A Moment of Silence

It was the third concert of Tour, our first Theater concert. The first two concerts were a bit hazy; most of us, musicians and audiences alike, were still in a state of shock. But the third concert was the beginning of what would become a pattern.

The stage lights were hot and bright, the dark of the theater engulfing the audience. It was the end of the first half of the program, and the piece was Carmen Dragon’s setting of America the Beautiful. It opens with a tympani flourish and a sweep of sound from the band; then the melody, rich with lush harmonies.

I am sitting, counting rests, when I hear a soft sound coming from the audience. As I peer into the darkness, I realize the sound I hear is the soft patter of the seats folding up as the audience comes to its feet, person by person, as though choreographed. I swallow, trying to get rid of the lump forming in my throat. I turn back to my music, concentrating harder on the rests I really don’t need to count, but a new and different sound has me peering back into the darkness.

What I hear is a soft humming, as the audience begins to hum along, some murmuring the words. I have to blink hard to keep the tears that are forming from running down my cheeks. When it is time for me to play, I am thankful the piccolo part is in the lower register where I can’t be heard.

That was nearly six years ago, on the Tour following the horrific events of September 11. The memory of that concert, and the ones that followed, came rushing back to me today as I played the same piece, this time on the balcony of the White House for the sixth anniversary of 9/11. It has taken a long time to be able to play this piece without tears.

The weather was fitting for such an occasion, overcast and heavy with humidity, yet with a soft breeze lifting the pages of music. So different from the day six years ago, a day that began with the crisp blue skies I used to associate with the game days of college football and marching band, and more recently with the imminent departure of Tour.

Like every American old enough to remember the events of September 11, 2001, I remember the day with great clarity. The morning light filtering through the sheer curtains fluttering with the gentle movement of the cool morning air, the feeling of a lazy morning, puttering around the house in my pajamas while getting ready to meet Sue at Henderson Hall for lunch before the All Hands Address by the Commandant; the perfect day before the onset of Tour rehearsals.

The ringing phone posed no threat until I saw the caller ID – it was my father, of the generation that never makes daytime calls unless there is an emergency. I snatched up the phone expecting to hear of an accident or worse only to hear the relief in his voice that I was home, and was I watching TV? America is under attack, he said, the World Trade Center has been hit, the Pentagon may have been hit. It is Osama bin Laden, said my father. He told me to turn on the TV.

In disbelief, I ran down the stairs, turned on the TV, and stood, horrified by what I saw. Time stood still as we watched the events unfold like a bad Tom Clancy novel. Phone calls were made and received; Sue, safe at home, Operations telling us to stay home until further notice, Jenna, in a panic with all the other students with parents working at the Pentagon.

Until she called, we had assumed the kids were safely oblivious in their classrooms. A class at the high school, however, had been watching a news show as part of a class activity and word had spread. Jenna, aware of my plans to be near the Pentagon, had rushed to the Orchestra director to use his phone to call and see if I was still home.

Only then did we notice the silence that descended with the halt of all commercial air traffic. The eerie stillness was broken only by the helicopters and jet fighters flying around the State House and over the Naval Academy.

Today the moment of silence was filled with street noises and birds, a world that goes about its business even while remembering the past.