Like so many people, I remember exactly where I was when it happened.
I was a first grader. I was in Mrs. Winnick’s class at Raymond J. Lockhart Elementary School in Massapequa, N.Y. I remember sitting in the row closest to the window, second from the board, in my desk with the big “Practice Your Handwriting!” sticker on it that my meager hands had scribbled my name on.
The Vice Principal had come into the classroom and whispered something to the teacher. My friend Mary was showing me something she had drawn earlier that morning. I saw Mrs. Winnick. The usual bright, happy glow that radiated from her face had gone. She was visibly stiff. She stared blankly at the window past my seat, and asked the students to pack up their things. She said this so quietly that almost none of us could hear her.
After about an hour, many of my classmates had been picked up by frantic parents, saying nothing but rushing their children to their cars. The other half of us were huddled in the General Purpose room, the teachers buzzing about with telephones, pagers, and walky-talkies. None of the children knew what to make of it. They told us to treat things similarly to the lock-down drills we had practiced. They told us there was no threat in the building. They had emphasized the words “in the building” so much that it seemed like they were trying to convince themselves of it than us.
My parents picked me up at the end of the school day. We drove home in silence. I still didn’t know what was happening, but I was perceptive enough as a five year old to figure out that something terrible had transpired. We got home, and my mother cried. My father looked vacant. I asked them why everyone was so upset. They told me that New York City had been attacked.
Myself and my extended family, Hudson River, circa 2000
Myself and my extended New York City. Thirty miles away, almost exactly, from where I was standing at that exact moment. I had friends with parents who worked there. My neighbor across the street was a fireman there. I had family that lived there. I didn’t know any details, but I knew that I was scared. It was a fear that I have never felt before, and have been lucky enough to have not felt since. Never before, as a 5-year-old, had I experience fear for something larger than myself. Never had I felt a collective urgency, despair, and bewilderment; I had not known what it was like to feel threatened as a people, rather than just as a person, for something as simple as being afraid to climb the monkey bars at recess. And I was at one with my parents. It didn’t matter that they were adults and I was a child. It didn’t matter that they understood better than I did what was going on. It didn’t matter that they had seen the footage of the plane hitting the tower and I hadn’t. We were afraid together.
Freedom Tower, prior to completion, circa 2014
And that, I think, is how the phoenix eventually rose from the ashes. Every night for the next month or so, every family on my dead-end block near the woods ate dinner together. We spent time, reminiscing on good times past, telling stories, laughing together, and reminding each other of how much we valued the relationships we have. We solidified our little community, I realize looking back, more than I’d have thought possible. And it wasn’t just us. The entire city of New York, the whole state, and I truly believe the whole country gained something positive through all of the turmoil. We strengthened ourselves. We grew, and we grew upward. And we learned. A lot.
After a year had passed, my mother took me down to Ground Zero. I didn’t know what to expect, and I didn’t know how I would feel or if I would understand. I remember her telling me that she wanted to show me the impact of it all.
During the 12 months between it happening and my visit to the World Trade Center on September 11th, 2002, I had learned a lot about the world. I learned exactly what had happened that day. I learned that there are people out there who have hate in their heart. I learned that nobody is invincible to anything. And I learned that the people of my country are incredibly resilient.
We walked to the site, and it was gated with temporary fencing. All I could see was dust and debris. There were bulldozers, and vans, and lots and lots of dirty facemasks. There were people down in the holes, about 30 feet below street level, sifting silently through rocks and paper. I knew what those papers were. I couldn’t stay there for very long. I looked at my mother, and she was looking at me. She nodded, told me she was proud of me, and we left.
I had returned to the World Trade Center almost every year following to see the Tribute in Light. Seeing the Towers resurrected in such an angelic way for the first time was a feeling I cannot even begin to describe in words. It’s somewhere between pride and sorrow, and it fills every corner of the soul. Ever since the Memorial and museum were built, I’ve felt that emotion in full strength again every time I visit. I’ve brought friends from other parts of the country down to see it, and while of course it moves them, I don’t think they really see all of it the way I, and my fellow New Yorkers do, have, and always will. It hit close to home, in more than one way, and the pride we feel for the resilience we’ve shown is something I will carry with me for as long as I live.
I’m proud to be a New Yorker. I’m incredibly grateful that my parents didn’t shield me from the horror, but educated me and informed me and were there to comfort me when I was afraid. I’m proud of the children of my generation and how we have come to understand the world in a truly unique way. And I am proud to share my home city with so many brave people.
On the 15th anniversary of one of our country’s darkest days, I invite you to share your good memories with loved ones. To spend a meal with your neighbors. To do some community building. Remember the past, remember the lessons, and move forward and upward. Our country is a beautiful place, and we as a people have more than shown that we can bounce back from anything. America, thank you. Let’s keep going.
Tribute in Light, taken on my mother's camera phone, September 11th, 2013
