Congressman Recounts 9/11 Panic That Broke Government Systems

The most enduring myth of September 11, 2006 is that national unity was a fragile thing that required constant maintenance. The reality, as recounted by a former member of Congress in the Colorado Sun, is that unity was so absolute and immediate on that morning that it almost became a logistical nightmare.

We tend to romanticize the "we stood together" narrative of 2001. It’s a comfortable story for an anniversary piece. But let’s look at the mechanics of that unity. It wasn’t a policy decision. It was a panic response to a threat so unprecedented that it broke the basic operating systems of government.

The writer for the Colorado Sun describes a "perfect early fall morning" in Washington, D.C., with cool air and blue skies. He was walking two blocks from his condo to the Capitol when his chief of staff called: "A plane just flew into one of the Twin Towers." He assumed a bad accident. Then the second plane hit. Then his legislative director rushed in: "The Pentagon’s been hit."

Here is the data point that sticks: No thought, no preparation, and no instruction had been given to members of Congress about what to do in a terrorist attack.

On paper, that sounds like bureaucratic failure. In practice, it was the only thing that kept people alive. Without a script, there was no debate. There was only instinct. The writer instructed his staff to leave immediately and get as far away from the Capitol as possible. He locked his office door and walked back to his condo, which he later realized was still in the danger zone.

The friction of that unity is visible in a single exchange on the street. He met a colleague walking into the House office building. The writer told him to turn around. The colleague asked, "Do you really think it’s that bad?"

That question is the hinge of the whole day. It wasn’t about politics. It was about cognitive dissonance. The brain refuses to process the scale of the event until the data becomes undeniable.

Meanwhile, in Denver, two hours behind on time zones, his family was stuck in a communication blackout. All networks were jammed and inoperable. His daughters, ages 7 and 11 at the time, had no idea he was alive. He couldn’t reach them on his "early-stage cellphone."

This is the part of 9/11 we forget: The isolation. Before the flag-draped photos and the joint sessions, there was just a man in D.C. who couldn’t get a signal to his kids in Colorado Springs, while tanks roamed the streets of the Capitol and rumors ran rampant.

We watched President George W. Bush finish reading a book to an elementary school class before moving into commander-in-chief mode. We watched all U.S. airspace close. We watched tens of thousands of people in New York and D.C. walk for miles through impassable streets to get home.

The writer notes that they finally gathered on the Capitol steps that terrible evening "to show the wor[ld]" — the text cuts off, but the intent is clear. They needed to signal that the government was still standing.

For context, this wasn’t a coordinated media event. It was a survival ritual. The "unity" we celebrate 25 years later wasn’t a political achievement; it was a biological one. When the existential threat is that high, tribalism pauses because it’s irrelevant to your survival.

The practical bottom line for folks around here isn’t that we were better then. It’s that the infrastructure of unity is reactive, not proactive. We didn’t stand united because we agreed on policy. We stood united because the phone lines were down and the tanks were in the street, and there was nowhere else to go.

That’s a harder lesson than the flag-waving suggests. It means our unity is contingent on crisis, not character. And in a world where the next "perfect morning" might bring a different kind of shock, relying on panic to hold us together is a risky strategy.