This is just a small account of that day as told from the perspective of a 11 year old girl. I bet if you ask anyone about their time in 5th grade, they’d find it pretty difficult to remember most things. But 9/11 kind of made you remember. I ask my brothers, who are six years older than me, what that day was like for them. They tell me how their hair was standing on the backs of their necks, scared as they watched their teachers and friends crying and hugging each other. My father was on a flight out of Newark that morning, something they were wholly aware of as the events of 9/11 transpired. Thankfully, my father was on a flight headed to Virginia or some such state, and was safe. I was in the fifth grade, we weren’t told much but overheard that there was a plane crash in New York, someone mentioned a plane having crashed in the middle of the highway – none of us were sure what was going on and why it was so important. I remember, almost humorously, my friend telling me how the kids in our class were being taken out by their parents in order to get shots that they, as she detailed, ‘stab’ into your arm. I was terrified for the next few hours that I would be picked up next. That wasn’t the case, of course. And as we piled on the school buses that would take us home, I remember telling a friend that my father was on a plane but I didn’t know where and I didn’t know when. I was reassured by her that he was fine, and I really didn’t have a reason to think he wasn’t. Coming home I remember sitting on the floor in my living room with my mom and watching the endless news stories that day, and for the next several days. Everyday you would turn on the news, and watch as the NYFD and NYPD went through the rubble at Ground Zero. And I would watch with ancitipation, waiting for the moment when they’d spot a hand waving in their direction. Waiting in angst for this uplifting story of someone being found alive. That was rarely the case, but I will always remember waiting. Rest In Peace to those who perished.