The Twin Towers and the Pentagon went up in flames after planes crashed into them. Nearly 3,000 people were killed and more than 6,000 injured. All of New York City was left devastated and a War on Terror followed.
I was seven. I was alive and well when all of this occurred, but I was young, in a different state, and naïve. With something so horrible, you would expect to never forget it and remember it clearly. Every year there are ceremonies honoring that horrible day. And all I remember is that sense of panic that occurred all throughout my elementary school. Teachers were freaking out and crying. My fellow classmates were confused. Their parents were picking up their kids. And lessons completely ended.
My mom was the elementary counselor, so she was put in a tough situation. She took my brother and me out of class so we could be with her in her office until she got the okay to leave and take us home. She told my brother and me what happened, but I didn’t totally understand. Why would someone do something so awful? It sparked my first true feeling of compassion, regardless of how confused I was about the whole situation. For the following days I wasn’t allowed to see pictures of the attack, but I couldn’t stop asking questions. The attack was so far away that I didn’t feel in danger, but my parents were still worried. I had no idea how I was supposed to feel. I didn’t know these people who were hurt or killed, but I still felt bad for them. I was confused about why people would do such a thing. This was the first time I actually understood what hate was. These people hated people like me, an American. Does that mean they want to hurt me too?
What is frustrating about having been so young when this awful act occurred is that I do not feel like I can completely remember or pay my respects to that day the way I feel like I should. Obviously I feel sad about what happened. But I also feel guilt. I feel guilty for being alive and not understanding what happened at the time. I feel guilty that I was alive and still can’t tell the story about the attack the way someone who lived through it should. The main way I learned about 9/11 wasn’t through experience, it was through my schooling and what other people told me. When people ask, “Where were you on September 11th?” I just pause. I know I was in school, but it is a struggle to remember everything that was going on at the time. I didn’t feel panic the way the adults did. I didn’t feel sorrow the way adults did. I felt confusion. So when people talk about where they were, I recollect that confusion rather than the panic and sorrow I should have felt. I’m able to tell those younger than me the facts of what happened that day, but not the way I felt or what it was like for me.
Not understanding what happened on 9/11, but living through it, only made me pay extra attention every time adults talked about it or school taught us about the attack. I’ve always felt the need to make up for my lack of understanding of that terrible day. I am mature enough now to see why the adults were panicking and crying and taking my classmates out of school. I get why my parents didn’t want me to see the pictures in the newspaper or on television. It was a blur, but I see things clearer now. I wish I could remember my feelings of that day a little better so I could pass on my story. But all that really matters is that the story of 9/11 is passed on, regardless of who tells it. We shall never forget 9/11. We shall always remember what happened that day and pay our respects. We shall always stand together on September 11th.
