Nine years ago, I was in the 6th grade. We had a fifteen minute break before lunch. I lived in South Carolina, I attended a private Catholic school, and I wore a knee-length plaid shirt with a white polo tucked in. War, death, disaster were all words that I had heard from the lips of my grandparents who survived World War II. The idea of an attack wasn’t foreign to me; it simply didn’t exist. There was no concept of terrorism in my world.
All of that changed nine years ago today. I walked into homeroom with all of my friends. We were talking and laughing and acting like the 6th graders we were. Suddenly, our teacher, Mrs. B, told us to be quiet. She told us something happened in New York City. The Twin Towers had fallen. She turned on the radio and we sat in our desks and listened.
I don’t remember what we heard. I can’t remember the wording of the broadcast or what our teacher told us. I remember her being worried; she and her husband were both in the Reserves. She must have mentioned going to war but I don’t know what she said. Then, fifteen minutes later, the lunch bell rang and we went to the cafeteria.
We were the only class that knew. No one talked loudly at our table. We sat and ate. Then we went outside for recess, where we walked in groups of three and four around the track. Two girls ran back and forth. I remember asking them why they were running. “To practice dodging bombs,” one of them responded.
I couldn’t fathom the idea of dodging bombs. Why would we be bombed? But then again, why did we get attacked? It all felt so personal.
After lunch, everyone was sent back to homeroom. The other students were told about the attack. One of the boys in my class had an aunt who worked near or in the Towers. I remember he was scared for her. At one, we had a prayer service. Everyone assembled in the Church and I passed out leaflets with another friend. We had been fighting before but now we were just there together.
I remember going home and watching the TV. My mom saw it happen on Good Morning America. She told me what she saw. She called my brother. She said she debated coming and pulling me out of class but she didn’t. She didn’t want to scare me. I remember seeing footage and feeling goosebumps. I remember feeling confused and scared of war.
I think they cancelled school the next day. I don’t remember. I just remember sitting and watching the TV. The next time I went to history class, our teacher pulled down the map. It was 6th grade world history and, coincidentally, we were going to cover the chapter on Islam. She told us this chapter usually wasn’t very interesting but this year it’d be important. I remember her showing us where Afghanistan was.
Our 6th grade class made tiny American flag pins out of beads. We pooled our money and sold the pins, donating it to the firemen. We wanted to do something. The streets were filled American flags flying on cars. Almost every family had one on their car, supporting our country. The unity was astounding. Everyone was family because we were all Americans. This country rallied around our fallen city and continues to make it strong.
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