Ten years ago today, I was in eighth grade. I was sitting at a tiny desk amongst a classroom full of teens, taking a standardized test, one that all students in Indiana were required to take that week. Around 10:30am, we finished one portion of the test. An announcement came over the loudspeaker, saying that our school was on lockdown (no one could come in, no one could go out). My teacher reached to turn on the TV. I knew something wasn’t right.
Though I can’t remember exactly what I was doing last year on September 11, that day, ten years ago, is one I will never forget.
September 11 is also my sister’s birthday. While we mourn and remember the thousands of lives America lost on that tragic day, my family celebrates my sister’s birth.
It seems a little ironic, doesn’t it?
The thing is, there’s no reason her birthday shouldn’t be acknowledged, celebrated. People have actually said to me, “Your sister was born on September 11? Really? That seems weird.” Why, though?
Before the attacks, September 11 was just another day. Before it would be remembered as a tragic morning. A day babies were born. A day children went to school. A day people went to work. A day I was taking a standardized test in a classroom full of thirteen-year-olds.
Where were you on that September morning?