2001: The Tale of an American Peter Rabbit

ON THE VICTIMS OF HISTORY

With time, news becomes history. And history, it’s been said, is what happened to other people.

— Mitchell Zuckoff, Fall and Rise: The Story of 9/11 (2019), p. xix.

Into the Dream Patch of a Nightmare

[Reading an electronic book, a parent and child are sitting together in the quiet.]

“MS. RABBIT HAD wondered what he had done with his clothes. It was the second little jacket and pair of shoes that Peter had lost.”

Surrounded by wallpaper covered in dressed-up rabbits, the parent smiled and said, “And you too — where are your shoes?”

The child looked back, half-asleep with hazy eyes, and said, “I don’t know.” Reaching for a button on the book, the child tapped a sound effect of a rabbit making a cute sound. Their eyes began to close.

The parent continued reading. “I am sorry to say that Peter was not very well during that evening.”

“His mother put him to bed and made some chamomile tea — and she gave a dose of it to Peter.”

The parent checked on the child, as they had fallen fast asleep. The child coughed, and the parent felt their forehead. They gently whispered, “You’re okay.”

They continued reading. “One teaspoonful to be taken at bedtime.” Pausing, the parent checked again and noticed the young one was no longer awake. They closed the book.

Carefully scooping up their child, they placed them securely in their bed. They tucked a stuffed rabbit between the child’s arms and turned off the light.

As the parent walked out, they approached a familiar picture of a loved one on a display table. The parent loved the person in the photo.

Whispering to themself, “And Peter never woke up again.” The parent broke down, weeping. It was a cool September evening. Outside on the portico, a crisp flag waved gently in the breeze as the mums below gave off an earthy smell.

The Death of Innocence in the Economic Zone of McGregor

[In a panic, a parent and child are speaking over a phone. An AM radio blares with emergency news.]

A PARENT TURNED on the television, witnessing a smoking high-rise building on fire. A news broadcaster chattered about an airplane hitting a financial landmark. “It must be an accident.”

That parent, who was on the phone with their child, looked away from the television. “What are you talking about?” they said. “Don’t scare anyone on the airplane.”

The child replied through the phone, “I think they’ve taken over the cockpit. They used mace to push us away. We are all huddled here in the back of the airplane.”

“Someone has been stabbed. The mace, Dad, it’s hard to breathe. They have knives.”

The parent thought about their loved ones. “How are they?”

The child replied, “It’s tight back here [with them] —they’re okay. But Dad, they are talking about crashing the plane.”

The parent paused, thinking about what they could do. The child told the parent, “They turned off the transponder. Maybe call the airline company? See if you can get through to them.”²

The parent panicked, not wanting to let go of their child through the phone. In a moment of desperation, they held on to the hope that the hijackers wanted a hefty ransom and freedom — their survival.

“Okay, I’ll call.”

The child replied, “I’m going to hang up now.”

From the thirtieth aisle, a person hung up the phone on a headrest and turned. They looked deeply into their loved ones’ eyes and smirked. A young child smiled back.

“They will help.”

On the other end, the parent paused, looking at a significant other glued to the television as they clenched prayer beads.

Then, tugging the kitchen phone line, the parent dialed the airline. As they walked out the back door onto the deck, their feet hit a full watering can, left for the chrysanthemums. They looked at it for a moment in contempt, and then toward the sky. A busy tone buzzed in the person’s ear.

“God dammit!”

Above the green acres of trees, they looked up at the beautiful blue September morning atmosphere. Upstairs was a small rabbit tucked safely in a child’s bedroom.

History Baked an Author into the Pie

[In an open field, overlooking a garden patch, a parent is writing to a child as birds are chirping.]

A PERSON WAS dressed properly, sitting comfortably within nature, with rolling fields behind them. They were in the countryside.

Placing ink on paper, they penned, “I don’t know what to write to you.”

Thinking about a dear friend, they noticed a rabbit in a garden across the field. They watched the animal for a minute, thinking about what to write and, more importantly, what to sketch.

In the middle of the patch was a straw man, an effigy in tattered clothing. The rabbit ate cabbage in its shadow. Then the animal dashed, dug under the fence and out the other side.

Although childless, this person became a loving parent. With a flash, they understood. “I shall tell you a story about little rabbits.” They continued. “Their names are . . .”

They smiled as they wrote a few pages of disobedience and consequences, with subtle hints of the nature of civilization. The author took the time to illustrate such a story.

A closed diary sat beside them on the lawn, its pages filled with cryptic messages as the grounded chrysanths permeated the air.

Some time passed. “There we go.” With a slight smirk, they said, “Such a pretty letter. It’s time to make way for the puff-puff!” They laughed.

The parent completed the letter to the child. “I am coming back next Thursday, so I hope I shall see you soon,” and they signed it to a loved one waiting in bed. “For my pickle.”

