My 9/11

Nate woke us up that Tuesday morning around 9 am.

"Uh, guys, you might want to wake up for this. Two planes just crashed into the World Trade Center."

I slept on the top bunk and jumped out of bed as soon as I heard this. John and Nate had CNN on in their bedroom and I raced over to see what had happened. What I saw looked like something out of the movies. There was a hole on the side of the buildings with flames climbing out. My first thought was that it was some kind of freak accident, but John told me it was a terrorist act. Dave climbed reluctantly out of bed towards John and Nate's room, which annoyed me.

The news now really started to sink in as our eyes were glued to the TV screen. I ran around the hall and tried to spread the news to whoever was sleeping or hadn't heard about it yet. In the meantime I was still sorting out my emotions about this. I didn't know what to think. I felt kind of excited that something life-changing was happening, and for that I felt ashamed of myself.

About a half hour later, however, I finally figured out a distinct emotion I was feeling: pain. The first of the buildings collapsed, the north tower, and I somehow felt all that loss of life inside me. I wanted to throw up. All those firefighters, policemen, husbands, wives, children, fathers, people...

I felt safe for some reason in Dekalb, although it seemed like all hell was breaking loose across the nation and news came that another plane had crashed in a field in Pennsylvania.

In the room next to me, Dre was groaning on his bed. He said that his brother was working at a building across the street and he was worried that he was dead. Erin rushed over to comfort him. But for some reason, I didn't feel sorry for Dre. I have to be honest; I didn't believe him. There was something about his body language that told me that he was just trying to get attention... It was a horrible thing for me to think, and I didn't dare tell anyone what I thought, but I just thought he was lying. So I sat in my living room, not caring about about Dre and his brother, but only caring about the thousands that had died.

Later during the day, the sting still remained. And I felt angry. I wanted to go to fucking Afghanistan and kill Osama myself. I told my mom this and she cried, but I really didn't care.

At the end of the day, I talked on the phone with my sister for about an hour. She was only 17 and a senior in high school at the time, but in my eyes she was only 7 years old. And I was glad she wasn't hurt. She told me about the reaction everyone had at her high school and how our parents took it, and then she asked me questions about who Osama Bin Laden is and things like that. I just let her do most of the talking and felt comforted that she was okay. And then I wasn't angry anymore.