We Will Never Forget
Y'know what everyone says: "You'll always know where you were that day." And it's true, at least so far.
About an hour from now, ten years ago, I was just another eleven year old sitting in her sixth grade classroom, drawing pictures on a poster about good manners. It's easy to sit here, now, in my deskchair ten years and practically a lifetime later, and say I knew as soon as another (elderly - she blew out her knee the year before tripping on the carpet in a classroom and, I swear, I'd never seen her run in my life) teacher came running down the hallway to our classroom, but I didn't. I could tell something was up, but I was eleven - my birthday was in two days and there were more important things in my life.
Even when the TVs came on, yes, things changed, but only distantly. I was in gym, where we did nothing but mill around semi-aimlessly while the teacher watched TV, when the second plane hit the Trade Centers. At least I think so; ten years later, I'm starting to wonder if I'd just been seeing replayed footage, but I may never know. Shortly after that, the principal addressed the teachers over the intercom and told them to turn off TVs, and things went back to normal (baring a few off-colored jokes - c'mon, we were sixth graders and it wasn't serious to us yet) for a few hours.
We were living on Fort Knox at that point, home of the largest gold depository in at least the US - and the US Army Armor School. Actually, you could see the Gold Vault from the top of my street. It's easy to understand, then, the kind of panic that swept through our 'town' - people (kids, too, to a degree) were terrified that the Gold Vault was also a target, not understanding at that point what the terrorists' final goal might've been. Schools were closed; for the first time since we'd lived on Post, the gated entrances were closed; all planes/helicopters on Post were grounded; actual, kitted-out guards - lots of them, too - manned possible entrance to Post. Life on - and, of course, off - Post changed forever.
We were sent home from school early and told there was no school the next day, which delighted every child in the building. It was chaos trying to get all of the kids home, though, between security measures and panicked parents and the fact that every one of the twelve or so school on Post were releasing two to three hours early. And I'd been grandfathered for my sixth grade year, since we'd moved to a different area of Post, so I didn't ride a bus. Needless to say, it took a while for me to get to my dad and get home.
All of this happened, on Post and off, and, yes, I remember where I was that day. But do you want to know what I remember the most?
The night of September 11, 2001, was the first time I saw my daddy cry.
And that's when it became real to me - everything that had happened on Post and on the TV. I was eleven years old and none of it was really real until I sat next to my dad on the couch as he watched the news and saw the tears on his face.
It's been ten years and I'll never forget anything that happened to me that day. It's been ten years and I hope America never forgets what happened to her that day. It's been ten years, and I'm still blown away by the people's response, both that day and after. It's proof that there are heroes in this world, that they aren't just on comic book pages or the movie screen.
God bless you, and God bless America.
About an hour from now, ten years ago, I was just another eleven year old sitting in her sixth grade classroom, drawing pictures on a poster about good manners. It's easy to sit here, now, in my deskchair ten years and practically a lifetime later, and say I knew as soon as another (elderly - she blew out her knee the year before tripping on the carpet in a classroom and, I swear, I'd never seen her run in my life) teacher came running down the hallway to our classroom, but I didn't. I could tell something was up, but I was eleven - my birthday was in two days and there were more important things in my life.
Even when the TVs came on, yes, things changed, but only distantly. I was in gym, where we did nothing but mill around semi-aimlessly while the teacher watched TV, when the second plane hit the Trade Centers. At least I think so; ten years later, I'm starting to wonder if I'd just been seeing replayed footage, but I may never know. Shortly after that, the principal addressed the teachers over the intercom and told them to turn off TVs, and things went back to normal (baring a few off-colored jokes - c'mon, we were sixth graders and it wasn't serious to us yet) for a few hours.
We were living on Fort Knox at that point, home of the largest gold depository in at least the US - and the US Army Armor School. Actually, you could see the Gold Vault from the top of my street. It's easy to understand, then, the kind of panic that swept through our 'town' - people (kids, too, to a degree) were terrified that the Gold Vault was also a target, not understanding at that point what the terrorists' final goal might've been. Schools were closed; for the first time since we'd lived on Post, the gated entrances were closed; all planes/helicopters on Post were grounded; actual, kitted-out guards - lots of them, too - manned possible entrance to Post. Life on - and, of course, off - Post changed forever.
We were sent home from school early and told there was no school the next day, which delighted every child in the building. It was chaos trying to get all of the kids home, though, between security measures and panicked parents and the fact that every one of the twelve or so school on Post were releasing two to three hours early. And I'd been grandfathered for my sixth grade year, since we'd moved to a different area of Post, so I didn't ride a bus. Needless to say, it took a while for me to get to my dad and get home.
All of this happened, on Post and off, and, yes, I remember where I was that day. But do you want to know what I remember the most?
The night of September 11, 2001, was the first time I saw my daddy cry.
And that's when it became real to me - everything that had happened on Post and on the TV. I was eleven years old and none of it was really real until I sat next to my dad on the couch as he watched the news and saw the tears on his face.
It's been ten years and I'll never forget anything that happened to me that day. It's been ten years and I hope America never forgets what happened to her that day. It's been ten years, and I'm still blown away by the people's response, both that day and after. It's proof that there are heroes in this world, that they aren't just on comic book pages or the movie screen.
God bless you, and God bless America.