On September 11, 2001 I was 11 years old and in the 7th grade. I missed the first few days of school because I was living in Harlem with my dad but (illegally) attending school in Yonkers. The administration tried to kick my sister and I out of school before school even started. Luckily, they backed off when they realized that my parents were sharing custody and that my mom, did in fact, live in Yonkers. Anyway, I was in a new class and didn’t know any of my teachers or classmates very well.
On September 11, 2001, my father was on the phone with my aunt. For hours. In fact, when we left for school he was still on the phone with her. We joked that he was going to be late for work at his new World Trade Center job. But he wasn’t worried. Whatever he was talking to my aunt about — most likely my grandfather’s declining health — must have been extremely important because I’d never seen him be late to work. Ever.
On September 11, 2001, I remember eavesdropping on a teacher’s conversation about a plane crashing into one of the Twin Towers. In my mind, I thought “what the hell kind of pilot crashes into a building—he must’ve been drunk.” Not long after, I heard that the second Tower was hit and thought “this was not an accident.” All the while not making the connection that the Twin Towers were the World Trade Center. So I’m sad and confused that someone would intentionally do this but then I heard another student say to a friend “Did you hear about the World Trade Center? It’s under attack!’
That’s when it hit me. “My dad works in the World Trade Center.” I start panicking. I wanted to find my sister, I wanted my mom to come get us and I wanted to go home.
My teacher, bless her heart, was trying to calm me down and get me back into a classroom. That was the first time I cursed out an authority figure. I was going to find my sister, my mom was going to come get us and we were going home.
Cell phones were not working. School administrators were not allowing middle school students on the high school floor and vice versa. No one’s consolation is working. I’m crying. I’m screaming. I’m pushing security guards out of the way. Nothing is working.
Then, all in a sudden, I’m with my sister. She must’ve bum-rushed the security guards to get to me. I don’t know what she did but we were together. We walk to the main office and our mom is already there. To this day, I don’t know how we got back to Harlem. I guess we drove. My mind completely blacked out. I probably sobbed the entire way home. I don’t remember.
Once in the apartment, we just played the waiting game and watched the news, we hugged each other, we prayed, we cried. I don’t remember eating anything. I don’t remember saying very many words. All three of us tried calling Daddy on his cell. Continually. Nothing.
After what felt like hours, we heard keys at the door and Daddy walked in. He was late for work and when he got off the train, he saw the South Tower fall. Being the person that he is, he tried to get closer to help with whatever he could but the servicemen and women turned civilians away. He walked 9 miles back to Harlem.
All these years later, I’m still emotional when I talk about this day. Thank God for that long phone call. As I watch all of these 9/11 specials I can only imagine how painful it is for families who lost loved ones on that day. Praying for their continued healing.
On September 11, 2026, 25 years later, it must be said that what happened on 9/11 is not a justification to hate, persecute, and kill other humans. It did not honor the victims to go into a country—that had nothing to do with the attacks—and rape and kill innocent people and ravage communities. We lost over 3,000 souls on 9/11. We also lost 4,486 US soldiers who died in Iraq, and it is estimated that over 500,000 Iraqis were killed in the war. Perspective.
How many 9/11s have we—as a country—created all over the world?
To what end?