I can’t remember exactly what I thought when I first heard. I was a senior in high school in Green Bay, Wisconsin. I walked into AP English and my teacher had the TV on. I don’t remember who I talked to about it or what my teacher told us. I don’t remember if they let us out of school early or if I drove home alone.
I do remember walking into my house and my mom standing in front of our kitchen window crying. It was the first time I saw one of my parents scared. I will never forget how that made me feel, how I suddenly understood the magnitude of what happened, and yet didn’t; how helpless and unsafe I felt. A loss of innocence.
Ten years later I went about my day as usual. I didn’t feel right about going down to the World Trade Center site. It’s a strange thing—being in New York makes me feel closer yet further from what happened. I’m surrounded by people who actually saw, heard, felt, and smelled that day. I can’t imagine what it was like to be here. I know 9/11 was personal for everyone, but compared to many people near me here, I feel removed, and being around those mourning at the site felt voyeuristic. So instead I’m curled into bed in my downtown apartment, reading New York magazine’s incredible 9/11 encyclopedia. And, for once, I’m enjoying that Sinatra’s New York, New York is blaring into my apartment from the Little Italy restaurants below.
photo via vneckandcardigan
