If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you’re probably growing tired of this post once a year. But you may also remember that I’ve promised myself to read this story every year for at least 10 years after 9/11.
This story was written on the first anniversary of 9/11, and as you can tell from the tone, it was still pretty raw. By this point, I was going back into the city every two weeks and our building was literally across the street from where they had checkpoints set up to verify that you were allowed to go into lower Manhattan. The walls of the building were plastered with missing persons posters. The city that people called “alive” was noticeably different. Even late at night with empty streets from the back of a cab you could tell the city was just … different.
As the years have ticked by, I rehash this story every year to remind myself what it was like. It’s easy to forget the pain, the fear, the helplessness. I know that many other New Yorkers, Americans, and world citizens have vastly more devastaing stories than mine. By posting I’m in no way trying to diminish their story or compare mine.
I have my opinions about what these emotions have lead to, but I’ll keep them to myself today. Today is about remembering those people who were caught up in world politics in a way they never should have been.