I was five years old. My kindergarten career had only just begun a few weeks previous. I don't remember the temperature outside or whether or not the leaves were yellowing on the trees. But if I inhale deeply, I breathe in Crayons and paper. My memory is fogged, diluted and unreliable.
Pieces are there, like my teacher turning on the radio.That night, I got to stay up and watch television, something that I was never allowed to do. My family sat with me, all of them. The lights were off in the basement. I think my mom was sniffling behind me. I was leaning against one of my brothers on the floor. The flag being raised in the rubble of the Twin Towers were reflected into my big eyes. Just as much as children across the span of time, I was living history and couldn’t even begin to comprehend it.
I never had a history class that didn’t include 9/11. In fact, no autumn season passed without something about 9/11 being emphasized. A travelling museum came to the school, and one of the paintings was a face of a woman on a chicken’s body, flying. The woman showing us the display explained to a group of 7-year-olds that it was meant to represent a woman’s feelings about flying after 9/11. Images of jumpers, crashing towers, flames, terrorism and the American flag waving all seeped deeply into my conscious memory. We were the children of America after a terrorist attack, and we were taught to be proud and afraid.
Country music took an upswing when I was in first grade. Songs singing pride for the homeland, for soldiers, sticking it to the terrorists, were the hymns of America after 2001. The Fourth of July once again became important, and when the fireworks boomed, we couldn’t help but remember the fiery buildings. Patriotism and fear, dancing together. I don’t know if we’ve stopped, or if we ever will stop, mourning.
Last night, I went to my youngest brother’s football game. The local boy scouts carried the flag out and before the national anthem was sung, the school’s superintendent made an announcement that it would be the fifteenth anniversary of 9/11 on Sunday and called for a moment of silence. The classroom, the radio, the television, the death — something that has affected almost every day of our lives as Americans whether we knew it or not, came back in a stomach punch. That day history was split into before and after. We can now tell the time a movie was made based on the New York skyline. We learned to love and hate our fellow Americans all at once.
Just as it was 15 years ago when I sat in my basement watching the flag wave above the rubble, I still cannot comprehend the history I witnessed. I don’t know if I ever will. I don't know if any of us will. This time of year, the earth stands still again as if the towers have just fallen. The amber waves of grain dress in black and we bow our heads to mourn. History was ripped into before and after, and the scar remains.
