Of Men and Red Bandanas

13 years.

It’s been 13 years since the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center. Can you believe it? In some ways it seems like forever ago and in some, just like yesterday. Crazier still is that most of today’s high school students don’t even remember it. I’m sure they remember stories told and images seen, but all of it retrospectively; nothing from the actual day. How old does that make you feel? Kids who are old enough to drive, get married and vote, don’t remember any of the horrors of September 11, 2001. But I bet if I asked most of you, you could tell me exactly where you were when you heard the awful news – and how you spent the rest of your day.

I was in college. I had an 8am speech class which, because I’ve always been uber studious (right, Mom?), I had decided to grace with my presence on that particular day. I remember sitting in a huge auditorium-type room and watching in horror, on the giant teaching screens at the front, as the planes flew into the Twin Towers on a loop - over and over and over - because none of the news agencies had any new information to share so they just kept running the same things on repeat. I also remember, incidentally, that I had a 3pm class that day that didn’t get canceled. Every other professor on campus decided to cancel class, but not this guy. How un-American is that?

I hadn’t really intended to post anything today, not because it doesn’t bear remembering – obviously it does – but because I prefer to stand in judgment of trivial things, not things as meaningful as this. But then I read the story of Welles Crowther, the Man in the Red Bandana, and I felt compelled to write a little something (which will probably turn into a lot of something because I appear to be incapable of succinctness; I blame my dad).

Crowther was a 24-year-old Boston College graduate working as an equities trader on the 104^th floor of the south tower when the planes hit. He left a message for his mom telling her he was okay and then began the daunting task of exiting the building. Along the way, he met many bruised, bloodied and broken folks, which is when his training as a volunteer firefighter kicked in. He carried one injured woman down on his back while directing others to safety. And after getting the first group down, he ran back up flights and flights of stairs - wearing a red bandana around his nose and mouth to try and minimize the effects of the all-consuming dust and smoke - and assisted a second group down. 

The bandana he was wearing? It had been a prophetic gift from his dad, given to Welles when he was a boy because he admired the bandana that his dad always carried. From that day on, Welles always had the bandana on his person, even wearing it under his lacrosse helmet in college.

All told, Crowther is said to have saved a dozen lives. It was on his third trip up the tower that it collapsed. His family had no idea of his heroism until The New York Times ran a story in which one of the survivors remembered having been rescued by a man in a red bandana. And after reading the article, his family was able to find some solace in the fact that the world finally knew what they had always known: Their boy was a hero.

ESPN apparently ran a story on Welles entitled, for obvious reasons, The Man in the Red Bandana. I haven’t watched it yet because I’ve read that it’s, not surprisingly, quite a tearjerker. But I’ve heard it’s pretty great. Maybe someday I’ll be brave enough to sob my way through it.

And speaking of watching things, watch out for the Boston College Eagles who, in honor of Welles, will be wearing shoes, gloves and helmets that sport a red bandana in their game against USC on Saturday.

Twenty-four years old. I don’t even remember being 24, let alone what I was doing, but I’m fairly certain it involved stressing about bad hair days and pontificating ad nauseam about how hard my life was. In fact, I’m pretty sure the most heroic thing I ever did was caution someone against watching the movie Closer. That movie was atrocious; I’m talking, “I can’t even finish watching this” kind of terrible. So, I mean, obviously it was pretty incredible of me to spare that person from having to endure such a painful experience, but still, I don’t think it quite rivals single-handedly rescuing 12 people from a burning building.

I can’t imagine the courage that takes. But as someone who is blessed enough to be surrounded by family and friends who serve in both the military and as first responders, people who go to work every day knowing that this might be the day that they don’t make it home, I am fortunate to see this bravery on a fairly regular basis. I don’t have it. But I see it. And I hope that maybe, someday, some of it might rub off on me. Isn’t that how it works? Doesn’t, by some strange osmosis magic, surrounding yourself with greatness in turn make you great? I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere.

I walked away from the story of Welles Crowther with two thoughts. The first is that if I’m ever put in a situation that requires great amounts of courage, I sincerely hope that I’m able to put on my Superman cape and big girl panties, reach way down in my gut, and find the strength to make it happen.

And my second thought was, if for some reason on that particular day my gut is broken, my cape is ripped and my strength is shaken, I sure hope there’s a man in a red bandana standing directly behind me.