It's hard to believe that today is September 11th. It feels like time has flown by since then -- I was
fourteen in 2001, and in my freshman year of high school at LaGuardia. It was my third day there, and I was still kind of unfamiliar with my commute to the city every morning.
On that day, I was in art class when I heard the news. I wasn't paying attention to anything except my own work; it was the last class of the day, and I just wanted to get home. About halfway through the period, though, my teacher turned on the TV. I don't remember how she managed to bring a TV into the room, but everyone in my classroom saw the news: we saw the explosions, and we saw the Twin Towers fall.
I seriously had no idea what was going on. Even when my mom's friend came to pick me up, I left with only a vague recollection of what had happened. It wasn't that I was having trouble processing the information or that I was in denial; it just didn't register in my mind.
It was an odd way to feel, and I don't think I can compare it to any thought process I've had since.
After I left school, I walked down 66th street to the subway station, and then went by car with my mom's friend and waited with her until my mom came to pick me up. I'm not sure if we talked about what had happened in any shape or form, and if we did, I can't remember it at all.
Last year, I wrote an article in The Free Press about 9/11. I'm not sure how well it turned out -- for a situation like that, I felt that the only acceptable thing to do was draw on my own thoughts and experience. I thought that, and still do, because it would have been insulting to do otherwise.
