My story isn’t heartbreaking or dramatic. My story is the story of the kids in school all over North America. The kids who were too young to understand what was happening. I remember being in my grade 2 class, sitting at my desk wondering why my principal was on the PA system crying. I remember her saying the words “tragedy”, “remember” and “love”. I remember praying and not knowing why. I also remember my classmate Jon being called out because his dad was in New York City (note: I later found out his dad was on a business trip and was safe). Unlike our older peers, my class did not watch the events unfold on television. I think the teachers thought we were too young for it. They were right. The next thing I remember is gathering around the TV at home. My parents wouldn’t answer any of my questions, which frustrated me. I don’t think they knew what to say. Why did they keep showing a building falling? What was so special about this building? Why is this on every channel? Why? What’s happening? Why are you calling everyone? Is everything going to be okay? I didn’t know then. I don’t remember when it all clicked, but I put it all together in the next few days. Since then, thinking of the events of September 11th, 2001 brings tears to my eyes. I think my story is compelling because it is from the eyes of a child. I am one of the youngest people to remember anything different about that day. My younger sister is less than 2 years younger than me and can not recall a single thing from that day. Even some of my best friends who were in that same grade 2 class can’t remember anything.