My memory of 9/11 was a quite vivid one. I had been preparing to play violin at the U.N. with the rest of my violin troupe for a few months now and it we were all really excited to showcase our talents. I remember sitting on the ground outside of the U.N. (we arrived extra early because we were extra excited) and feeling really eerie because of the weather. I remember it being a humid and cloudy morning, but not cloudy enough to smother our excitement.
When we were finally escorted into the building and through security we unpacked our violins and went through the line-up. I don’t remember what order I was in, but just as the second violinist started her piece, security briskly walked in and called for our attention. They said bluntly that the Twin Towers were hit and we had to leave immediately because this building might be next. Panic filled the air and everyone began to scramble for their bags, their cases and grabbed the closest person they were next to and ran for the lobby. We had so many questions and none of us knew where to go, where it was safest and how to get there.
As we continued walking on the streets, all these bars were filled with people, their mouths gaping wide at the giant screens. The televisions kept showing repeats of the plane hitting the North Tower. The adults and the older college students who were in our troupe counted all the kids and made sure everyone was accounted for. But they didn’t know what to do next. Our troupe began to disintegrate as everyone tried to find their own way back. My dad grabbed my moms hand and yelled at all my siblings to hold hands as we went back out into the streets. Everyone was running in no particular direction, people yelling, cars beeping, it looked and sounded like any ordinary rush hour but everyone was panicking. We couldn’t catch a cab, there were plenty but no one was willing to take us to Queens. We finally caught a cab that would only take us across boroughs for 300 dollars. My dad didn’t hesitate and quickly agreed. We all loaded onto the cab and as we were crossing a bridge (I can’t remember which one) I could see the smoke rising into the gray sky. It was the first time I ever saw my dad cry. He lost many of his colleagues that day like many others and still remembers them every year. My younger sisters can’t remember that day but I can’t seem to forget it. My story isn’t particularly special as I am just one small life that has been affected by this tragedy.
