I was living in Chicago at the time, employed as a teacher in an independent high school. I will never forget the moment that an administrator told me, with a seriousness and fear that I had never seen from him either before or since – that the World Trade Center had been hit and that he was “not f**king kidding!”
Down in the school gym we listened to a live conversation on NPR between a reporter and someone inside one of the towers who was describing the tower-rattling boom, the stifling smoke and the NYPD’s initial orders to stay put. Little did either party know what would soon become of that man on the phone. He almost assuredly did not make it down in time to save his life.
We all have our 9/11 memories, seared into our minds much the way that Kennedy’s assassination lies forever in the minds and hearts of our parents or grandparents. But this time was different. We were now at war. We just didn’t know with who. Or how the war would unfold. Or how long it would last. Or its long-term implications, including our protracted struggles with Radical Islam and ISIS. At that moment we simply knew that we had been dealt a devastating blow, one from which we now know that we would never fully recover.
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