Me about 10 years ago
It was the beginning of a new school year at a brand new school. I was beginning to feel more comfortable with my new classmates, and finally starting to feel a bit excited about middle school. On September 11, 2001, the school day began at 8:15 like many others before it: we put away our belongings, said the pledge, and settled at our desks to begin our work. Just over a half hour had passed when a student ran downstairs from the upper level and had our principal hurriedly follow him back upstairs to where a television screen displayed breaking news: one of the twin towers had been struck by an airline jet. The principal and older students watched the live feed as just about 15 minutes later a second plane struck the other tower. A perceptive man, our principal began to piece together the magnitude of what was happening.
He returned downstairs to where the middle school students (myself included) were working quietly, oblivious to the turmoil in the outside world. He then made an announcement that would forever change my life. To this day, I wonder if that was the best idea--to just announce to a room of 11-13 year olds that planes were flying into buildings, that something was wrong, but that there was still so much unknown. Being so young, I could barely grasp the situation. All I knew was that I was scared, and I wanted my parents. My fear grew as in the following minutes, a fighter jet swooped over the school, so low that the building felt as if it was shaking (my school was on the Hudson River, mere miles from the twin towers). I dove under my desk, trembling, not caring what my new classmates thought of me. I began to cry. Those around me tried to comfort me, but didn't know what to say or do. No one knew yet exactly what was happening, so there were no promises to tell: "It is going to be okay", or "It was just an accident". I was relieved when my father appeared at the school at around 9:45 to pick me up. We walked home together, and I still remember the peace that came with being with a family member. He didn't know what was going on either, but at least we were in it together.
As the day went on, we were glued to our television, watching the events of the day unfold. The phone rang sporadically, delivering reports of family and friends who made the commute to Manhattan each day: thankfully, most were safe and accounted for, some having missed death by just minutes. I was still shaken up by what had happened, and I remember sleeping that night on my parent's bedroom floor, worried that during the night something even worse would happen.
In the ten years that have passed, my memories of that day and those following it have become hazy in some places. I don't remember the first time I heard the word "terrorist", but I remember the way that as a young girl, it DID fill me with fear. I don't remember learning about Al Qaeda, but I do remember the shock that came with knowing that there were people in the world filled with such a powerful hate of others. I don't remember the names of the people on Flight 93, but I do remember the awe I had for their bravery that September day. I can't really remember the Top 40 hits popular on the radio that fall, but I do remember being filled with pride each time I heard Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the U.S.A".
Going into middle school and turning 11, you want to be treated like a "grown up". It isn't cool to be seen with your parents anymore, you want to go out on your own and be given responsibility. Unfortunately, myself and many other 11 year olds in America that year were forced to grow up in a way that none of us had asked for, and none of us were really ready for. We might have been too young to fully understand everything that happened on September 11, but we were far too old for it to not leave a lasting impact on us. I don't just remember September 11 on the anniversary of the attacks each year. I remember what happened each time I'm on the train into the city, and I realize that on September 11, many men and women got on their regular train, expecting a normal day. I remember what happened each time I open a scrapbook I made in the 6th grade, and alongside the smiling pictures of camp friends and family members are tickets from that years dance recital, called 'Stars and Stripes Forever' in memory of September 11 and pages of postcards of the twin towers and a bald eagle crying, next to which my 11-year-old self wrote "Never Forget". I remember what happened each time I see the New York City skyline, missing two silhouettes that I remember from childhood. I don't live in constant fear or sorrow. Rather, I carry with me a memory and respect for the lives lost that day, a pride in being American that was forever engrained into my character that day, and a hope that in the future, no 11 year old will have to be sitting in school and receive the devastating news that their nation is under attack.
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