Ten years ago today, it was a Tuesday just like any other. We had all school assembly at 8:40 AM in the gym, a long walk from the classroom building that was colder than it usually was. I had barely sat down in my bleacher when the headmaster stepped up to the podium and told us that a plane had hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center. We were told to go back to our classrooms silently.
My teacher turned on CNN when we got back to the room, where my entire class watched United 175 slam into the South Tower and explode. We all screamed; people started crying. Then came the news of the plane hitting the Pentagon. Rumors began to fly about the Capitol. My mom worked, and still works, on the Hill.
One by one, I watched my classmates get pulled out of class by their parents; I still had no idea where my mom was. Phone lines were jammed. The towers fell, live on TV, right in front of my face. It was surreal; I literally had no idea how to react. Finally, I got a call from my dad, who told me my mom was okay. I was to go home with a friend of mine where I would wait to go home.
At his house, I could see the smoke from the Pentagon in the distance. I thought of my friend, Paul Melnick, who was a volunteer firefighter near Arlington. I knew he would be in the building at this point. I saw fighter jets fly over the house every 20 minutes. I was terrified. What next?
Eventually, I made it home, but the father of two of my classmates at school did not; he was on American 77. Paul made it out of the Pentagon okay, but several of his friends did not. It was simply horrific. I remember the looks on their faces the next time I saw both my classmates and Paul. It was shock, disbelief. It was anger and sadness.
All of us have been touched by that tragic day ten years ago in some way. Let us all honor the memory of almost 3,000 men and women; not just today, but every day. They made the ultimate sacrifice. They did not die in vain.
