Bin Laden Lately?

On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was at a charming bed & breakfast in Vermont, learning how to be an innkeeper.  Odd, I know, as that particular occupation had never been part of some long-held vision for myself, but was, rather, a more recent detour.  My then-partner and I had what I’d thought to be the ideal relationship, and had recently adopted a newborn infant son, just the year before.  And while we’d always talked of the possibility of moving to New England, suddenly, with reasons of which I was not yet aware, it became a priority to him, and owning an inn didn’t seem like such a bad way to do it.

But as I sat shock-still in front of the TV with my fellow classmates, watching in horror as the second plane hit, I had no idea that the towers were not the only structures in my world that were crumbling.

I tried repeatedly to get in touch with my partner and our son on the West coast, but got no answer.

How is it possible, I wondered, that they would not be home so early in the morning?  Where could he possibly have taken Mason?

All I knew during those first few frightful hours is that I wanted to be — had to be — home with my family.  That was all that mattered.  Family came first.

Gratefully, the inn-keeping class was brought to an abrupt close, and I found myself on the several hour drive to Burlington, hoping against hope for a flight out.  Listening to the studied calm of NPR, I was grateful for their measured approach, and allowed myself to focus only on the factual.  “As awful as this tragedy is,” I thought, irrationally, “at least I don’t know anyone involved.”

After checking-in to a nondescript Motel 6 and getting situated, I found my way online and finally saw the email.  Our friends Ron Gamboa, Dan Brandhorst, and their young son, David, had been returning home, having just vacationed on the Cape, and were on United Airlines Flight 175, the second plane to hit the World Trade Center.

There are times, even now, when I question whether I have the right to call these three my “friends.”  Sure, we’d socialized together, they had been to our house, and we were all members of the same gay dad’s group.  Still, did I know them?  Was I privy to intimate details of their lives?  Did we have a “connection”?  How well must you know someone before you can lay claim to friendship?

That we adults were all gay dads gave us a common purpose, as it was rather pioneering at the time.  And I enjoyed Ron’s sassy sense of humor; Dan was definitely the “straight arrow” of the two.  When they were alive, I saw them sporadically, but now, in death, they are never very far from my thoughts.   And in many ways I find myself feeling even more connected to them as the years pass.

As I write this, I’m sitting in a hotel room in Boston, a few days after the killing of bin Laden.  As I flew into Logan Airport this afternoon, I was fully aware that Dan, David, and Ron had themselves departed from the same airport on their final flight.  And it was from  Logan that I too had flown home, back to my then-family, just a few days after their deaths. It feels, at times, as if we are destined to keep crossing paths.

Watching the crowds in front of the White House earlier in the week, chanting “USA, USA!” at the news of bin Laden’s killing, I found myself wondering if his death is what Ron and Dan would have wanted.  It is, of course, impossible to know, but I can’t quite see them applauding, as if this were spectator-sport.

That bin Laden committed evil acts is indisputable.  But we Americans have been taught to view him purely as the villain.  He is hardly the first to have killed in the name of their God.

We have long wanted retribution — I get that.  But what our role in all of this?  What of those in the pulpits every Sunday, cloaking their vile in the mantle of Christ?  Or those who stoke division on TV, purely for ratings and with no regard for real-world consequences?  Or  politicians, who can say the worst things, as long as they’re wearing their American flag pins?  Or our go-it-alone foreign policy which, for many years, put us at odds with much of the world?

Surely, bin Laden’s death resonates with many, on multiple levels.  Maybe, to some degree, we all desire vengeance, and in movies it’s fun to see the bad guys get blown to smithereens.  But this isn’t a movie, and his death doesn’t make me feel safer; if anything, I feel much less so.  And as happy as I would be to say that his killing gives me some feeling of closure around the death of my friends — and they were, in fact, my friends — it really doesn’t.

So, was justice served?  Have we just brought an end to the story, or merely an end to the first chapter?

As I’m about to bring this post to a close, I am struck by another thought. A thought which troubles me:

Just as much as Russ and I love our sons, and just as much as David was loved by Dan and Ron, somewhere out there is Hamida al-Attas, Osama bin Laden’s mother, who still lives, and likely grieves the loss of her son.

Family comes first.

And the hardest thing for me, when my family has been threatened or harmed, is to have a generous heart.  But I’m trying.

For a great tribute to David and his family, please read:

http://hammeringsparksfromtheanvil.blogspot.com/2006/09/in-honor-of-david-reed-gamboa.html

6 Responses

  1. Thanks for sharing your story and for bringing this post to my attention (and thanks for plugging my blogpost on Ron, Daniel, and David).

    May 18, 2011 at 10:43 pm

  2. Angela

    Beautiful my friend. I had tears in my eyes when I read it. Loss of any human life will never be something I can celebrate. And your post is a reminder to celebrate life while we have it.

    May 13, 2011 at 4:38 pm

  3. LOrion

    PS. Your blog does not tell us the result of your frantic call/search for your family..I guess that was all okay?

    May 6, 2011 at 10:36 am

  4. LOrion

    Thank you for this sharing. Out here on the West Coast we were ‘more removed’ from it all. I can picture here on our couch watching the buidings burning before they fell, grumbling about her AP history course reading… :Why do we have to know all this?” (She had a fantastic teacher that gave them college level reading!) … Because, I said, pointing at TV. We do not want that to happen ever again!

    Now in the ARAB SPRING as he was becoming irrelevant to some …
    WE GOT HIM! He was still planning more atrocities on innocent civilians. This was not any kind of hero, even if he was originally a flesh and blood baby.. he was a murdering psychopath… Good riddance. He had a quick practically painless death and an appropriate burial for even his own relgious beliefs/customs. …Can you just imagine the HORROR of having to try him? Heck he’d probably have gotten off with an insanity defense!

    Yes, he had a mother, most psychopaths do. But once he became an adult he had responsibility to her to uphold her teachings not to become a mass murderer.

    May 6, 2011 at 10:35 am

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