10 Years Later...

As you know, today marks the 10th anniversary of the tragic terrorist attacks in New York City, Washington DC, and Flight 93. Everyone always says we will never forget, so here is what I remember.

I remember a friend coming out to my locker in the 8th grade hallway to tell me what happened. I remember watching the shocking footage of the towers fall while my algebra teacher, Mrs. Brock, an incredibly funny woman, cried in the back of the classroom. I remember wondering what the World Trade Center was and realizing it was a big deal when our English teacher told us to free write during 7th period.

I remember feeling nauseous because my dad was on a plane that day, returning home from business in Atlanta. I remember our middle school secretary pulling me out of class to tell me that he was alright and had rented a car to drive home. I remember my overwhelming sense of relief and I remember wondering why she had to pull me out of class to tell me that.

I remember my grandparents being stuck in Amsterdam for a couple weeks because the airlines had shut down. I remember the seemingly impossible stories of loss, heart-wrenching photos of grieving families, and horrific pictures of businessmen, dressed in jackets and ties, desperately jumping from the towers in hopes of escaping their inevitable fate.

I remember pictures of the aftermath, unrecognizable heaps of steel, dust, debris, and death. I remember the casualty count rising higher and higher as the rescue attempts left a little more discouraged each hour. I remember wondering how this could have happened without any warning, to innocent people in the strongest country in the world.

But, do you know what else I remember? I remember fire fighters and police officers valiantly and selflessly risking (and, in many cases, sacrificing) their own lives for the lives of others. I remember people from all over the country dropping everything to assist in the rescue attempts and clean-up. I remember the valor and courage of Rudy Giuliani as he slowly led his city back to some semblance of normalcy. I remember saying the Pledge of Allegiance in the middle of the school day on September 11th, though we’d already said it that morning.

I remember an incredible outpouring of love, donations, compassion, and support from every city in the country. I remember the renewed sense of patriotism in our country as many people enlisted in the armed forces. I remember the often controversial, but vitally necessary bolstering of airport security and, whether right or wrong in retrospect, the remarkable amount of support and faith the country placed behind our government and the president. I remember the heartfelt commentary of David Letterman and Jon Stewart and their resolve to be funny because it was okay to laugh again. I remember the return of Saturday Night Live and how proud they must have felt to be “Live from New York.” I remember hugging my dad when he got home and being thankful he wasn’t involved in this horrendous event that I didn’t quite understand yet.

I remember my very first trip to New York City. I remember instantly falling in love with the city, its infectious excitement, and its nonstop charisma. I remember seeing Ground Zero and wondering how two enormous towers could have ever fit there in the first place. I remember walking into St. Paul’s, the church that became a relief center during the chaotic aftermath of the attack, and seeing all of the signs, banners, and well-wishes that people, schools, and other churches had sent to the victims’ families and rescue workers. I remember the stark juxtaposition between the somber ribbons hanging outside of the church in honor of the fallen victims and the manic honking and frenzied activity on the bustling street nearby. I remember thinking, “They’re okay. Somehow, in some way, this city is okay.”


In all of the years and anniversaries following the terrorist attacks on 9/11, I have never cried…until this year. While explaining to my mom the plans for the 9/11 memorial and the rebuilding of Ground Zero, I started to cry. In a way, I think I’ve never really grasped the effects of that day until this year. At the time, I was far too young to understand something so utterly incomprehensible. Only now can I begin to understand the detrimental consequences of 9/11 (even beyond the casualties, Islamophobia, two wars in the Middle East, etc.) and the effects it had on the victims’ families and friends, the city, the nation, and the world.

However, I cried for another reason, too. I cried because we have made it. Like a phoenix, New York City has literally risen from the ashes, regrouping and renewing, remembering and rebuilding. I cried because I thought about the unbearable pain and the devastating grief that those who knew the victims faced in the wake of the attack. I thought about how difficult it must be to live with such a gaping hole in your life while the rest of the world moves on without you.

Then, I realized that it didn’t. For the first time that I can really remember, the world didn’t move on. Though briefly, our entire country came to a standstill. From every corner of this amazing nation, we grieved with them, we prayed for them, we felt for them. Our lives changed with theirs, albeit in a less personal way, and we still feel their presence. Every single day.

So, I cried because I was proud. I am so unbelievably honored to live in a country whose spirit is unbreakable. In the midst of the most appalling atrocity I could ever imagine, we gathered together and proved what we’re really made of – resilient heart, remarkable perseverance, and immovable faith. We proved to the rest of the world that it will take much more than a few religious zealots to bring us down. The source of our courage and strength can’t be found in a skyscraper or a government building. It’s found within us, an intangible that manifests itself in many different ways.

For some, it surfaces while courageously rushing into a burning building to save others. For others, it’s found during a tour of duty in the Middle East. Some show their strength by donating time or money to a worthy cause. For most, however, pride and strength can be found by simply listening to the national anthem before a sporting event or singing along with “America, the Beautiful” during a fireworks display. The terrorists thought they could make a statement and influence us by breaking our spirit. They were wrong – our spirit would never be broken and they could never win.

Everyone always says we will never forget. They are absolutely right. I’m just beyond proud that of all the horrific things I remember from that day and the difficult days that followed, I find strength in half of them.


In loving tribute to the 2,977 victims of the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, the countless others who still suffer from that loss, the remarkable firefighters, police officers, and rescue workers who risked their lives for the sake of others, the soldiers who have since risked or sacrificed their lives to protect our great nation, and those who have worked tirelessly to prevent future attacks and bring those responsible to justice.