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In September 2001, I was 19 years old.
Not a child anymore. But very much still a child.
I was in my dorm room, sleeping through my first class with my throat on fire, dreaming of hot tea and honey, when my roommate roused me to come watch the TV.
I just wanted my daddy. Through the next tear-filled weeks, I wanted protection. Love. How he always made everything better.
Sixteen months earlier, we stayed at the World Trade Center Marriott. We ate dinner at Windows on the World. We celebrated my 18th birthday, taking advantage of a landmark that we had no idea would not exist in less than two years. A place that would commemorate pain, terrorism, and a nation that held itself together by clinging to one another, hope, and God.
I sat and watched the MSNBC special that showed their news coverage “as it happened” nine years ago. While it happened, I didn’t really see the pieces come together. They didn’t cancel our college classes, so I went to class. I don’t really remember much at all of September 11, 2001, except my Chinese class. My teacher was oblivious to what was occurring outside the classroom, and we had a very painful class as she proceeded as normal.
To watch the news as it occurred for the very first time … it broke me in new places.
Not surprisingly, Ree is right. Sometimes we just have to remember. Especially remember not to forget.