I was in 4th grade when it happened. I remember kids on the bus that morning joking that "some idiot flew a plane into a building". Didn't think any more of it.
Throughout the day, more and more people had their names called on the intercom by the school office and left early. I kept seeing teachers, out in the hallway, whispering to each other. Hearing people crying in the distance. I still was totally oblivious, even though nearly half the class was missing by the end of the day.
Somehow, I didn't grasp that something really was wrong right until the moment the bus pulled up in front of my house. My dad was standing at the mailbox waiting, which I never saw him do before. Even weirder, he was supposed to be flying out of town that day - we were supposed to go to the neighbors house until Mom could get us. I don't think he knew what to say. I asked him why he was still home, and he just said I needed to come inside and watch the news. So I watched it with him. I watched it a long time. I remember feeling anger mostly - maybe exclusively. I didn't even know what the WTC was before then, but I knew whoever did that was evil. I wanted desperately to fight back then, though I admittedly had no idea of who to fight or how.
Every year after that, whenever the intercom called someone to leave early from school, I had to suppress a bit of worry I couldnt control. Part of me is always wondering, "Is it happening again?"
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In retrospect, I can't imagine how hard it must have been on the adults in my life on that day. Those poor teachers, many who were just out a few years out of college themselves, just trying to get us kids through the day without breaking down themselves. It didn't make sense to anybody when it happened. How were they supposed to explain something that insane to a 10 year old?
Throughout the day, more and more people had their names called on the intercom by the school office and left early. I kept seeing teachers, out in the hallway, whispering to each other. Hearing people crying in the distance. I still was totally oblivious, even though nearly half the class was missing by the end of the day.
Somehow, I didn't grasp that something really was wrong right until the moment the bus pulled up in front of my house. My dad was standing at the mailbox waiting, which I never saw him do before. Even weirder, he was supposed to be flying out of town that day - we were supposed to go to the neighbors house until Mom could get us. I don't think he knew what to say. I asked him why he was still home, and he just said I needed to come inside and watch the news. So I watched it with him. I watched it a long time. I remember feeling anger mostly - maybe exclusively. I didn't even know what the WTC was before then, but I knew whoever did that was evil. I wanted desperately to fight back then, though I admittedly had no idea of who to fight or how.
Every year after that, whenever the intercom called someone to leave early from school, I had to suppress a bit of worry I couldnt control. Part of me is always wondering, "Is it happening again?"
- In retrospect, I can't imagine how hard it must have been on the adults in my life on that day. Those poor teachers, many who were just out a few years out of college themselves, just trying to get us kids through the day without breaking down themselves. It didn't make sense to anybody when it happened. How were they supposed to explain something that insane to a 10 year old?