I was 8 years old on September 11, 2001 and my husband, just a day shy of turning 8 years old. He was living outside of Dallas, TX, and I was in Orange County, CA. I asked him what he remembers, if anything, about that day. 

He told me that he was in first grade, and when the news broke, the administrators rolled in large TVs on tall stands. The teachers watched and cried, as the school went on lock down. Parents came to pick up their kids, and he remembers watching the news with his mom and dad for the rest of the day. 

In California, news broke before I had ever made it to school. I came downstairs to find my mom and dad watching the news, as they did every single morning. Before I made it around the corner, my mom, crying, said, “Look what’s happening.” I glanced at the TV, which seemed like just another news story, just another fire, and sat down at the kitchen table. I finished my breakfast and got up to get ready for school. “We’re at war” I overheard my dad say to my mom. She immediately started to cry. That’s when I realized that what happened on this day was not, in fact, just another news story.

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