Huddled together in the darkened classroom, our young eyes watched the thousands of cars stuck in traffic, each rushing away from the city that loomed in the background. The news broadcast told us the events that had unfolded that morning. They showed us images from afar of the smoke coming from the building where the plane crashed. I didn't understand what was happening; the horror of it just didn't make sense to my nine-year-old brain. I remember feeling fear, not for myself, but for the people in the city I saw on the television screen. The city reminded me of downtown Memphis, where my dad works, which made me scared for him, momentarily believing this had happened there. All I remember of that day is the darkened classroom and light shining in from the hallway through the window in the door, and the fear. I don't remember doing any schoolwork. I don't remember arriving at the school that morning. All I remember is sitting on the cool tile floor with my classmates watching the television.
When I got home from school that day, my mom was watching the broadcast in our living room. She carefully explained what happened to my older brother and I, my younger brother still too young to be aware that anything had happened at all. In my nine-year-old head, I just didn't understand why. Why would someone do this? I was too young to understand the complexities of the why. I had woken up that morning, I went to school with the innocence that comes with being young, but when I went home that afternoon, I had lost it a little bit. This act of violence took part of that away from me. I may not have been old enough to fully grasp what this meant for the people it killed, hurt, and directly impacted, but I was old enough to feel the fear shudder through me that this might happen to my dad. That's a feeling I've never forgotten, and as I've gotten older and we've somehow come to the 17th anniversary of this day it's a feeling that sobers me as soon as I remember what day it is.
I remember watching an anniversary documentary of September 11, 2001. It showed footage taken from the ground by people watching in horror as some trapped inside the building chose to jump rather than wait for death. Watching that video made me so glad I didn't understand what was happening at nine years old because I finally understood. Still not fully understanding the scope of emotion coursing through those people who witnessed firsthand, I was able to feel the weight of this event. I could feel the depth of their fear, sadness, and panic. I wondered what would I have done? What would any of us have done?
It's hard to believe it's been 17 years since this tragic day that marked our nation, that wounded us all in some way. Even now, sitting at my kitchen table, my puppy sleeping in a tight curl on the couch and my cats lounging on the cat tree, I think back to that day with a tear in my eye. I think of all the people who died and all the people they left behind, all the families whose lives changed forever. I am grateful. I have experienced loss, pain, hurt, but I have experienced what those families did on September 11, 2001. I am grateful for my family. I am grateful for a healing, loving, merciful God. I am grateful that on this one day, we might stand as one. On this one day, as a nation we might be unified as we remember what we were doing when the world stopped turning, and we remember when we got back up, raising a flag from the rubble. (Photo taken from the Daily Herald.)
To all of the people who ran into chaos to help, rather than away, I hope you know that your sacrifice and bravery have left lasting impressions on us.
To all of the people who lost a loved one, I hope you know the God who loves you and brings hope and healing amidst the pain and suffering.
To all of the people who call themselves Americans, I hope you remember the raised flag and all it represents.
This is so well written! It was a loss of innocence for our nation. I remember, and will never forget.