My Wedding Coincided With 9/11

Immediately after getting engaged, I told my new fiancée that we needed to elope.
When Brad disagreed, I reminded him that I couldn’t plan a wedding with my parents, who had divorced two decades before.
He had only known my mother and father for a few years, and viewed them as they were then, happy with their new spouses, and supportive of our relationship.
But I knew that my parents, who separated when I was six years old, still hated each other. My childhood had been filled with their explosive arguments, and they continued to avoid each other years after their divorce.
It was hard to imagine being in the same room with them, much less my own wedding. It would be better to escape and get married somewhere warm, and sunny. Alone.
But Brad convinced me to get married in our hometown of Chicago. He knew how much I loved my family and thought I’d regret not sharing such an important event with them.
“Let’s try it my way. We can always elope if it’s as bad as you think it is.”
That summer, I arranged most of the wedding details with my mother, occasionally checking in with my father, who signed off on all our plans.
Still, I braced myself for their hostility to ruin the upcoming celebration.
Tuesday, September 11, 2001 was my last day of work before taking time off for the wedding and honeymoon. I answered the phone despite my haste to get dressed and out the door. It was my mother.
“Turn on the television.”
“Why? Oh, Brad has it on already.” I answered as I walked into the living room.
He was on the couch, pale and staring at the TV, his usual morning mug of coffee on the table beside him, untouched. The picture on the screen was a skyscraper with smoke spewing out of its windows.
“What’s going on?” I asked, terrified.
My mother explained that my brother Ben, who lived in Manhattan, called to tell her that he had seen a plane hit one of the World Trade Center towers.
He told her to turn on the TV to see if there was any news, and that he was going to hop on the subway to Brooklyn and call her later.
Once off the phone, I told Brad that my mother and brother thought it might be an act of terrorism. He agreed.
“It can’t be.” I didn’t believe them. “It was an accident. Who would do such a thing on purpose?”
A moment later we gasped as we watched another plane hit the second tower.
I didn’t want to leave Brad, but I felt I had to go into work considering I was scheduled to take the next two weeks off.
But once I arrived at the office, I couldn’t focus. I wasn’t concerned for my own safety, but terrified for my country, and worried about my brother. No one had heard from Ben and the phone lines were jammed.
The coworker I shared a cubicle with turned her radio up so we could listen to the news. We heard about the Pentagon being attacked, and the other plane crashing into a field in Pennsylvania.
The first tower fell, and then the second. I couldn’t stop crying, and when my boss suggested I leave early, I was relieved to go home.
The wedding preparations took place in the aftermath as we tried to regain a sense of balance. We learned that Ben never returned to his apartment in Manhattan.
After he arrived at his girlfriend’s home in Brooklyn, they drove straight to Chicago, my brother with only the clothes he had put on that morning.
Several wedding guests who lived out of town canceled. Some of them said they weren’t sure if their rescheduled flights would take off in time to make it to the celebration. Some didn’t want to fly regardless. We understood.
Our bachelor and bachelorette parties took place as scheduled but were subdued to say the least.
Family and friends told us how sorry they were for us considering that it was supposed to be the happiest day of our lives, and though we appreciated their support, we felt their sympathy was misplaced. It belonged with those who had lost loved ones that day.
Our ceremony was held as scheduled on Saturday, September 15, in a tent outside an Italian restaurant, under our wedding canopy, a wrought iron arch with delicate grapevines woven through its crevices. The centerpieces, made of grapes, flowers, and silver-wrapped chocolates, glowed on the tables under twinkling white lights.
Despite the beauty, my strongest recollections of the evening were those related to September 11.
As we posed for photos, my uncle and cousin, along with his fiancée, arrived from Texas. They took the first flight available to them after several had been grounded. I hadn’t seen them in decade and had never met my cousin’s fiancée.
For them to make that sacrifice, to put their safety on the line to attend our wedding, moved me in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
My maid of honor waved her hands frantically in front of my face, trying to dispel the tears before they damaged my makeup.
We had already planned for our rabbi to mention the names of our deceased relatives during the ceremony, and we asked her to also include a moment of silence for the victims who perished in the attacks.
There was joy through the tears. Both of my parents stood by my side as I walked down the aisle. Brad made everyone laugh when he cut the rabbi off mid-sentence, interrupting her to say, “I do!” long before she asked.
The Jewish tradition of breaking a glass at the end of the ceremony, the rabbi explained, reminds us that married life is about facing joy and sorrow together.
When Brad crushed the glass under his foot with a resounding pop, the guests called out “Mazel Tov”—just like any other Jewish wedding.
Brad was right to insist on having our friends and families together for our big day. I’d never been as appreciative as I was that evening, and perhaps it is only because it took place against the contrast of great loss for my country.
Our guests had taken great efforts to set aside their grief to celebrate the commitment Brad and I were making to each other. Watching them drinking, eating, and dancing felt like a miracle.
My parents were the picture of grace, and although they sat with their separate families as expected, they congratulated each other, and I did not feel their divide.
My brother Ben, wearing his rented tux, led the wedding guests in dancing the hora, and Brad and I were lifted high on chairs held on the shoulders of our friends.
When anyone asks about our wedding, I say we got married four days after September 11.
I will never be able to separate the two events in my mind, and I don’t want to. The wedding gave our family and friends a brief respite from the devastation of that week and offered some hope.
At least a dozen of our family members, mostly grandparents and great aunts and uncles, have passed away since then. Watching our wedding video is like a sweet reunion with parted relatives.
I am happy I took the time to genuinely celebrate that day, to dance with them, and the contrast of the grief invoked over those lost on 9/11, and those lost since, brings that into bittersweet relief.
Sarah Leibov is a Chicago-based writer whose essays explore family dynamics, health and movement, and wisdom gleaned from her mistakes.
All views expressed are the author’s own.
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