Remembering 9/11: 20 Years Later

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It was my second day of high school, and I was supposed to have gym.

Growing up in suburbia, I always had a fascination and appreciation for New York City. It was only a 30 minute drive from my house, but culturally, suburbia and the Big Apple might as well have been on different continents. 

I only went to the city on special occasions growing up, and every time I did, it was magical. I felt like a tourist in my own state, exploring the wonders of the greatest city on Earth, living out a mini fantasy every time I took a trip there. 

So when I had the chance to go to high school…in New York City…I took it. Even though it was an all boy’s high school, and even though it meant I wouldn’t know a single kid there because all my friends from middle school stayed in suburbia - I’d happily trade no girls and no friends for the chance to experience authentic, New York City living five days a week for four years. I could always meet girls and make new friends, but there’s no substitute for NYC.

The only thing on my mind as I sat in homeroom on September 11th, 2001, was putting on an absolute clinic in PE class later that day. I was a dodgeball stud back in 8th grade, and I was ready to make a name for myself in my new school. Showcasing my elite dodgeball skills would have to wait though, because at 8:46 am, during first period algebra, American Airlines Flight 11 flew into the North Tower of the World Trade Center, changing the course of history in the process.

Because it was a Catholic school, we got an announcement over the PA telling us to pray for the victims of what was initially assumed to be a terrible accident.

There wouldn’t be a second announcement for United Airlines Flight 175, which crashed into the South Tower just 17 minutes later. Or American Airlines Flight 77, which crashed into the Pentagon, or United Airlines Flight 93, which was brought down by brave passengers, diverting it from its intended target of either the White House or the U.S. Capitol, and instead crashing it near Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

Rather than an announcement on any of those things, kids began getting called to the principal’s office one by one randomly.

When my name was called, I went downstairs and was greeted by my mom. 

“Is this your mother?,” the principal asked me. I confirmed that it was, and was subsequently allowed to leave.

At this point, I still didn’t know what was going on, but because I was 13, and still nervous about starting school, I didn’t care what the reason was. I was just happy to leave school early.

I wouldn’t be told the truth until we left the building.

“They’re attacking us!,” my mom exclaimed, as we frantically walked uptown back to her job.

“Who?”

“They don’t know! They flew two planes into the World Trade Center!”

“Is dad okay?”

My father worked downtown, and while I didn’t know exactly where the World Trade Center was, I knew he was a lot closer to it than we were on 86th street.

“Yes he’s fine. We have to get you home.”

My mom was a nurse and thus couldn’t go home with me. She had to stay behind and handle any potential patients that made their way to her hospital. My dad (who watched the first tower collapse in real time from his office on 34th street) was stuck downtown and it would take him forever to make his way to us. My parents had arranged for one of my uncles to pick me up at the hospital she worked at to take me home. But because the subways were shutdown and traffic was predictably chaotic, we had to walk the twenty blocks from my school to her job, passing a radio or mini tv on every corner as people gathered around to listen to the news and get more details on what the fuck was going on. It was surreal. It was exactly like it is in disaster films. Horns blaring, crowds gathered around storefronts with televisions, and perfect strangers talking to each other, frantically trying to process everything. 

The only thing I remember, was feeling like the world was ending. I thought all of us were gonna die that day. And, in some ways, the world did end. At least the one we used to live in. The one where terrorist attacks on American soil just didn’t happen. Pearl Harbor was already 60 years old at that time, and from then on, America lived in a protective bubble. We were untouchable. Who was gonna fuck with us? Who would be stupid enough to attack America? Therefore, in my mind, it couldn’t have been just an attack on America. This was gonna be biblical. We were gonna hear about coordinated attacks all over the world. The apocalypse was here.

Of course, the apocalypse never came. It really was just us. America had been sucker punched and caught flatfooted, destroying the country’s collective sense of invincibility in an instant, and leaving us incredibly vulnerable and scared in the process.

I remember two things from September 11th, 2001: that initial chaotic fear, and the subsequent love. 

In that moment, petty differences were cast aside. There weren’t Black Americans and white Americans. Liberal Americans and conservative Americans. We were all just Americans. We helped each other when and where we could, because it was an attack against us all, and what we stood for.

I was too young to process anything else that resulted from those attacks. The Islamophobia, the Patriot Act, the start of the Afghanistan War, the delusional nationalism that supported it, the torture - I’m sorry - “enhanced interrogation techniques” at Guantanamo Bay, the dragging of congressional feet to pass just basic relief packages for the first responders who to this day are living with severe health problems they developed as a direct result of simply being brave. Those things were for grownups at the time to grapple with and worry about. 

But 20 years later, as a grownup myself - it’s abundantly clear we’re still very much dealing with the fallout from the attacks on that day. It’s why our history is broken down into two major periods: Pre and Post-9/11.

In this Post-9/11 world, where I’ve lived more years of my life without the World Trade Center towers standing prominently within the New York City skyline, it’s still hard to process everything. 

It’s hard to process the magnitude of the attacks, all these years later. The shock. The grief. The trauma.

And I was fortunate enough to not have lost anyone. I can’t imagine what this experience is like every year for the people who did.

“Never Forget” became this city’s, this country’s mantra, seemingly overnight. Given that it’s been two decades and still feels like it happened yesterday - it’s clear we never will.