I grew up in New York City, a fact I was never really aware of until I moved to Portland, Oregon over the summer. The move struck me with a kind of culture shock I never expected — though, to be completely honest, much of it was probably the fault of the weather. As with anything, I adapted, assimilated, and grew into being away from home. It was on September 11, however, that I was reminded that I was no longer in New York.
Everyone has their story, the progression of memories triggered by the date, or a set of words, or that question used for tragedy after tragedy: “Do you remember where you were?”
I was in third grade.
I remember the silence before the announcement, knowing that there had to be some strange reason that the entire school was assembled in the auditorium all at once.
I remember the silence after, when the principal told us that a plane had crashed into the twin towers; a stunned silence, a silence of characterized by the sheer absence of