Today is September 11th

I was 12 when it happened. That seems young to me now, but at the time I thought I was so grown up and mature because I was an eighth grader. I was rocking a very stupid mullet and clothes better suited for a boy, or in the end no one really. It was, I would say one of the more gorgeous days of late summer/early fall. I was in chorus when news of the first plane crash reached me. I laughed. I thought it was a joke. Fucking ridiculous. Then I proceeded to my US History class where my concept of the world came unglued. My history teacher, Mr. Bastian, actually had tears in his eyes when he told us about the second plane and the pentagon. He explained that the twin towers had been attacked and was unable to speak beyond uttering the barest minimum of words to give us the information which he was struggling to believe. Even when I saw what was happening, I did not fully register what it was, that was actually happening. The news did not help in anyway to process what this type of attack implied or how I actually felt about what had occurred. The reality of the attack itself was an open wound and the media just through salt in it-corroding away at any initial protection or healing that could have occurred. I remember at one point, my mom turned off the TV and said, "That's it, we are going to watch something else and we are going to do something else." I think in doing this she allowed for us to regain a sense of sanity. My mom and dad were not as shaken up by this news as I was. It was literally the first time my country and my home had been so forcefully threatened. My parents however, came from a place where bombings and crashes were, not necessarily commonplace, but definitely, a fact of life. To make matters worse, it seemed that my home was being invaded by people who shared my beliefs. Or to be more accurate, were labeled as 'muslim' like I was. I was torn. I think this was the first, and probably one of the more visceral moments of uncertainty in my belief in God and in my faith.