9/11

I've read so many blog-posts trying to sum up the day in numbers. In concepts. In emotionally charged adjectives. But I cannot take that single day into my hands and root out the profound moment where my life changed forever. To be honest, the strongest desire I felt on September 11, 2001 was for the day to be over. As I realized what happened and as more information came in and as things began to sink in as far as they could in my 10-year-old brain, I desperately just wanted the day finish. I wanted to wake up to a new day and at least know where the world stood. 

Because there was life before, the life that I knew from July 3, 1991 to September 10, 2001. And then there was the world after. And I could accept that things would be different. And worse, maybe. But what I hated more than anything—more than watching my parents cry, more than worrying about planes overhead, more than trying to make it all real—was this horrible, unstable Limbo that was that day. 

And when it finally was over, when I woke up on September 12—my mother's 53rd birthday, although we did not celebrate it that year—things were different. Things were rawer. And they were ugly. And I know that people want to move forward from that. The only memories they want to draw upon are those of the country coming together out of the ashes. But I will never forget the week that followed the 11th.

It was a few days after the attacks. It was all anyone talked about. But we were still going to school; some things had to stay the same. I was at lunch, sitting next to my friend Nabiha, who is Pakistani. She offered me some Pakistani candy. I took it because it looked good and because my friend had offered it to me. As I unwrapped it, another girl sitting at our table—Rebekah—wrinkled her nose at me.

"Are you going to eat that?" she asked

"Yes?" I replied, questioningly.

"Are you sure you should...I mean...because, it's like...Arab. Is it safe?"

I was so embarrassed.

I was so embarrassed.

I was so fucking embarrassed and I was so fucking sad. 

I could feel Nabiha sinking a little next to me, ashamed. I paused, a mili-second.

"What?" I said. "Of course I'm going to eat it. Why would you even say that?"

Rebekah looked at me unapologetically. I knew why she said it. I ate the candy and tried to console Nabiha. 

And here it was. In this moment. The suspicion and fear and anger and hate. It had already trickled down to fifth graders. People can talk about the Patriot Act, or the reports of anti-Muslim sentiment and hate crimes, or even about the horrific act itself but for me, that was it. That was the destruction. That was what 9/11 had done. It had taken us and turned us in on ourselves. And it was so easy.

Today is the 10th anniversary of the attacks on the Twin Towers in New York City. This number is important to us because we like to measure history in neat quantities. But it is not the years or the decades that pass, but rather the days and the hours and the minutes that we should watch for. The unconstructed moments that reveal much more about our insides than an anniversary memorial service, or a 12 minute remembrance segment on the nightly news, or the reflective blog post or Facebook status.

I remembered that moment at the lunch table one year ago today. And I will remember it one year from now. And probably for the rest of my life.