Presently they sketched the letter under a clear September sky.³

The Sickness of Justice and the Potting Shed of a Historical Garden

[Two parents thinking about their children, among scenes of reporters with the sound of light rain.]

ATTACHED TO A necklace, an older parent holds out a picture of their children to a media camera, promptly displaying their smiling faces. With the scent of petrichor, it was a gray September morning.

Thinking about those who took their children by turning an airplane into a guided missile, they said, “They are just contemptuous of us —.”

The parents continued to reflect on the justice system and how legal procedures were failing their children’s legacy. With grim faces, the exhaustion was eating them.

The media took notes as the parents made the rounds among the endless video cameras.

Reflecting, the parent reconciled on the television broadcast, “[My child] said something I’ll never forget. [They] said, [pausing due to an overwhelming amount of emotion] . . .”

“They said, ‘Don’t worry, if they do that, it will be quick.’”

Later, two parents scooped up a small stuffed rabbit that was sleeping in bed. They handed the plush to a coordinator, who took it to the curator and placed the rabbit where many could see it.

The rabbit now sleeps there in a safe shelter among fascinating artifacts, somewhat sick, having escaped its death. Its lost parent lovingly placed stickers on its belly to make its overeating feel better—a mark of their love and approval.

Planting Seeds Among the Victim Signs of Lost Shoes and Jackets

[A parent and child riding bicycles on the streets of suburbia with sounds of kids playing in the area.]

“WAIT, LET ME catch up! Stay to the side of the road!” said the parent. “Don’t go past the crossroad, stay right there.”

“Okay,” said the child.

The parent, riding a bike, caught up to the child, who was wearing a helmet. Looking up, the child noticed recently placed pinwheels strapped to a telephone pole, as vibrant flags waved in the breeze. Pointing up, the child said, “What’s that?”

“Oh, it says the name of the street.”

“No, below it.”

“Oh, that’s a person who died in the attacks and is honored here. I guess they lived on this block.”

“What attacks?” said the child. “It was one of the many people who died a long, long time ago,” their parent replied.

“But how?” snapped the child. “It’s a complicated story. Some planes crashed, some towers fell,” as the parent looked down, attempting to find words.

“They were monsters — awful terrorists.” The child stared back with a blank face.

The community displayed these memorials to honor people who had died. Flowers, religious objects, and a small stuffed doll hung on the telephone pole. A portrait of the victim sat there with fresh mums placed below it.

The child looked back, and they both paused for a moment. They stared at the doll, bound like a scarecrow.

As the parent and child stood there, a clear blue September day stretched out. A quarter-century had passed; many viewed the event as unlived history, told through storytelling. People began to forget, and others no longer wanted to recall. Some told falsehoods, convinced governments covered up the incident.

Among these victim signs, the people lived in a patch farmed by terror. The placards serve as a cautionary guide in the continuing exchange of ideals and the erosion of freedoms.

After a time, the child rode away on their bicycle, with the stuffed doll hanging patiently for the next to see. An innocuous jet airplane roared above, as a small rabbit swiftly darted across the street behind them.⁴ The parent looked up at the plane as the child minded their ride.

The descending jet plane made a screeching sound, a wonder in the sky. To some, it became a distinct harp-chord of horror.

Tucked away in all of us . . . is the need for a source of comfort — someone or something to turn to.

— Toy Manufacturers Association, within Dreamy Stuffed Toy Land, (1968).

The Provenance and Ruthlessness of Parental Morality

ON SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, Peter (32), Sue (35), and Christine Lee Hanson (2) died on United Airlines Flight 175 in the attacks on the World Trade Center. All told, 2,977 victims were murdered that September day. Since then, a hundred thousand have either died or are suffering from illnesses associated with Ground Zero contaminants.

Following their grieving, Peter’s parents, Lee and Eunice Hanson, pursued justice for their children. Yet, Mr. Hanson predicted that he would never see those responsible fully held to account. Lee’s prediction was proven correct, as military tribunals have stalled in the prosecution of the master planners of the attacks, such as Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. Lee passed away in 2018.

Eunice, Lee’s spouse, continued the battle for their loved ones in his absence. She sat for many interviews, including the seminal book Fall and Rise by Mitchell Zuckoff. Knowing governments withheld intelligence exposed in 2024, Eunice passed away a year later, sealing the legacy of their story.

Their granddaughter, Christine Lee Hanson, was a fan of Peter Rabbit. The story goes that the doll was tucked in her bed while she perished on a plane bound for Disneyland. Lee and Eunice Hanson watched her death in real time on television, and the resultant collapse of the World Trade Center.

Thirteen years after the attacks, both Lee and Eunice gifted the treasured plush to the 9/11 Memorial & Museum. The stuffed doll, once patented, is a permanent reminder that not everyone who died that day carried guilt; instead, they carried in their hearts what they loved.

