Unescapable Memories

I was in 7^th grade. It was a typical Tuesday morning. Our days, in an Orthodox Jewish School, began with morning prayers. At the end of the period, a teacher stood up in front of the room – boys sitting on the right, girls on the left, separated by 4 long dividers. He told us that both of the Twin Towers had been hit. I, a very sheltered soul, did not know what was going on. My mind had trouble comprehending the severity of a terrorist attack. We filed into the library to watch the news coverage. Students in the lower grades were not told of the event – only the 6^th-8^th graders. I felt empty, though still confused as to what the commotion was about.

I remember standing outside of the lockers on the 2^nd floor during our break between classes. Only then did I remember that my dad worked in New York City. I panicked for a brief moment. I figured that I would have heard if something bad had happened to him. I had not remembered it at the time, but he had actually worked in one of the towers a few years early.

We had been getting phone calls all day of family friends with whom we had lost touch, wondering if my dad still worked downtown.

The rest of the school day was a blur. We may have had an assembly to discuss the events. If we did, I was not focused.

I did not really understand how serious the situation was until I got in the car after school. In the midst of trying to explain to my 9 year old brother what was going on, she mentioned that my dance classes for the evening had been canceled. That’s when I realized that this was something really, really bad.

At home, we spent the rest of the evening glued to the tv. The same footage was played on every news station over and over again. No new information – but still, the urge to watch.

Apparently, I had said something to the effect of, “Now I know what Israelis feel like every day.” I was finally starting to identify with the events.

For a while I was scared. The news stories did not change much, but they still made me nervous.  I think the biggest adjustments that I made were in the airports. That was a clear sign that America had been hit hard.

A couple months after 9/11, I went apple picking with my family and some friends. We were walking through the orchard when we heard the distant rumble of a plane. Everyone stopped. We searched the sky. All air activity had been suspended. This was the first plane any of us had seen for weeks. We wondered how long it would be until that sound was normal again.

Every day I feel like I see the after effects of 9/11.  My bedroom window overlooks the memorial, ground zero, and the fire department that lost so many of its fighters. It was easier to “avoid” the after-effects when I was living in Massachusetts, or even Connecticut because I was distanced – both physically and mentally. Now, it confronts me, and I am forced to confront it.