Most people that were old enough can remember where they were on September 11th, 2001.
When I ask folks from Bradford where they were, I usually get a typical response. It’ll either be work, home or anywhere that is always very far away from Ground Zero.
Their answers are often accompanied by a head tilt and a short thinking session for them to recall. Even though I should be prepared to be asked the same question back, I’m never ready for the heavy, almost painful heart pounding that I get before I answer.
Even now, as I write this piece in the safety of the newsroom, many miles and many years away from that day and place, it’s hard for me to say that I was there.
Less than a dozen blocks away, on the second week of 4th grade on an early morning, I was preparing to hop into my father’s car and head into school. I only made it to the handle of the back seat before I heard it; the first plane.
In New York, you’ll hear every sound imaginable, but never anything like that. The towers were a straight walk away from my apartment building and even as far away as I was, I could see it. I couldn’t understand enough to panic. I wasn’t mature enough to know that it was an act of terrorism. To the 9-year-old on that day, the Devil had appeared that morning, instilling in me an unfathomable amount of fear that continues to leak into my life every time I think about it.
Although it felt like a lifetime, standing there watching, my father reacted quickly by taking me inside of the apartment building we lived in.
I stood by the television with my family as my brothers and mother wept. My father and I could only stare blankly at the screen, the video images of the attack ignored by the fresh memory of it happening before our eyes as it replayed over and over in our heads.
After about an hour, the south tower fell first, and with it came the wall of dust and debris barrelling down my street like a grey tidal wave. Luckily we had all of our windows shut in the apartment, as the tsunami of debris and dust powered through the block. When the north tower fell, the debris grew thicker, making it impossible to see through the windows. All we could do was hide and huddle, while the debris violently scraped the side of the apartment building that sounded as if colonies of hornets were desperately trying to sting their way in.
The day after the attacks, I witnessed something amazing take place.
In the midst of all of the confusion and pain, Americans set their differences aside and went the extra mile to help one another. Like a rainbow after a storm, America outshined the ugliness of the terror attacks with the power of unity. Everyone was helping one another. Strangers were kinder to each other on the street than before. America collectively understood that in the most trying times, unity is what gives this country strength.
On this day, 16 years after the attacks, we should not remember how weak we felt that day but how strong we became after. We are all Americans first. Whatever our differences, every single one of us feels it when America bleeds. If we are going to remember anything about this day in history, we should remember that as Americans, and we are in this together.
(Peralta is a reporter for The Era. He can be reached at erasidneyp@gmail.com)
