Tom Kirvan
Legal News, Editor-in-Chief
Legal News, Editor-in-Chief
Last Saturday, a friend and I saw “Come from Away” at the Meadow Brook Theatre on the campus of Oakland University.
It was a magical and meaningful performance before a sellout crowd that literally rocked the quaint venue during the closing number.
For me, it was the fourth time I had seen the musical since it made its world premiere in 2015, catching it first in Toronto, then on Broadway, the Fisher, and lastly Meadow Brook.
The most recent performance – like all of the others – touched a historical nerve, serving as a reminder that this September will mark the 25th year since 9/11, which redefined perceptions of security in the Western world and created a lasting legacy of increased fear of terrorism and anti-Muslim sentiment.
For those who have not seen or heard of “Come from Away,” the critically-acclaimed musical is based on a book written by the Canadian husband-and-wife team of Irene Sankoff and David Hein. It tells the true story of the small town of Gander, Newfoundland, which doubled its population overnight when 38 planes were diverted to its airport following the September 11 terrorist attacks. The show follows 7,000 stranded passengers (forever known as “come from aways”) and the local residents who opened their homes and hearts to them during a week of global tragedy.
The cast (of 12 actors) plays multiple roles, frequently switching between portrayal of the townspeople in the remote Canadian province and the travelers and airline crew members, including Beverley Bass, the trailblazing pilot who was the first female captain of an American Airlines commercial plane.
The show’s charm centers on its emotional exploration of community, humanity, and resilience, balanced by the lows of navigating intense grief, fear, and the logistical chaos of the 9/11 disaster.
In short, it is a “must-see,” especially as the 25th anniversary of 9/11 approaches.
That late summer day, of course, is seared into the American memory, functioning for younger generations much like the JFK assassination did for older generations. Both serve as landmark “flashbulb memories” where most people remember exactly where they were, creating a shared, traumatic national experience.
For me, that tragic day in 2001 became personal when my work morning was interrupted by a call from a longtime friend and former colleague who was screaming hysterically into the phone, reporting to me that “kamikazes are hitting the World Trade Center.”
At that moment, I was unaware of what was unfolding in the skies of New York or of the thousands of casualties that the terrorist attacks would ultimately claim. Instead, I was trying to make sense of what my friend was saying – punctuated by the fact that her son was in one of the New York skyscrapers that were suddenly ablaze.
Minutes later she called back to report that another aircraft had hit the Pentagon, and that she still couldn’t reach her son to see if he was unharmed.
It was then that my thoughts shifted to the whereabouts of my wife (now former), a Northwest flight attendant who departed early that morning on a plane bound for somewhere along the East Coast.
Repeated attempts to reach her proved fruitless, as I was left wondering about whether she was in peril as word spread that both of the Twin Towers had been toppled.
In the meantime, my friend kept calling back, seemingly more frantic each time as she watched in horror as workers trapped in the World Trade Center buildings jumped to their deaths minutes before the iconic skyscrapers were reduced to rubble.
Her son, who made a name for himself on Wall Street, was in the World Trade Center complex when it was the target of another terrorist plot, this time in 1993 when a bomb exploded in the parking garage below the North Tower, killing six people and injuring more than a 1,000 others.
Miraculously, he survived both the first (1993) and the second (2001) terrorist attacks, finally reaching his family some six hours after the first plane plowed into the North Tower on 9/11.
It took nearly as long for me to receive word from my wife that she also was safe after being stranded on the runway in Detroit for hours as the FAA grounded all air travel in the U.S.
Years later, in 2017, the memories of 9/11 were rekindled when I paid a visit to the Flight 93 National Memorial in Shanksville, Pa., located some 80 miles southeast of Pittsburgh.
There, in a remote field, rests a sacred site honoring the 40 passengers and crew who died on September 11, 2001 while thwarting a terrorist attack, presumably on the U.S. Capitol.
The National Memorial encompasses more than 2,200 acres, and features a “Wall of Names” of the crash victims and a “Tower of Voices,” a strikingly symbolic 93-foot monument built to commemorate the 40 passengers with one wind chime for each.
The hallowed ground serves as a solemn opportunity to walk the flight path and imagine what might have been in the minds of the passengers as they performed their ultimate acts of heroism and sacrifice. Seen in the distance is a slice of American heartland that became the scene of a dreadful tragedy.
