Yes!! I will defend all that is mine -- my family, my friends and our way of life!