I was ten years old and in the fifth grade on September 11, 2001. I lived in New York at the time, in a community that lost many victims to the attacks on the World Trade Center that day. So, like most Americans, when I heard that Osama bin Laden had been killed, a mixture of emotions rushed through me – relief and regret at once washing over me in waves.
I remember vividly what it was like, on a sunny afternoon, to be taken into the school gymnasium along with the rest of my grade and told of the terrorist attacks that had taken place, as airplanes were intentionally crashed by al Qaeda not only in Manhattan but near the Pentagon and in the fields of rural Pennsylvania. In the hours, days, and weeks that followed, somber silence was punctuated at intervals by anger, fear, and sorrow. But it was also broken by the outpouring of patriotism that engulfed a city and a nation.
At our school concert the following spring, we sang a medley of songs, ranging from The Star-Spangled Banner, our national anthem, to America the Beautiful, My Country, ‘Tis of Thee, and God Bless the USA. We wore red, white, and blue humbly, without even the slightest hint of irony or self-deprecation to mar the pride felt across the country in being American and in possessing the ability to survive and to show the world that as a people we were stronger than ever.
Over time, that spirit seemed to fade in some ways. We still said the Pledge of Allegiance every morning at school and paused afterwards for a moment of silence to commemorate the victims not only of 9/11 but of other wars. Flags still flew from the homes of citizens, and the fireworks on the Fourth of July hinted at a greater significance. But as people went about their daily lives, memories grew a bit dimmer. For the families of victims, while their own memories will never dim, trying to move on became a priority.
So when I woke up Monday morning to the news that the man responsible more than any other for the terror of that day was gone, I was jolted by that emotional rush. Because I was here in Oxford and not in New York where people flooded the streets near Ground Zero, or in Washington, D.C., where they gathered on the National Mall. Across the country, college students held impromptu parties on campuses bedecked with American flags, already memorialized in their own way in the Facebook pictures of my high school friends.
I quickly understood, though, that being here has only brought me more clarity in looking back on what happened and in processing this most recent event. I’m not standing right now in the New York metropolitan area, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel the same elation and regret. I’ve simply been given more time in a foreign place to realize I will never lose those feelings.
