9/11 is coming up in four days, and I wanted to write something for it. I am very politically-minded, and I have been for most of my life. But like everybody else, I didn't start out that way. 9/11 changed me, and I would like to think that it was for the better.

It is true when we said, "We Will Never Forget." You cannot forget something like that. It's impossible. It's also true when people say that you remember everything that day: what you were wearing, what you were doing, how you felt...

I was ten (soon to be eleven in three months' time). I had just woken up and I was laying in bed. I remember rolling over, looking out of the window, and thinking, "The sky is beautiful today, not a cloud up there. I bet it'll be a good day today." When I finally got out of bed, I went downstairs to get myself a glass of water and to use the bathroom, as was (and still is) my custom.

Mom was sitting in the living room with her boyfriend, and they were watching TV. When she heard me coming downstairs, she called out, "Britt, is that you? Come here for a minute!"

"Alright, just let me get a drink and use the bathroom first!"

When I finally made my way to the livingroom and ask Mom what she wanted, she told me to look at the TV. So I did. I saw two tall buildings-- they were taller than any other around -- in what was obviously NYC (New York City), and one had a big gaping hole in it, smoke barreling out. I was astounded. I could feel my stomach beginning to tie itself into knots of anxiety and I sank into the couch, my eyes glued to the TV in shocked fascination.

"What happened?"

"A plane crashed into one of the twin towers," was my mother's response.

"So it was an accident?" That was my first conclusion. I desperately did not want it to be what was running across the bottom of the news screen: that it could be a possible terrorist attack.

"I don't think so, Brittany. We've been attacked."

That was when Joey, my mother's boyfriend, looked to us. An emotion that I could not place, and still cannot place, was in his eyes. "No," he said. "We haven't been attacked. It's only been the one plane. The pilot must not have been paying attention to what he was doing. In New York, because of all the buildings, you're not allowed to fly lower than a certain height to avoid something like this. Either he did not know that, or he wasn't paying attention."

Just then the other plane came shooting toward the second building, ramming into the side in an explosion of red and orange. Renewed screams resounded through the TV speakers, and the anchors gave their emotionless, monotone reports of what was happening. I remember thinking: "There is a crisis going on. How can these news anchors keep it together? Do they not *feel* anything?! Do they not realize the horror of what is happening?!" At the time I didn't understand that that was part of their trainings, that they are not supposed to let their own views or their own emotions interfere in relaying the news to the people.

As if that was the deciding factor, my mother nodded and said, "We are under attack." At that point... everyone knew we were being attacked. What are the chanes of having two planes hit both twin towers and be an accident?

"I'm going to be called in for work," Joey said. He stood and went to their bedroom, and he came out wearing his uniform. He watched the news for a little bit more, and then went to the kitchen to retrieve his gun from on top of the refrigerator where he always kept it (he kept it up there so one of us kids did not get it and accidentally shoot ourselves), and waited for the call.

It came soon after. He went out the back door to get Storm, his partner and the most wonderful pet, and loaded him into the back before taking off. I was terrified, knowing we were under attack and that Joey and Storm had to go into it, so I sent up a prayer, asking God to please keep Storm and Joey safe. I was shaking, but I would not let Mom see. I could tell she was just as upset as I was, probably more so, and didn't need to have me added to the worries.

I remember my mother going into shock, seeing people jumping out of the windows of the World Trade Center. I couldn't see them, and I was thankful that I could not. Unfortunately, when I was in school, a teacher brought a paper in and showed us that particular picture.

"Why are they jumping out of the building?" I asked. It made no sense to me.

"Honey, they're going to die anyway," she tried explaining. "It's either burn to death, choke to death, or die on your own terms."

Just then, on the TV, there was a picture of a bearded man with a turban on his head. I tried pronouncing his name, but it was too difficult for me. That was when the reporter told us that Osama Bin Laden was the suspect behind the 9/11 attacks.

I remember hating him, wondering how someone could be so evil that they would want to kill thousands of people. After all, it was such a beautiful day... We had done nothing to nobody, right? I remember thinking that I should have known something was up... It was too beautiful a day for something not to have been. I felt guilty for hating him. I asked God for forgiveness for hating Osama bin Laden, telling Him it was so hard not to; that I knew God wanted us all to love each other, but how can I possily love somone who wants America to fall?

Then... the first tower fell. I was sitting on the couch closest to the bay window. Mom was in the kitchen. "Oh, my God... MOM!" I yelled. "Mom, the first tower fell!"

