Remembering 9/11

Everyone seems to remember exactly where they were on September 11, 2001. I remember being where I wasn’t supposed to be, which was school. I was seven years old, on the verge of turning eight, and, for some reason, I didn’t want to go to school that day, which meant my father, who happened to work in Manhattan in a building next door to the towers, didn’t go to work. I don’t remember everything about that day, but I do remember watching the towers fall on television.

I remember not knowing what it meant. As a child, it’s hard to understand what a terrorist attack is—hard to understand a day that I would, many years later, realize changed the United States forever. When I was in college, over a decade later, we watched a film depicting the response to the attack, the panic to evacuate and the ever-day Americans that rushed to save lives.

Looking back on that day, I can’t even imagine the devastation felt by the families of those lost in that horrendous terrorist attack. I cannot imagine the smoke inhaled by those on Manhattan island or the bravery of the first responders, who jumped on their boats and helped evacuate the island. The eleventh of September is a day of great tragedy, but also of great bravery, as well as true American strength. As we remember the horror that took down the twin towers and terrorists who sought only death and destruction, we must also remember those who rushed to preserve life, the victims and survivors of the attacks and the later rebuilding that took place.

About the Author: Lianne Hikind is a staff writer for