Response to Hannah

I believe that a lot of our generation are on the same boat. We are all filled with gaping holes in our memories from events such as this. Certain parts of the memories, a teacher's grief-stricken face, the squeak of a cart as a television is pushed into a hushed classroom, will always be strongly remembered, because those parts are parts of the memory that we can understand. We weren't old enough to fully comprehend what happened. We couldn't understand death and malice, despair and destruction. And so we forget, because we were too young to understand.

I can relate to the silence of your parents. When I was three, my father passed away during a drunk driving accident (his fault). Of course, I went for years not knowing the real reason for his death. What can you tell a child to make them understand a death like this? "Your father was drinking and because of that he ended up killing himself." I know this isn't even remotely the same situation, but in a way, it is. People were silent about the real cause of his death (crashed into a tree, they told me, no alcohol involved, merely an accident) because I wasn't old enough to understand. And now that I'm at the age where I CAN understand, where I need to know everything, it's almost impossible to get an answer. I can't move on, because there was nothing to move on FROM. A man I was related to died before I even knew him. I don't even remember him. But everyone else has moved on. My mom is remarried (again), we don't even speak to his side of the family anymore, and really, the topic just doesn't come up.

Life seems to be full of puzzle pieces, regardless of the tragedy. I still don't know things about my father that a normal child should, and I probably never will. But it seems to me that this not knowing that we all experience does have some good in it. We as humans always seek information, and once we gain this information, it usually sits in the recesses of our mind, never to remerge again. Perhaps this not remembering, as frustrating as it may be, will give us more reason to reflect, because of its frustration. We can reflect because we want to know the whole story, but never will. Maybe we'll think about our individual tragedies more, in the absence of memory.

Brittany Clark



Original Post:

When I think of 9/11, what comes to mind most is this: I don't remember.

In my mind, the day exists in snippets and chunks. Flashes of events and words and images. But mostly, I just can't remember.

I remember my fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Allan. This is how she usually looked - smiling and laughing and full of life, ready to encourage and teach a class of rowdy nine- and ten-year

-olds. I do remember that on this day, she wasn't smiling. She was crying.

I remember her in front of our classroom, tears running down her face. I remember being confused.

I think I was sitting in the back corner of the room. I think I was at a group of desks with my friends Katie and Jenny.

I don't remember what she said. I think she told us that planes had hit the Twin Towers. I don't remember if she said the words "terrorist" or "attack". I remember her saying she had to go tell another teacher's class, because that teacher couldn't. I think the other teacher just couldn't bear to tell a group of fourth-graders that their world had been attacked.

But to be honest, the Twin Towers weren't my world. New York was far away, and as a nine-year-old, I had no clue what they were or what they symbolized. I didn't understand the attacks. But I don't remember asking questions.

I think we went home early. I do remember riding the school bus home that day.

I don't remember our teacher telling us that the Pentagon had been attacked. She must have, because I remember thinking about it, but I don't remember how she told us or what she said.

To us, that was more real. We lived in Falls Church, Virginia, a mere 20 minutes from D.C. The Pentagon was a tangible place to us, a place we had driven by and seen and knew. We were a group of fourth-graders with knowledge about D.C., fourth-graders who had seen the Washington Monument and the White House, fourth-graders with parents who worked for the government.

"I don't know if my dad was at the Pentagon today or not."

I remember that sentence. I remember that thought running through my mind, coming out of my mouth. I remember not knowing.

My father is an economist. In 2001, he was frequently at the Pentagon for meetings. I remember riding the bus home, thinking that he might have been there.

I don't remember being afraid for his life. I don't remember being afraid for myself, either. The thought that either he or I could be harmed - that he might be dead - never truly occurred to me. Maybe it did, but now, all I seem to remember is this fearlessness, this belief that we were invincible.

I don't remember what my mom told me when I made it home. I don't remember if she knew where my dad was then, or if he called yet. He was at the Pentagon that day. He was in the parking lot, just leaving. He saw the plane hit.

I don't know much more than that. He doesn't talk about it much. Maybe it was because he didn't think my brothers and I were old enough to understand, and now that we're older, it just doesn't come up.

So I'm left with puzzle pieces about September 11, 2001. The tears. The school bus. The thoughts about my father.

It's frustrating, this not remembering.