A 9/11 Memory

It’s been 25 years. Hard to believe that much time has gone by. But the calendar doesn’t lie. There has been talk that 100 million Americans were either not born or too young to have specific memories of that day.

I remember the morning, the day, and the following weeks with great detail. But something happened to me as a result of 9/11 that changed my life.

The Background:
My friend had returned in January of 2001 from a long trip to Cuba. We met at an Eat ‘n Park to discuss his trip. My friend’s eyes were glazed over as he tried to describe what Cuba was like. He rented a car in Havana and drove across the island. He explained that hitchhiking is a common mode of transportation in Cuba. He picked up a family on the highway and drove them to a small farming town called Las Tunas, 420 miles from Havana. He found another family that rented rooms to tourists and stayed in this town for a few days. He talked about this town with great reverence and astonishment. We ended that winter’s night meeting at Eat ‘n Park with my friend announcing that we would be going to Cuba later in the year.

As the winter turned to spring and then summer, my friend would occasionally call me to ask if I was preparing for the trip. I would tell him that I probably couldn’t go because I had a lot going on and I was just too busy. In reality, I had nothing going on. And I was not busy. In fact, I was a depressed, unhappy man. Not living. Just existing. My friend was paying for my airfare and rooms and meals in Cuba. He wanted me to see what he had seen. But I was looking for a way not to go.

If you’re one of the 230 million Americans who remembers 9/11, you’ll remember that people posted USA flags at their workplace and wore pins or clothes with various versions of the flag on them.

In October my friend asked if I had my passport. I had spent some work time in the Caribbean and those trips required a passport. I told my friend I would look for it.

That passport was not only lost but probably expired. My friend told me to go to the Post Office in Dormont and apply for a new passport. I agreed to do that much.

It’s six weeks or so post-9/11. I go to the Post Office and I’m standing in line. The clerk was a bigger man. His neck was so big he couldn’t button his Post Office issued shirt. He was wearing a polyester tie with the flag design on it. He was also wearing a bad toupee on top of his head. I looked at that man for a moment and said to myself, “If my life ends up that I’m working in the Post Office, wearing a polyester tie and a toupee, I want to be able to say I took advantage of every opportunity given to me.” It was at that moment that I decided to go to Cuba. (Please don’t think I’m making light of the gentleman in the Post Office. Those are tough jobs and he was patriotic—like we all were and are).

That trip was life changing and life affirming. I’ve been to Cuba 10 times now. That first trip resulted in a book. In the Prologue to the book, I share the story about the Dormont Post Office. I also share that nobody had a more interesting 15-day journey anywhere ever. (You can read the book yourself and decide if I’m embellishing),

(Note: Matthew Hawkins is a pen name used for three books about my time in Cuba)

Here is the front cover of the book. Halfway through the trip, I ended up driving a bike taxi (taxi en bicicleta) through the streets of Las Tunas with an attractive Cuban woman and maybe the only overweight bici driver in Las Tunas as my passengers. We had left the government-owned disco and I handed him a piece of paper with my address (direccion) on it. He went about a half mile the opposite way before the mistake was discovered. The driver was having a tough time and I took over. I ended up pedaling the bici through the quiet streets of Las Tunas at 3:00 a.m.

When I got close to the house where I was staying in and could see the back of a police officer in the distance, I switched places with the driver. I gladly paid him for letting me drive his bici. I don’t have a photo of that night’s bici but here is a photo of me in another one during another Las Tunas trip.