“A common field one day,” reads the inscription overlooking the crash site. “A field of honor forever.”
It was a magical and meaningful performance before a sellout crowd that literally rocked the quaint venue during the closing number.
For me, it was the fourth time I had seen the musical since it made its world premiere in 2015, catching it first in Toronto, then on Broadway, the Fisher, and lastly Meadow Brook.
The most recent performance – like all of the others – touched a historical nerve, serving as a reminder that this September will mark the 25th year since 9/11, which redefined perceptions of security in the Western world and created a lasting legacy of increased fear of terrorism and anti-Muslim sentiment.
For those who have not seen or heard of “Come from Away,” the critically-acclaimed musical is based on a book written by the Canadian husband-and-wife team of Irene Sankoff and David Hein. It tells the true story of the small town of Gander, Newfoundland, which doubled its population overnight when 38 planes were diverted to its airport following the September 11 terrorist attacks. The show follows 7,000 stranded passengers (forever known as “come from aways”) and the local residents who opened their homes and hearts to them during a week of global tragedy.
The cast (of 12 actors) plays multiple roles, frequently switching between portrayal of the townspeople in the remote Canadian province and the travelers and airline crew members, including Beverley Bass, the trailblazing pilot who was the first female captain of an American Airlines commercial plane.
The show’s charm centers on its emotional exploration of community, humanity, and resilience, balanced by the lows of navigating intense grief, fear, and the logistical chaos of the 9/11 disaster.
In short, it is a “must-see,” especially as the 25th anniversary of 9/11 approaches.
That late summer day, of course, is seared into the American memory, functioning for younger generations much like the JFK assassination did for older generations. Both serve as landmark “flashbulb memories” where most people remember exactly where they were, creating a shared, traumatic national experience.
For me, that tragic day in 2001 became personal when my work morning was interrupted by a call from a longtime friend and former colleague who was screaming hysterically into the phone, reporting to me that “kamikazes are hitting the World Trade Center.”
At that moment, I was unaware of what was unfolding in the skies of New York or of the thousands of casualties that the terrorist attacks would ultimately claim. Instead, I was trying to make sense of what my friend was saying – punctuated by the fact that her son was in one of the New York skyscrapers that were suddenly ablaze.
Minutes later she called back to report that another aircraft had hit the Pentagon, and that she still couldn’t reach her son to see if he was unharmed.
It was then that my thoughts shifted to the whereabouts of my wife (now former), a Northwest flight attendant who departed early that morning on a plane bound for somewhere along the East Coast.
Repeated attempts to reach her proved fruitless, as I was left wondering about whether she was in peril as word spread that both of the Twin Towers had been toppled.
In the meantime, my friend kept calling back, seemingly more frantic each time as she watched in horror as workers trapped in the World Trade Center buildings jumped to their deaths minutes before the iconic skyscrapers were reduced to rubble.
Her son, who made a name for himself on Wall Street, was in the World Trade Center complex when it was the target of another terrorist plot, this time in 1993 when a bomb exploded in the parking garage below the North Tower, killing six people and injuring more than a 1,000 others.
Miraculously, he survived both the first (1993) and the second (2001) terrorist attacks, finally reaching his family some six hours after the first plane plowed into the North Tower on 9/11.
It took nearly as long for me to receive word from my wife that she also was safe after being stranded on the runway in Detroit for hours as the FAA grounded all air travel in the U.S.
Years later, in 2017, the memories of 9/11 were rekindled when I paid a visit to the Flight 93 National Memorial in Shanksville, Pa., located some 80 miles southeast of Pittsburgh.
There, in a remote field, rests a sacred site honoring the 40 passengers and crew who died on September 11, 2001 while thwarting a terrorist attack, presumably on the U.S. Capitol.
The National Memorial encompasses more than 2,200 acres, and features a “Wall of Names” of the crash victims and a “Tower of Voices,” a strikingly symbolic 93-foot monument built to commemorate the 40 passengers with one wind chime for each.
The hallowed ground serves as a solemn opportunity to walk the flight path and imagine what might have been in the minds of the passengers as they performed their ultimate acts of heroism and sacrifice. Seen in the distance is a slice of American heartland that became the scene of a dreadful tragedy.
“A common field one day,” reads the inscription overlooking the crash site. “A field of honor forever.”
A series of marble walls follows the path of Flight 93 on that fateful September day nearly a quarter century ago.
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