It’s hard to fathom that it has been twenty years since the tragic events of September 11. This day remains vividly engraved in my memory, a space usually occupied by joyful recollections, now overshadowed by trauma. Life, both personally and as a nation, has undergone monumental changes since then. The memories of the time before that day seem increasingly distant; without media to remind me, it could feel like a figment of the past.
In the summer of 2002, I found myself in the Midwest with my brother and his family. Whenever I mentioned I was from New York City, the first question was often, “Were you there on 9/11?” I would respond with a polite smile, trying to navigate the conversation without delving too deeply. The pain was still too raw, just as it remains today. This is one of the very few times I’ve chosen to write about it.
Compared to others my age, my personal impact from that day was relatively mild. Friends who attended schools near the World Trade Center faced far greater struggles in the years that followed. Many experience anxiety and PTSD, while one friend battles breast cancer linked to her proximity to the site; another’s mother suffered from cancer due to living nearby.
Typically, I avoid social media on 9/11. As someone who lived through it, albeit not as closely as some, I find it difficult to endure the barrage of haunting images. I often prefer discussing my experiences with my father, as our narratives from that day intertwine most closely. I seldom bring it up with classmates or friends from schools throughout the city; revisiting that day year after year is too painful.
I understand the need for public memorials; the events of that day were transformative on a global scale. Even if I try to push it from my mind, the memories linger. The endless loop of footage from the planes crashing into the towers brings me right back to that day, and the aftermath. The images of people escaping the flames, or those covered in ash, transport me back to being a frightened teenager, anxious that the city I loved would never be the same.
On September 11, I was just 15, beginning my sophomore year of high school. My day started later, so I left home in Brooklyn around 9 AM. My mom had already headed to Staten Island, and my dad was set to work at the United Nations. I took my usual route: the Brooklyn Shuttle to the 4 train to the 6. I was blissfully unaware of the impending chaos.
What stands out most from that day is the sky. It was an impeccable blue, with fluffy white clouds drifting lazily by as I walked to school. Upon arrival, I heard a student mention that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. I dismissed it, thinking it was a minor incident. It took hours for me to grasp the reality of the situation.
I won’t recount every detail, but I was among the few with a working cell phone—a small, prepaid Nokia. I had to call my dad to let friends use it to find out how they would get home; the downtown subways were shut down. Had I not been early, I might have been on the 4 train that day.
My mom witnessed the second plane strike the Twin Towers as her ferry approached the dock. She was stranded on Staten Island due to the shutdown of the ferries and bridges. My dad, meanwhile, never made it to the United Nations, as he was busy gathering news and updating me. The concert I had planned to attend that evening was, of course, canceled.
I don’t need to memorialize 9/11 on social media; those memories are always accessible to me. I can still visualize that blue sky and recall the unusual stillness that enveloped the city. Manhattan is rarely quiet, but that day was eerily silent. Whenever I ride the Staten Island Ferry, I can still see where the Twin Towers once stood, a sight now mostly available only in old films.
While I typically refrain from commemorating the day, I have watched numerous specials over the years focusing on the children who lost parents during the attacks. It breaks my heart anew, especially as a mother now. Those children, once infants, are now in their early twenties, navigating a world they never fully understood. I think of them and the kids around me who don’t know a time before the “war on terror.”
September 11, 2001, has undeniably shaped countless aspects of our lives. Air travel is forever altered, and the ability to drop off loved ones at the gate seems like a distant memory. We have been engaged in a prolonged and unnecessary conflict for nearly two decades. New York City, particularly high-traffic areas, is heavily policed, with officers often armed with military-grade weapons. After twenty years, the normalization of this reality remains unsettling.
I don’t intend to dictate how others should remember 9/11. If you feel compelled to share a photo of the beams of light where the Twin Towers once stood, do so. Just be mindful that it may be challenging for some to witness. Everyone processes grief differently; two of my friends share pictures of cute animals to alleviate the tension on social media. I prefer to spend the day with my child, reflecting on how far I’ve come in the past two decades. Someday, he may learn about that day in school, and I can share with him how the New York City I once adored was forever altered when the towers fell.
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Summary:
The author reflects on the profound impact of September 11, 2001, from the vantage point of two decades later. They recount their experiences as a teenager in New York City on that fateful day, the lasting trauma it left behind, and how it has shaped their life and the lives of those around them. While acknowledging the need for public remembrance, the author prefers personal reflection over social media commemoration, emphasizing the unique bond shared by those who experienced the collective trauma together.