I Was 9 On 9/11

It smelled like doughnuts, the glazed kind to be exact. School started late that year and even though it was six days after my ninth birthday I insisted that I bring something in for my class because, well, everyone did. I don’t remember what brand of doughnuts they were or what they tasted like. All I remember was that I was eating doughnuts when it happened.

Of course, I didn’t know that until later. It was a normal day for us little fourth graders, completely and utterly normal. It was snack time, the perfect time for a birthday doughnut party. The classroom walls were lined with happy posters and inspirational phrases. It was humid, even the steady air conditioning couldn’t hide that. But still, we sat at our desks chatting casually, munching on our glazed doughnuts, with not a care in the world. We had no idea.

My father came barreling through the classroom doorway, and when I say barreling, I mean swung the heavy, blue, classroom door open at lightning speed and entered the room abruptly. The class went silent; teachers exchanged glances; kids looked up, momentarily distracted from their tasty morning snack. My father looked out of breath, like he had been running, like some horrible green three-eyed monster had been chasing him. But most of all, he looked scared.

He nodded to the teachers and came up to my desk. “We’re going home,” he said. He was breathing hard, almost out of breath. I must have looked confused because he continued.

“There’s been a change of plans.”

To a mind of a fourth grader one can only imagine these statements were baffling. Unless it was a snow day, what else would one do on a school day? Go home? But why?