Twelve years ago I suspected that something was up. Teachers were whispering. Kids who knew weren’t talking. One kid came in late to school and said, “I know what it is, we’re being bombed” Our principal sat us down in an assembly and said words, words that I swore I would remember forever. 12 years later I only remember what he looked like up there. He looked like Martin Luther King. He told us that we could call our parents, that anyone who needed help making sure their families were safe would be helped. He told us that if our parents wanted to take us home, that was fine. He told us firm and calm words, serious words, and we listened intently. We whispered about whose parents worked in New York City. We whispered about the girl whose Mom worked in the towers, but had taken her first day off work in 30 years to watch her younger daughter’s dance recital that morning. We whispered about miracles, tragedy, and about how the grown ups were reacting. On 9/11/2001 I was eleven years old, and I thank God that my family and friends were safe. Prayers go out to those whose lives were stolen that day, and the families and loved ones mourning them these 12 years later.
(Photo credit: Mark Lennihan / AP)