story8297.xml

story8297.xml

born-digital

story

yes

no

2002-10-02

At first when I turned on the TV that morning, I thought I had stumbled across some sort of creepy movie - I mean, smoke was coming from the World Trade Center, how could that be? But as I watched the TV, frozen where I stood, I came to understand that what I was watching was not a movie - it was real. A plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. On the way to school my mother and I listened intently to the radio, but we didn't learn anything of importance. Then I got to my first period class, and Mrs. Gilbert solemnly told us that one of towers had just collapsed. I sat there, unable to move, speak, breathe, or even blink. People worked in those towers. Cars drove by those towers. And now one of them was gone, while another one was going up in smoke. Second period, some kids were talking about it lightly, rolling their eyes and laughing. It's ok, they weren't bad - they just didn't know. And that's when my favorite teacher, Mr. Gonzalez, stood in front of us, with his eyes misting and voice slightly quavering, that the second Twin Tower had just fallen - burying nearly an entire city block with it.
I don't remember anything else specific about that day. How could I? It's just a blur of images that run through my mind. I remember being there for a friend of mine who had six friends and relatives - SIX - who worked in the Towers, including his mother's best friend. Thank God, they all got out alive, although not all uninjured. I remember hearin the name Osama Bin Laden for the first time that day. But what I remember the clearest is waking up the morning of September 12. I lay in bed for a few minutes staring at my ceiling. Was it a dream? I thought. Please God, just let it all have been a sick and twisted dream. I made my way to the kitchen and, holding my breath, I reached for the paper. I saw the headline: DAY OF EVIL was spread across the entire top half of the front page. My heart sank in fear and espair. What are we going to do? I thought to myself. What are we going to do?
A week later, I had my answer. One of my best friends is a Spaniard and lives in Madrid. I had sent her a long email the day of the attacks. In it, I professed my pain for those who died and those who lived, my fear for my country and how I was almost without hope. A week later, I got a reply - in the mail. She had gone around to her family, her friends, her neighbors, and nearly 200 people at her school and gotten messages from all of them. They were all combined in a book, with translations into English at the back. But I didn't need any translations to know what the messages meant - they were messages of sympathy, of encouragement, of shock. But mostly, of hope. Our hearts are with you, America, they all said. Stand proud. We feel for you, and we are beside you. You are not alone.
And the best part is, we aren't.