9/11: A True Story

I was 2 years old when it happened.


Maybe because my brain had already developed to the point where I could remember things clearly, and my little understanding of the world made it possible for me to memorize the events that happened on that day.

On September the 10th, me, my parents and my sister (the other two weren't alive yet) departed from our average-sized house in Perkasie, Pennsylvania in a plane to visit our cousins in Alabama. We stayed in a place I can remember fuzzily and made the drive to Trussville the next day. Since it was six days until my 3rd birthday and this was the last time they'd see me before then, I vigorously tore the floral wrapping paper off of boxed gifts given to me by my father's side of the family at their dining table. Walls of nachos, salsa and assorted candy lined the granite countertops. I stuffed a handful of peanut M & M's into my relatively small fists and proceeded to run upstairs, babbling excitement-ridden gibberish. I went to pay a visit to the stuffed animals and playthings in my oldest cousin's room. She was the oldest in that family - however, I beat her to the age of 3 by a couple of months, as she was born in December of 1998 and I in September. I gawked at her toy keyboard and played the first seven notes of 'Yankee Doodle' in a highly synthesized violin sound, like a mockingbird trying to imitate a human being. I was awed at the glamorous pink bling coating the door and walls, many of which glowed if you pressed a supposedly magical button or switch.

Suddenly, sounds of something like anger, despair, and shock sounded from my cousin's downstairs living room. Like something out of a play I had seen in a theater in New York City, drama and fear flooded the halls and stairwell. I raced downstairs on my little toddler feet and saw that my family was watching the news. Boring. Then I looked at the screen - a building, and to my young eyes it looked like a chimney, a stepladder for Santa Claus. There seemed to be smoke clouds billowing out of the skyscraper. Sounds came from the television that you definitely wouldn't hear in American children's cartoons - shrieks and howls, the shaky voices of people sobbing, the roar of industrial chaos. I lurched up to my mother, who was sitting on the couch with her mouth gaping like a tunnel on a country interstate. I heard her utter the word 'Unbelievable.'

"Mommy," I mewed in a curious tone, "why is the building on fire?"

"They attacked it," she replied vaguely, sounding both fascinated and disgusted. I was curious as to who 'they' were and a question formed in my brain, but I pushed the thought aside and replaced it with a simple word. "Why?"

"I have absolutely no idea," she answered, "but New York City is only about 45 minutes from our town. Leaving is dangerous now. We won't be allowed to go back by flight." Confused as I was, I sat cuddled next to my mom. The rest of the family soon began to answer my inquiries. My aunt cried in her thick country accent, "I can't believe they killed themselves just to destroy other people's lives."

"Terrorists don't have any logic," my dad remarked.

"What's a terrorist?" I looked up at my mother.

"They think it's good to murder Americans," she retorted, not directing her anger at anyone in the room.

"That's not nice." I declared.



That night, I went to sleep stuffed with hot sauce and tucked into a fold-out bed in the basement. 'Lilo and Stitch' played on the television before me, and I watched attentively with my small insomniac eyes. Due to the fact that all flights to Perkasie were closed, we'd be staying at this house for a few more days, and I was excited. As the movie ended, I hopped up to play with a plastic kitchen set before returning to my light slumber.



When we came to the airport a few days later, they had just opened up flights, and it was still dangerous to get even close to the Northeast-New York region due to the crazed murderers lurking about. We had tickets, and we weren't about to ditch thousands of dollars to be safe. My parents were brave. When we passed through the gray metal ramp and into the plane, it was empty. The only people there were the manly flight attendant and the brown haired service lady with a ponytail. The reason for the plane's unnatural silence was haunting - nobody else dared enter the dangerous machine. Just one intentional wreck, and BOOM. Dead. As we braved the quiet ride home, I took out a piece of paper and carefully drew a self portrait. Since I couldn't correctly draw proportions, the finished figure looked like something my white cat at home coughed up. A single round ball made up the head and the abdomen, and two sticks with six fingers protruded forth as arms. A couple of vertical lines made up my feet, and six curved lines made up the hair. I dotted the eyes and gave the mouth blush instead of dimples, which I saved for my sister. I found different ways to entertain myself for the next four hours.

And then the miracle. We, which I shall now brag upon as the only brave family, had survived the trip from Trussville, Alabama to Perkasie, Pennsylvania. Without a trace of terrorism. We had won.

The service lady started singing The Doxology and thanking the Lord for letting us make it home safely. I remember my mom's smile as we dragged our luggage out of the barren airplane. Soon, we'd be home in our little white house, and I'd be the bravest 3-year-old alive.