Tag: 9/11

Today marks 25 years since September 11, 2001.

Twenty-five years.

That is a strange thing to write.

I was in kindergarten when 9/11 happened. I was just a little kid. Because of that, I don’t remember everything about that day. In fact, there are probably plenty of details that I’ve forgotten or that I never fully understood in the first place.

But there are some things I remember.

And I don’t think I’ll ever forget them.

I grew up in New York City. Queens, specifically. I’m not going to get into exactly where, but I was a New York City kid when the world changed.

I remember school being dismissed early that day. Everyone was being sent home. Parents and guardians came to pick up the kids, because something had happened and nobody really knew what was going to happen next.

My grandmother picked me up.

And then we drove.

I remember going toward a bridge around Jamaica so we could see what was happening.

And I remember seeing it.

The smoke.

The flames.

In the distance.

I was a little kid looking at something I couldn’t possibly have fully understood.

But I knew enough to know that something was very, very wrong.

It was scary.

I also remember worrying about my mom.

I knew my mom worked in Manhattan.

So, in my little kindergarten mind, there was one thing that mattered more than understanding terrorism, the World Trade Center, airplanes, politics, or any of the things that adults were trying to comprehend that day.

I wanted to know if my mom was okay.

That’s probably one of the clearest things that has stayed with me all these years.

I was too young to understand the magnitude of what was happening. I didn’t understand what the World Trade Center represented. I didn’t understand how many people were going to die. I didn’t understand that I was watching an event that would become one of the defining moments of my generation.

I just knew something terrible had happened.

And I knew my mom was in Manhattan.

Twenty-five years later, I can look back on that little kid and understand things that he couldn’t.

That day wasn’t just something that happened on television.

It wasn’t just something that happened somewhere else.

It happened here.

It happened in the city where I lived.

I could see the smoke.

I could see the flames.

I was there, even if I was too young to comprehend what I was witnessing.

And that’s something I’ve carried with me.

9/11 is one of those events where you can remember exactly where you were, what you were doing, who you were with, or what you were thinking.

For me, the memories are incomplete. They’re fragmented. They’re memories from a five-year-old or six-year-old kid.

But they’re still mine.

And they’re still there.

I’ve lived for most of my life in the aftermath of September 11.

That’s something I’ve thought about more as I’ve gotten older.

When 9/11 happened, I was in kindergarten.

Now I’m 30.

That means the overwhelming majority of my conscious, remembered life has existed in a post-9/11 world.

There is a world before September 11, 2001.

I know that world existed.

I’ve heard stories about it. I’ve seen photographs and videos. I’ve learned about it through history and through the people who remember it.

But I don’t really remember living in it.

For me, the world that I actually remember is the world that came afterward.

And that realization is strange.

Because when you’re young, something like 9/11 can feel like a distant memory as you grow older. Then one day you realize that it has been 10 years. Then 15. Then 20.

And now 25.

A quarter of a century.

That’s a long time.

Yet somehow, I can still picture that smoke in the distance.

I can still remember being scared.

I can still remember wondering about my mom.

That’s the strange thing about memory.

You can forget countless ordinary days while remembering fragments of one extraordinary day for the rest of your life.

I don’t remember everything about September 11, 2001.

I don’t pretend that I do.

But I remember enough.

And maybe that’s the point of remembering.

We don’t all remember the same things.

Some people remember being in the buildings.

Some remember being first responders.

Some remember watching the news unfold from somewhere far away.

Some remember losing someone they loved.

Some remember being children.

Some remember being born after it happened and only knowing it as history.

And some of us remember pieces.

A school being dismissed.

A grandmother coming to pick you up.

A drive.

A bridge.

Smoke.

Flames.

And wondering whether your mom was safe.

Those pieces might not tell the entire story of 9/11.

But they tell my story of 9/11.

And 25 years later, I still carry them.

I’m not writing this to make some grand political statement.

That’s not what I want this particular post to be.

There are plenty of places to debate the politics, the wars, the policies, the decisions, and everything else that came afterward.

This isn’t that.

This is personal.

This is about what I remember.

This is about being a kid in New York City when something happened that changed the world.

Because shit changed.

The world changed.

Everything changed.

And even though I was too young to understand it at the time, I grew up in the world that came after.

I grew up knowing that September 11 was different.

I grew up knowing that something had happened that adults still talked about.

I grew up knowing that there was a before and an after.

And now I’m old enough to look back at that little kid and realize just how much time has passed.

That little kid who was worried about his mom is now 30 years old.

Twenty-five years have passed since the day he stood near that bridge and looked toward Manhattan.

Twenty-five years since the smoke and flames appeared in the distance.

Twenty-five years since the world changed.

And somehow, some pieces of that day are still right there in my memory.

I can’t go back and change what happened.

I can’t make myself remember things that I don’t remember.

I can’t experience that day again through the eyes of the child I was.

But I can remember what I do remember.

I can tell the story.

And I can acknowledge that, for me, 9/11 isn’t merely a date in history.

It’s part of my life.

It’s part of the story of the city where I grew up.

It’s part of the story of the world I grew up in.

And it’s one of those memories that, no matter how much time passes, never completely disappears.

Twenty-five years later, I still remember.

And I probably always will.