I can still remember walking into my second period, eighth grade, Science class. There were already other students sitting inside watching the small television in the corner. I remember thinking it was weird that the TV was on as I headed to my desk. When I put my books away I looked up, and saw the towers with smoke billowing out. A replay of the first plane hitting the North Tower on the split screen. I sat down as the room got quiet. Then we saw the second plane. And that’s when everything grew still. We all sat there just listening. Was this real? What was going on? Was it an accident? How could this happen? Was it planned? The class bells would ring and we’d shift to a different room, but that day we did nothing else besides watch the events unfold on TV.
I remember seeing everything. The people clinging to windows. People waving for help. The people jumping, and the “POP” sound as they hit the pavement. People screaming. The pentagon getting hit. Clouds of smoke. Everyone running. The towers going down. And then, news of the fourth plane going down in a field. It didn't seem real to me. Everyone was quiet. Our school was on a “semi-lock-down” with parents being given the opportunity to come get their kids if they wanted. However, everyone was on alert because there were reports of nuclear plants being possible targets. For a lot of our parents, leaving us kids at school was considered to be the safest thing to do. Since we lived within a certain mileage of one we were kept inside for the whole school day, and all after school activities were cancelled.
That was the day that I learned what terrorists were. That was the day that the innocent bubble I lived in burst. And that was the day that I knew WAR would be something more than just a word I’d read in books. The rest of that night, and the days that followed were somber ones. I cried when I got home. Because even though these people were so far away, and people we’d never know in person...they were still Americans. They were family. Human beings. People who did not deserve this. And I got angry. WE got angry. We watched as search and rescue teams dug through the rubble, and metal. We saw the pictures of the missing posted across boards near hospitals, police departments, and fire departments. And we watched, day after day, as the death toll climbed.
I have journals from that year stored away somewhere at our old house. I wrote down how I felt that day, and even some from the day that George W. Bush declared war. I remember all of the coverage of the bombings, and night air raids. I remember the first footage we got to see of our soldiers putting boots on the ground in a foreign country. I remember wanting to donate blood, but not being able to because of my age. I remember my dad, who is originally from Mexico, wanting to join the military to go fight for this country; HIS country. But most importantly, I remember how united we all became. Our flags were displayed proudly, enlistment surged, donations soared, we checked on our neighbors, and volunteers from all over the country headed to New York to help in whatever way was needed. There was this overall feeling of comfort, and compassion during those days because we were all coming together as a nation. Looking back, I feel like we need to be reminded of that from time to time these days. Of coming together, helping, and listening. I'm proud of how we Americans reacted to such a tragedy that day, and the months that followed. Seventeen years later, and I'm still so damn proud of how we all stood together.
Today, I remember.
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