Proud to be an American
I can’t believe it’s been 10 years. It feels like just yesterday.
I was a newlywed. I was in my first real job, teaching high school math. We live on the west coast, so it was early. The TV was on while we got ready for work.
I watched the first plane hit. For that few minutes we all thought it was a fluke; some horrible accident gone wrong.
I was in the shower when my husband told me a second plane hit. And then we knew it was no accident. We knew, at that moment, that our lives, our country, would be forever changed.
Working that day was hard. I tried to stick to what we were supposed to do. Lesson plans, notes, worksheets, homework. All the kids (and I) wanted was to do was watch the TV. One of my students’ moms was on an airplane. She was stuck somewhere and her child was panicked.
When I watched the towers fall I remember feeling sadness. Disbelief. I had a memory of being in the viewing area high up in one of the towers during a trip I’d taken to New York a few years before. I couldn’t even imagine what all those families were going through.
In the days and weeks after the attacks, I remember the outpouring of American Pride. People put up flags on their houses and cars. The pictures of support from all over the globe were amazing.
I think often of that horrible day. My husband travels a lot for work. Every time he goes to the airport 9/11 crosses my mind. Every time I read the newspaper or watch the news I am reminded of that day and all that continues to happen because of it.
When we hang our flag outside our house this Sunday I will think about all those people who lost their lives that day. About all the people they left behind. I will think about our troops at home and abroad and about how much they give of themselves each day to keep my family safe. I will think to myself that, no matter how I feel about the news, the president, the wars, and everything else that has gone on since that fateful day, I am an American. And I’m damn proud of it.