09/11/2026
I remember being 15, sitting in my sophomore class in Brooklyn, when the first tower was struck. I remember my mom frantically coming to school to get my brother and me. I remember seeing the smoke rising from the towers from our rooftop. I remember classmates whose lives were forever changed by the loss of their parents.
I remember the smoke that filled the air for weeks and the city falling absolutely silent. I remember the phones not working for hours. I remember our family and neighbors desperately trying to reach missing family and friends, each unanswered call deepening the fear.
I remember how grief moved through the city—not as something private, but as something we carried together. I remember huddling with friends and sobbing as we learned of the extent of the loss and devastation. I remember flyers covering the subway walls as families searched for their missing loved ones, while the rest of us tried to move through life’s small necessities beneath the weight of what had happened.
I don’t remember a time when people were more kind to their neighbors—and, at the same time, more hateful toward those who didn’t look like them. The city held one another close while turning its fear and anger against anyone it could mark as different.
I remember every person who, upon learning I’m from New York City, asks me—almost as entertainment—where I was when the towers fell.
I remember because they ask.
I remember because so many others cannot.
I remember. I remember. I remember.
