Five years later

I was a sophomore in college. I had an early class, so I was the first one up that morning. Yawning my way to the girls’ bathroom, everything was silent—most people were still sleeping. As a traipsed along in my bathrobe with my shower stuff, one dorm’s door was open. Two guys were inside huddled around a radio—I couldn’t make out a word of what they were listening to, so I thought nothing of it.

As I stood in the bathroom brushing my teeth, a weird feeling came over me. I skipped the shower and headed back to my room. (I know that sounds kind of dramatic, but it’s true). I turned on the TV to the shocking scene of the towers on fire. After watching for a few minutes, I thought it would be best to wake up my roommates. One of them was too lazy to get up and see what was going on (this is the same roommate who, five months later, would say “the Pentagon was hit too?”). The other two joined me in our living room as we watched the devastation unfold.

A few minutes later I said, “I’m honestly surprised they’re still standing.” Not 10 minutes later the first tower fell.

Then I had class. I couldn’t skip because I had a test. So I threw my hair in a ponytail and rushed to class, only to see that half were missing. My professor kept us there for only 10 minutes to discuss what was happening and then told us to find someone with a TV so we could know what was going on.

Not long after, the university declared all classes canceled for the day. I sat in front of my TV for the rest of the day, watching as the Pentagon was hit, seeing footage of people jumping out of the towers to a death that was less horrifying. I remember when the plane crashed in Pennsylvania—they weren’t sure if it was shot down or if it was an accident. All airline flights were canceled.

My mom called to beg me not to go into Portland (my school was about 30 miles west). It hadn’t really occurred to me not go, but I told her I wouldn’t. As I was on the phone with her, I could hear my little brother (who was six at the time) yelling for my mom. She went over to him and he asked, “Is the Statue of Liberty OK?”

A few days later we had a candlelit vigil for those who lost their lives. As we stood outside in total silence, one of the first airplanes allowed back in the sky flew over our heads. It was a very eerie feeling.

Over the next several days, weeks, years, we’ve been told more about the attacks. Somehow, I almost feel like we know even less. Did our administration ignore warnings? Did we deserve the attack? Will we ever know?

One thing is for sure—our culture of fear has only increased. People turning in their own neighbor for looking suspicious. An Hispanic man kicked off a flight because they thought he was Arab. Terrorism, wars, death.

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to say anything about this fifth anniversary coming up on Monday, but I was thinking about it today, and that’s what blogs are for, right?

I make it no secret that I don’t like our president. I don’t like his policies. I don’t like his administration. I can’t believe we still don’t have Bin Laden. I worry that things are just going to get worse. I don’t believe we were attacked because the “terrorists hate that we love freedom.” It’s not as simple as that. It’s years of manipulation and war torn lives and bad foreign policy and religious differences and oil prices and cowboy tactics.

But one thing’s for damn sure. Maybe we provoked them, maybe we ignored warnings, maybe we’ll never know---but those 3000+ people did not deserve to die.

I only hope that someday, years from now, I can adequately explain at least a little of what happened and why to my future children.

That’s the burden of our generation---teach the next, so this will never happen again.