09/11/2026
Never Forget
There aren’t many days that are seared into my memory. Sadly, September 11, 2001, is one of them.
I was 12 years old and just starting 7th grade. One of my favorite educators in the world, Mrs. Antoinette Villa, was beginning her student teaching and celebrating her birthday. I was excited for a new school year and, like I did every year, another chance at a little “reinvention.”
I woke up early to catch the bus from my mom’s house. It was a little chilly, but not cold, and the sun was beginning to break through the overcast sky. It seemed like a completely ordinary morning.
When I got on the bus and took my seat, the voices on the radio were talking. That wasn’t unusual. They always talked about their day, current events, pop culture, and whatever else was happening.
But that morning, they just kept talking.
I couldn’t really hear everything they were saying, but I kept catching the words “Twin Towers.” I was 12. I had no understanding of the global economy or the significance of the World Trade Center.
Then I heard that a plane had hit the Pentagon.
I knew what the Pentagon was.
I knew something was very wrong.
The bus was soon buzzing with kids talking about a terrorist attack on the United States.
When I walked into the cafeteria for breakfast, every television was on. They were showing the planes hitting the towers over and over again.
It was jarring.
I had no idea how to process what I was seeing, but those images stayed on television all day. Every classroom. Every period.
I was heartbroken and confused, like so many Americans were that day.
I remember singing the Star-Spangled Banner in each of my classes. I don’t really know why I did it. At 12 years old, I think it felt like something I needed to do. Maybe I needed to remind myself who we were and that our country had been through difficult times before.
Later that day, I got off the bus at my dad’s house and saw him crying while watching the news.
I had never seen my dad cry over something that wasn’t personal.
He looked at me and said that the country was going to be completely different after this.
He was right.
For a short time, we came together as citizens. We leaned into the things that connected us and reminded ourselves that, despite our differences, we shared something larger.
Twenty-five years have now passed.
An entire generation has grown up knowing September 11 only through history books, documentaries, photographs, and the stories of those who lived through it.
That is why I think it is important for those of us who remember that day to tell our stories, even the ordinary ones.
Where we were.
What we saw.
What we felt.
The people we were with.
Those individual memories become part of our shared history.
We remember the nearly 3,000 people who were killed, the families whose lives changed forever, the first responders who ran toward unimaginable danger, and everyone who carried the weight of that day in the years that followed.
We tell the stories so that those memories do not disappear.
Never forget.
