One of my first memories is of having my grandmother pick me up from kindergarten. We usually got to play on the playground before we walked home, because it was still sunny and pleasant outside, a real treat in the blazing heat of summers in DC. But today was different. Grandma Kath was picking me up early from school. In fact, everyone was going home early that day. We rushed home instead of taking our time. Instead of being pushed on the swings, I was pushed into my house, the doors were locked, and we sat there, all TVs on.
One of my first memories is Sept. 11, 2001.
There was a prickling fear that coursed my small, four-year-old mind, because of the sense of the unknown. Teachers didn’t want to tell us what was going on. They would leave that to our parents. My grandma didn't quite know what to say. In fact, when she picked me up, my parents weren't home, because they both went to work that morning in DC.
I recall watching smoke billowing from the North Tower while a plane flew into the South Tower of the World Trade Center. Looking back on it, I had no idea of how this moment would shape American history forever.
Growing up in close proximity of Washington, DC, the anniversaries of the attacks on 9/11 are painful. They reopen the wounds of slowly healing Americans. Every year, I see friends posting status updates about loved ones lost during these terrorist attacks. This day changed the history of this country, but on a more personal level, it tore families apart. As I grew up and learned more about the events of that day, I thought, ‘what if my parents didn’t come home that night?’ It’s a reality that so many people had to face.
Since coming to school in the Midwest, I’ve seen two anniversaries of 9/11 pass. And yes, my school does commemorate these events by displaying thousands of small American flags in a field close to our student union. But it is very different from being at home.
At home, it’s something that is discussed the entire day. During high school, every teacher brought up the anniversary, and almost every class had a discussion about it. Once, one of my English teachers spent the entire 45 minute class period talking about it with us. Almost all thirty students in that class left that period teary-eyed.
On Friday, Sept. 11, 2015, I attended my classes. None of my professors brought up 9/11. I sat there feeling numb, wondering if they forgot, and if they forgot, how could they?
In the days leading up to this year’s anniversary of 9/11, I attended my U.S. Foreign Policy class, where the professor accidentally wrote on the PowerPoint that 9/11 took place on Sept. 9, 2011. I shakily raised my hand to correct her in a lecture of 65 people and her response was "Oh, my mistake." This simple mistake jarred me for the rest of the day, because if I hadn’t said something, I wonder how many of my classmates would have written an incorrect in their notebooks.
Every year since middle school, I’ve found time to watch Jon Stewart’s first monologue, since the show aired after 9/11. I laugh every time and I sure as hell cry every time. It reminds me of the persistent hope and spirit of the American people, and it reminds me of our horrible loss on that unforgettable day.
This year, I didn’t get a chance to watch it during the day, partially because of my terrible time management, but also because I didn’t know where to watch it, to sit, and reflect.
Before I fell asleep that night, I sat in my bed and watched Jon’s monologue. It brought me back to thinking about my grandma picking me up from school that day, to the images of the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and that field in Pennsylvania.
It brought me back to when I was four and I watched America change right before my eyes.
