Major Clifford L. Patterson, Jr.: In Loving Memory

These words and images have been playing in my head since September 15, 2001 when my mother called with the news that my cousin was among the missing at the Pentagon.

Our grandmothers were the linchpins. His grandmother was the older sister; my grandmother was the baby of the family. We are part of a blended family and not related biologically. His branch of the family tree was rooted in the D.C. area, and mine in New York. He was twelve years younger than me. He was so close to one of his sisters that our family always spoke of the two in the same breath, saying their names as one. They would come to New York with their grandmother to visit my grandparents, not frequently, but they stepped into the rhythms of the house easily and cheerfully. They were polite, smart, affectionate, helpful and well-mannered. They celebrated America’s bicentennial anniversary with us in New York, and we cheered at the fireworks displays in Manhattan that we watched on television, sprawled in the living room floor as our grandparents and other relatives talked and visited the weeks away.

I remember that he had a broken arm that summer, and had to write with his left hand. The day before they returned home, he carefully wrote his and his sister’s names in my address book so that I could keep my promise to write to them when I went back to college. He politely refused any help, because he wanted to do it by himself and he did, and we kept our promises to write to each other during that school year.

He loved his parents, was a wonderful son, brother, grandson and friend. He was everyone’s friend, always happy to help someone else. He grew up, went to college and enlisted in the Army, as his father had. He was a good student in and out of the classroom. He was always prepared. He married and had two sons. He loved his wife and sons with all of the passion and devotion that he possessed. He cooked meals, bathed the children, took them to daycare. He was there for his wife. He was an usher in his church, greeting all who came through the doors. He loved to ride his motorcycle. He made the Army his career, as his father had. He was a Ranger. His last assignment was at the Pentagon, where his father served until his retirement. He was on the promotion list.

His office cubicle was in the direct path of Flight 77. His remains were identified nearly two weeks after the attack. His promotion was posthumously awarded after he was officially listed as a casualty. His grave in Arlington looks at the Pentagon. His father was grace under fire, holding it together for his family, honoring his fallen son and all of the other victims of that day. He gave the updates, broke the news, and did the unthinkable for a parent, burying his child, the son who wanted to be just like him when he grew up, the child who lived out his dream, the child who loved so much. The son who lived thirty-three years, like the Carpenter of Nazareth.

So for eight years these thoughts and images and words have been everywhere that I have been. Through the tears, prayers, swollen eyes, the aching heart and the anger. While clutching the telephone book with his careful handwriting from an innocent summer. While holding on to hope for another day, another newscast, another ring of the telephone. While wondering how, why, why??

Today his Commander-in-Chief will lay a wreath at the Pentagon to honor him and the 183 other souls who perished there. He would have been so proud to be in the Army today, to tell his sons that preparation, diligence and faith will take you far in life. I believe the President would be honored to know him.

We lost so many with so much promise. We will never be the same as before that Tuesday morning. I pray that each victim’s family holds onto the loving memories and can feel a gentle caress today, tomorrow and forever. I pray that we as Americans will take more than a moment today to thank the first responders that we see, for being ready to protect each of us. Thank the military personnel that we see, for being ready. Think of the military personnel around the world who are protecting our commitment to freedom and justice. Thank the veterans that we see, for their contributions to freedom and justice. Love our family before we leave home; love our family when we come back. Love is the most valuable, the most important, the most precious possession that we have. Don’t squander it or hoard it. Love of family, love of country, love of God.

Thank you to the families of Flight 175, Flight 11, Flight 93 and Flight 77. Thank you to the first responders and their families. Thank you to all who gave of themselves because of that Tuesday morning.

Thank you to a little boy who grew up to be a wonderful man, husband, father, brother, son and friend. A loyal soldier who lived out his dream. My hero.

                                                                                                                                                                    
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