I do. I remember being at Salem Christian in the fifth grade and we had morning recess--whether that was scheduled or not, I'll never know. Anyway, as we were heading back indoors, Josh Who Moved to Xenia (and who I had a crush on throughout that year), came rushing up to us and said, "Did you hear? Someone crashed into the Twin Towers!"
I didn't know what the Twin Towers were at the time--not like I'd be given the chance to forget after that day--but it sounded terrifying. I was frightened. I was excited. Frightened for all the obvious reasons, excited in a nervous, fretful way, and most certainly not in the way that a 10-year-old student should be excited on a beautiful Autumn morning.
Whether we watched the news in class or not, I can't remember. I don't remember the teachers really discussing what happened, and if they did, I was too busy ruminating, chewing my thoughts over and over, trying to consolidate the fictional wonderland that was my childhood and the reality of the cruelty of humanity. It was not until I was more than a decade removed from the plastic chairs and oversized desks of private religious education that I would come to understand the root of humanity's persistent cruelty: religion itself. But that is neither here nor there, not in this story, anyway.
One thing I did realize, however, as I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat, was that things were never going to be the same. And for a child who had woken up carefree and blissfully naïve, that was a horrifying realization.
The schools dismissed early. Since the buses did not service us directly and were too busy shuttling the public school students to the safety of their homes, my father came to pick me and my sister up. I could be imagining this--this was over ten years ago, and a lot of my memories are still lost in the haze of childhood amnesia--but I think that it was a deceptively perfect day, with large, white fluffy clouds stretching over the scarce landscape, and the sky a blue of storybook fame as it complemented the vibrant hues of late-summer leaves. And it wasn't fair that so beautiful of a day had to be absolutely ruined. And it wasn't fair that thousands of people would never experience another morning so perfect.
…And it wasn't fair that they would never even experience another day.
Looking back, it's my hope that they treasured their morning. That they looked up into that same sky through the eyes of a child and felt a deep stirring in the depths of their bellies, that sweet knowing that surpasses all knowing that you and the sky are one, those swaying trees are your arms and legs, that sweet, crisp air the lifeblood that nourishes almost all living things.
Again, I don't remember everything, so I don't know if the five-minute ride home was spent in uncomfortable, mournful silence, or if my father tried to console us in that awkward way parents do, carefully skirting around the most brutal details, trying to console their children with half-hearted words while they themselves are trying to keep their worlds from falling apart.
It doesn't matter, really. I was lost in my own head.
I remember coming home and sitting on our vintage floral couch that still smelled like the home of the neighbors who had gifted it to us. I remember that the first thing my dad turned on was the news. Channel 2. Channel 7. Channel 8. Regardless of the channel, it was the same thing. The same "Breaking News" headline. The same pale faces, haunted eyes, trembling lips; the same facade of calmness and bravery that I immediately learned to distrust. The same horrifying footage: the dark billows of smoke that shrouded the air, the crumpling of tons of metal like the cardboard boxes of children's make-believe castles, the shadowy silhouettes that looked like bugs tumbling from the flames--the dark truth of which I would not learn until years later.
My father stood, arms crossed, pacing in front of the television, eyes fixated to the images on the screen. If there's anything that I remember clearly, it's the shaky video footage of observers, and the way that a jet looked as it collided with stone and metal, the way that the raging orange flames contrasted with the solemn black billows that erupted from the gaping wound in the tower's side. I remember that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I rotated between the comforting arms of my father and the soft cushions of the couch that smelled like safety.
My mother came home, dressed in those ugly green scrubs that nurses are punished to wear, coupled with an equally hideous purple lab coat, and a dark maroon stethoscope hung round her neck. She looked hectic, angry, frightened, and confused. She yelled at my dad for having the news on in front of my sister and me--though I'm fairly certain that my sister had escaped the best way she knew how, and was curled on the opposite couch fast asleep. But it was too late, we had seen it, there was no use in changing the television now. So we watched it together, me squashed between the hips of my mother and wrapped in the arms of my father, as the TV told the story of how the United States changed forever.
And for some little girl lost in the golden cornfields of Ohio, whose greatest fears until that moment had consisted of mud, spiders, and the dark, it was a startling introduction to reality. But the world still turned, as they say. The sky did not darken to match the grief of our nation. The clouds did not gather overhead. The birds did not stop singing, the dogs did not cease their barking, and distantly I heard the old, familiar tinkle of chimes dancing in the wind. The flowers did not shrivel and the leaves did not fade to grey. (And the spiders did not have the courtesy to hide and mourn, much to my dismay). Rather, a beautiful, sunny day descended into a stunning evening, the sky painted with one of the famed sunsets that makes Ohio a little more bearable.
It was in the darkest times that there was the greatest beauty. It was in this that I found the greatest comfort on September 11th, 2001. And this is how I remember that fateful day.
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I try to write a little bit of fiction in a personal journal everyday. I had honestly forgotten the date until I opened up my journal this morning, and I began to reflect on this day 11 years ago, like I'm sure so many others have done and continue to do. So I began to write. It's mostly just freewriting, me chasing thought to thought with little care for the in-between, but I just thought I'd share. What's your story?