The Tale of Peter Rabbit, written by British author Beatrix Potter, is widely considered one of the most popular and best-selling children’s books of all time. America’s cutthroat spirit quickly pirated the book after its 1902 publication.

The Harsh Realities of Civilized Warrens and Their Soft Conspiracies

[A parent is walking among a capital district holding a camcorder. A lone oud plays meditatively in the background.]

THEY SAID TO the hand-held video camera, while zooming in on a structure, “I don’t know the name of this building, but I assure you I will come back with results soon.”

“I will report it in detail to you on what it is.”

The camera pans from a building to a driveway.

“And their cars, you said that in the plan.”

It was two years before the attacks.

The tape cuts to a capital domed building, zooming in on a waving flag.⁵ Later, panning down from a statue of a scholar, they focused in on a large ornamental garden. A loving couple holding hands breezes through the frame while the indistinct shadows of rabbits played among the colorful kale and cabbage.

These animals ate together within an institution of protected knowledge. And their predators lost the scent a month prior.

[An admiring “pickle” sits at their desk at night, looking over papers, with straight lines of cryptic letters and sketches of rabbits.]

The air smelled of pungent mums. On a table lay an obituary that read, “No mornings, no flowers, and no letters, please.” Next to it was an old paper in which someone poured out their dislike of noisy “flying-boats.”

Across the desk, a person in a chair said, “What did they write?” Looking back at the worded decoding, they muttered, “. . . are the causes of endless [paused to double-check] strife?”

They sat back and rubbed their forehead in contemplation. Glancing away from their straight-rule and magnifying glass, they looked out the window into the night. They wore a puzzled face.

“In September?”⁶

[Oud music fades.]

All outward forms of religion are almost useless, and are the causes of endless strife.

— Beatrix Potter, encoding in her Secret Diary (September, 1884). The message was cracked by admirer and scholar Leslie Linder in 1958.

¹ “In the end, the Port Authority officials essentially guessed at what type of fire-resistant materials to use . . .” and “In 1999, [Chief Vincent] Dunn wrote: ‘The best kept secret in America’s fire service is that firefighters . . . cannot extinguish a fire . . . in a high-rise building.’” FDNY leaders knew this and went in anyway. Zuckoff, p. 224, 250.

² Adapted from the FBI interview of Lee Hanson. There is no audio recording.

³ “. . . Beatrix sat down in the sunshine on the lawn at Eastwood.” Beatrix Potter: A Life in Nature (2007). Lear, Linda. p. 85.

⁴ The Eastern Cottontail is considered an evasive species in many American suburban communities, but is seen as a part of their fabric. While writing this piece, this author had an unusual number of unprovoked encounters.

⁵ “[They] focused . . . on the hilltop Capitol, its dome crowned by the bronze Statue of Freedom,” Zuckoff, p. 174. The recently released Omar al-Bayoumi video suggests Capitol Hill as the last target of the 9/11 attacks.

According to unclassified documents, Saudi national Mr. Al-Bayoumi had direct ties to two hijackers who later crashed into the Pentagon located in Washington, D.C. His tape, seized by Scotland Yard in 2001, was withheld from the public until 2024, when a lawsuit filed by 9/11 families exposed this media during the discovery phase. Mr. Al-Bayoumi has denied any wrongdoing.

⁶ As shared by author Linda Lear in Beatrix Potter: A Life in Nature, Beatrix’s quote, “outward forms of religion,” was initially held back from Mr. Linder’s publishing at the request of the family in 1966. However, in 1989, Ms. Potter’s dissent was published, thereby sealing her grievances.

Beatrix Potter was a visionary mycologist, author, and merchandiser of anthropomorphic children’s products under the Frederick Warne & Co. label. Christine Lee Hanson’s Peter Rabbit doll, which stems from the genesis of Ms. Potter’s efforts, sits in the 9/11 Memorial & Museum to this very day.

[Peter Rabbit] seems a long time ago; and in another world. Though after all the world does not change . . . where seasons follow their accustomed course . . . and where nature . . . has always been ruthless.

— Beatrix Potter to an American during the Battle of Britain (1940).

Coda: Actions Have Natural Outcomes

[In a backyard, an adult finds a dead rabbit on the lawn.]

A PERSON NOTICED something in the grass nearby. “Argh, damn. Is it dead?” Flies covered a once-living creature that pranced under and over neighbors’ fences. The smell was overpowering.

The person darted to the garage, put on gloves, grabbed a shovel, and readied a double-lined trash bag.

They walked back and poked the carcass with the shovel to confirm its death. At that moment, an airplane descended into a heavy flight path above.

The person nervously looked up as children innocently played nearby.

Looking back down, the rabbit’s bloated entrails lay slightly open. They suspected the animal had overeaten.

[For George. Originally written for Undercover Toy Stories.]