I walked down the hall, wondering where they’d hit next.
Someone was bombing hospitals, people in homeroom said. They’re targeting New York, DC, every major city.
What about schools? I wondered. I’m in school right now.
We had a quiz in driver’s ed. The teacher passed it out while the towers repeatedly crumbled on mute behind him.
Everyone knows where they were on 9/11. I was a senior in high school, just three years removed from the city. I remember the pride I felt in New Yorkers. They showed so much strength.
Nearly 10 years later, I heard it from a different kind of chatter. I was alone in my room, this time in Astoria, watching it all unfold in 140-character spurts. A part of me wanted to be in the streets to see it for myself, but the sane part of me kept me home, knowing many already had it covered.
At lunch the next day, there were no mass celebrations or drunken revelry. Gawkers, yes, and curious passersby. Men and women in suits went about their day, stopping here and there to take photos on their phones. Dozens of news stations descended on Lower Manhattan, picking up where their late-night counterparts left off.
I looked at the construction site, where the defiant new tower will stand taller than its predecessors. It will always remind us of a tragic past, as well as a hopeful yet somewhat precarious future.
We’re nowhere near finished.
A news crew ushers a group into a church garden.