Blue ribbons were the symbol adopted by the people of Oklahoma City in the aftermath of the April 19, 1995, bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building.
During those terrible days, Oklahomans across the state wore the ribbons, often combined with purple, yellow, and white, as symbols of support, hope, and remembrance for the dead, the missing, the injured, the rescuers, and each other. In those small tokens, we found strength, unity, and a tiny bit of comfort.
Equally memorable for many of us was the spontaneous lighting of auto headlights. In a gesture once reserved exclusively for funeral processions, drivers spontaneously turned on their headlights. Within hours of the explosion, literally miles of headlights could be seen throughout the city. Those ribbons of light helped bind us together and communicate our care and concern to one another.
The links here and here will tell and show you a great deal about the bombing and the memorial that later was built on the site. However, there was one unforgettable image in local newspapers that I have not seen since: a police patrol car parked at the scene during the rescue efforts with a message scrawled across its rear window:
WE WILL NEVER FORGET!!!
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I grew up in Oklahoma City and lived there most of my life. I was at work at the medical association five miles away when the bomb went off. Even at that distance, our one-story steel frame and stone building shuddered alarmingly. We all ran outside, expecting to see chaos from a nearby gas explosion, or perhaps a train wreck, and saw nothing. When we finally thought to go inside and turn on the TV, we were met with an aerial shot of the familiar eight-story Murrah Building, its entire north side blown away.
First responders arrived at the Murrah Building just minutes after the blast and began tending the victims they found outside the building. Within hours we would hear about one of our doctors crawling into the wreckage and freeing a trapped woman by amputating her leg. Reports came in from the hospitals nearest the scene as they went into disaster mode, preparing for the second wave of victims, all those pulled from the building. For us at the medical association, that may have been the saddest part of the day. There was no second wave. No one else survived.
In the days that followed, the downtown streets and alleys I knew so well were crowded with strangers. Every access to the area was blocked by military vehicles and guarded by U.S. Army troopers, big burly men in camouflage fatigues armed with both rifles and sidearms. My hometown, a city famous for its friendly openness, looked like a war zone.
The headlights blazed for days. Flags flew at half staff. Blue ribbons, sloganed T-shirts, fundraisers, and blood drives were everywhere. Soup kitchens near the blast zone were open 24 hours a day, providing for the rescue workers. Radios and TVs were left on to blare the latest news. Every yellow Ryder truck was viewed with suspicion. Every siren reopened the wounds and rekindled the anxiety. It seemed to go on for months.
Remarkably, the bomber, Timothy McVeigh, was captured just a few hours later, arrested on a minor traffic charge. He was tried and convicted in 1997 and executed on June 11, 2001. His accused accomplice, Terry Nichols, is serving a life term in prison.
— Susan Richards
April 19, 2008
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