On September 11, 2004, I had just started my second year of pre-school. I was only 4 years old when this tragedy struck our nation, but I distinctly remember the events of that day. I remember not seeing my classroom aid that day until she came in the door. Being 4 years old, my class was excited to see her, but when we ran over to her we all knew something wasn’t right. Even though we were young, we knew something was happening. My classroom aid walked over to my teacher and whispered something in her ear. To this day, this image is burned into my mind. This was the one and only time I have ever seen my pre-school teacher cry, even after keeping in contact years later.
I remember her closing the blinds of the classroom doors, which would only happen during a lock down. I remember my classmates being picked up from school and leaving with their parents. I remember playing hand games in the back corner of the room. I remember the hugs I got from my parents and my grandparents when I got picked up at the conclusion of the day. I remember not being able to turn on the television for a few days. It all makes sense now that I am older, now that we are all older.
I still converse with those who were in my class at that time today, 13 years later. We are all 17 or 18 years old now, but we all distinctly remember that day. When others who are younger join in our discussions, they do not remember anything of the day as they were too young or they weren’t even born yet. But we remember very clearly what happened on September 11, 2001. We are the last who remember. We will never forget.