Thirteen on 9/11

Normally, I don't like to post about serious stuff because I try my best not to take myself too seriously, but 9/11 is not something I can make very funny, and honestly, I don't want to make it funny because it changed me and everyone I know.

When I was 13, I woke up at 7:00am right on the dot during the school week. My parents carpooled with another family, and that morning, Mrs. Fernando was supposed to pick me up. Usually, she was running a little late because she was both a teacher and a mother, so her mornings were very busy and frazzled. Sometimes we would make it to school by 8:00am, and sometimes her son and I would be racing the clock to make it to Mr. Canfield's door before he locked it for first period.

On September 11, 2001, Mrs. Fernando and her son, were already waiting outside my house by 7:45am. The car was turned off. When I got in and said good morning, they didn't acknowledge me right away. I was confused by their behavior, and then I realized the radio was on and they were listening very intently, but it wasn't music we were listening to - someone was crying on the radio.

They were talking about the people of New York City in between sobs.

Mrs. Fernando turned around and asked me if I heard what had happened in the news. I didn't watch TV in the mornings, and my parents were always at work by the time I woke up, so I didn't have contact with the outside world until I stepped out of my house. I had no clue what she was talking about.

I felt stupid, a feeling I usually didn't experience that early in the morning, and she told me very slowly and kindly that the Twin Towers in New York City were attacked by two hijacked American airplanes.

I looked over at her son, Kevin, in the front seat, and he simply nodded and asked his mom if we still had to go to school that day. I didn't understand why we wouldn't go to school that day because I still didn't believe that this had happened slash/ was happening still slash/ would affect us for the rest of our lives slash/ be a moment in history that we would never forget.

At some point, we went to school. I don't remember the drive or anything until we got to school. Instead of dropping us off at the curb, Mrs. Fernando parked and walked us over to the main parking lot where students, teachers, and parents were already gathering.

First period had started by then, but no one was inside of the buildings.

I found my best friend and her mom standing in the middle of the crowd. They were waiting for me, and before I could stop it from happening, her mom pulled me into a hug.

I did not realize that I needed a hug until that moment.

It was a weird day. Our principal made it clear that anyone who wished to leave that day to be home with their families could do so. Some students left with their parents immediately because they were so upset. Though, I'm not sure if "they" were the students or the parents.

I don't think it matters.

My parents did not pick me up early, nor did I call them from the school secretary's phone like so many of my classmates did. I wanted to go to school that Tuesday because I didn't understand what was happening, and school was something I could understand.

At some point that day, I realized that my dad might leave because of these events. I knew my dad had an office, computer-type job, but he wore an Army uniform every day, and that was his job first. I don't remember when I realized that exactly, but until my dad got out of the Army a few years later, I was scared that he would leave and be part of this war like so many other parents and brothers and sisters and friends and sons and daughters were a part of already.

Other than the first few hours of that morning, I don't remember how the day progressed.

I don't remember if it was my mom or Mr. LaRose who picked me up from school that afternoon.

I don't remember if my teachers gave me homework on that very dark and different day.

I don't remember if my parents talked to me about it all, or if I even talked to anyone about it all. It was actually the first day I skipped in my journal because I didn't know how or what to write about at 13 years old.

What I do remember, though, is feeling insanely proud to be an American. Even though our country had just been attacked, and we were experiencing a national crisis, there was no other place I'd rather be.

Even now, 10 years later, our country might be trillions of dollars in debt and we might still be engaged in one of the most exhausting and confusing wars we've ever faced, there is still no other country I'd rather live in because this is the greatest country in the world.

I know some people would disagree with me. Many Americans would even disagree with me, but I don't care. I've witnessed so many people give up their native citizenships so that they can fight this war as Americans that it would be an insult to their dedication (and their memory for those who have lost their lives) if I thought anything less of my nation.

On 9/11, I felt like I was 13 going on infinity because it was the first time in my life where I was connected to millions of other Americans in a more profound way than I could fathom. Regardless of what has happened since or what will happen later, we are all still connected.