Remembering 9/11

As everyone else, I have a story.

My story is uninspiring, trivial, and slightly embarrassing.

I rarely ever tell my story.

I was in 5th grade. I was still at home, getting ready for school.

When my mother found me to tell me, I was sitting on the toilet, after brushing my teeth and before packing up my stuff to wait for the bus. I remember being very confused, and thinking she was over-dramatizing something small as she beckoned me to "come see what these people are doing to the U.S." before I walked into our main room and saw the TV.

I remember staring at the fire, the smoke and the wreckage, barely understanding the news reporter and the spectators and whoever else.

I remember feeling very small, very powerless, in awe and in shock.

I don't remember if we talked about it at school. We may have tuned in briefly to listen to reports on the radio. We may have discussed things briefly in my gifted class. The main feelings clinging to my mind from that day are confusion, disbelief, sadness. But I don't believe I ever cried.

To this day, it doesn't make me angry, but it doesn't make me feel extremely patriotic. It just breaks my heart.