"What?!" She hurried into the living room to see what I was talking about.

"The first tower fell."

When my brother came down from upstairs, we filled him in on what was happening. He got on the computer, I think. Mom and I continued to sit on the couch until the second tower fell.
Joey's mother called us, asking if we would take her to get her bus (she was a school bus driver). We agreed, of course. If she went on her own, she would have no one to drive her car back. It was easier to drop her off at the school to pick it up. (It was at this time we learned the way into and out of all the North Eastern States of the US were closed off and all the airports were shut down).

Still, I was paranoid. I kept looking into the sky, watching for that stray plane. Not all of them could have made it into the airports yet. Thankfully, there was none.

When we got back in, that was when we found out the US was on High Alert (the highest it could be), and that the Pentagon had been hit. The President and Vice President were hidden.

I had enough of the horror for one day. I shut myself into the office we had and sat in front of the computer, relaying everything I knew and did not know to all of my friends on my AOL buddy list. They all knew.

That night there was conjecture about going to war. That scared me. I didn't want us to go to war, but at the same time I wanted us to attack the bad guys and wipe them off the face of the earth. That way we wouldn't have to worry anymore. Right? I knew if we went to war, especially on something as broad as Terrorism, it would never be over. But we couldn't sit here and do nothing about it. That would cause for more attacks. Right?

One night after I had gone to sleep... I had a dream about everything. I dreamed that Al-Qaeda was continuing to take their hate out on us... in my small town. They were *everywhere.* They were coming down from helicopters. They were surrounding my house and everybody else's houses.

In my nightmare, Joey and Storm were at work in New York. Our puppy Ozzy (he is now 8 years old), my mother, my two brothers, and myself were all huddled together in the living room, pressing against the door to keep Al-Qaeda out. Nobody was guarding the basement door (we had a door in the basement leading to outside) or the back door. They swarmed in through those doors, and in defense we left the front door open. They opened the door, and one of them grabbed me, tearing me away from my family. "Mom!" I yelled. "They've got me! Mom, help me!" They dragged me outside onto the porch, and the rest of my family were being taken as well. I woke up right when I knew my life was over.

I was surprised to have discovered I was crying.

When school started a week or two later, I was terrified to go. I was afraid something else was going to happen. I begged Mom to let me be home schooled, because I wanted to be around if something were to happen and I told her about my dream.

"No, Brittany, you need to go to school. If something happens, I'll come and get you."

I didn't like it, but she was (and is) the boss. "Do you promise?"

"I promise I will come and get you."

I am eighteen now, soon to be nineteen in three months. It's been eight years, but I remember everything like yesterday. I was wearing jeans and one of my favorite T-shirts. I had water to drink that morning, and skipped breakfast (as usual).

I came to find out not too long ago that most of the horror was shielded by my mother and her boyfriend from me. He would come home late at night and get sick to his stomach about what he had to clean up. He would have nightmares and moan loudly in his sleep, waking my mother up (who in turn woke him up). She made him talk about it to try to prevent the psychological effects. One day he had found a woman's left hand. She had a ring on. "Teresa," he told her, tears in his eyes. "She was *married.* She left a husband behind. She probably had children. What is he going to tell his children about why their mother isn't coming home?"

I still have flashbacks every now and then to that day. On something as simple as a music video, if I see a bridge collapsing or a small building being torn down I cannot help but to see the twin towers falling in my mind. If I see a poster, I cannot help but to think of the terror. Whenever I see the big, empty space the towers used to stand, or whenever I see a picture of the towers themselves... I cannot help but to see the people falling out of the buildings again, head first to the ground.

That day, although I was ten, I began to watch the news more often. I began to become more aware of what was happening in the world, and why. I began to know who *I* really was and what *I* really believed. I became proud of being an American, and I began to understand what American was really all about. I learned what it takes to be a good citizen, and what makes a person an American. I learned why people were so happy to be an American citizen compared to where they came from.

America really does stand for something wonderful: freedom. We stand for the opportunity for a better life. That is something that deserves to be celebrated on the Fourth.

9/11, instead of being a day of volunteerism (as the President wants -- God knows what community service has to do with 9/11), should be a day of National Prayer and Fasting. Or a National Day of Mourning. *Some*thing to mark the horror we have seen on our own soil. *Some*thing to honor the fallen heroes who helped others survive, to honor the families and friends who lost someone one that day.

Thank you for reading this. Here is a Tribute video for 9/11. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Fpr3EkTM0o