Nine Eleven

This morning one of my students came up and said to me, "It's nine-eleven."

"You're right!  I'd forgotten that."  I asked him, "Do you remember what you were doing when nine-eleven happened?"

He said quickly, "Oh, I wasn't born yet.  But I've heard people talk about it."

(Suddenly I felt old.)



I was ten when nine-eleven happened.  I was sitting at the table in the living room, filling out problems in my orange health workbook.  I can't remember how Mom or Dad heard about it, but all of a sudden they were talking excitedly to each other.  They explained to us what was going on, but I mostly noticed how strangely animated they were.  I could tell by how they were talking to each other that whatever had happened was big.

We tinkered with our TV (which we never watch) and got it set up so we could look at clips of crashing towers replay and replay and replay all afternoon.

I had been planning to fly out to D.C. and visit my aunt and uncle in another two weeks.  I remember my mom talking to my aunt on the phone in the days that followed.  (We canceled the trip.)

Now, a dozen years later, I tell my students and little brother what nine-eleven was like.  To them, it is part of history.

Imperfect it may be, yet I am grateful for this country and its people.