I was sitting in my english class when the Spanish teacher came running in screaming “America is being bombed! Everybody to the Gym now!” Everyone in my high school ran there, taking longer than it should because it is a big campus. We all sat on the bleachers while the headmaster of my school told us in a solemn voice that the World Trade Center had been hit. The screams that rose through the air were unbearable. Many of the students live in New York City, and everyone had a loved one to be worried about. I didn’t think of anyone until that night. While the headmaster was talking, someone came and told him that another plane had hit the Pentagon. The screams grew louder and everyone was sobbing.

I spent the day glued to the television, watching the buildings come crashing down, watching the bodies fall out of the building. That night, once safely home with my parents, we saw the name and face of my mother’s college roomate, Diane Bullis Snyder’s face appear on the screen. She had been a flight attendent on the first plane to hit the tower. I watched my mother break down and sob uncontrollably, as I had never seen her do before. I still have images of that moment, I still cringe when I see a plane, I am scared of flying. All because of one moment when a Spanish Teacher ended my perfect childhood.