September 11th, 2001 was a beautiful morning. I remember noticing that it was especially gorgeous because I was not a kid who jumped out of bed and excitedly went to school. I was in first grade. Mrs. Healy was my teacher. My first grade year had just started. It was a normal morning, we went to the carpet and completed the calendar and weather for the day. Next up was individual reading to the class. I had practiced my book for hours the night before so I was confident that I would be able to breeze through my level 2 easy reader. Just as we were about to start, Mrs. Healy told us to go back to our seats.

The principal came over the PA system and said that something bad had happened in New York City. I knew my dad worked in New York as a Local 3 electrician, so I felt a bit uneasy. The individual phones in all of the classrooms on the 2nd floor began to ring one by one. Mrs. Healy answered and almost immediately started sobbing. She told us that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. I felt panicked. As a first grader, I had no idea where my dad worked or how close he was. For all I knew, he could be hurt or worse.

One by one, parents started picking up my friends. I was worried that my mom wouldn't come. I wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. They brought us all into the gym together. She finally arrived after what felt like forever. She hadn't heard from my dad or grandpa, who also worked in the city. All the phone lines were down, and it was impossible to reach anyone in New York. My mom knew that my dad was working in Manhattan, but didn't think he was close enough to the Trade Center to be in serious danger. I knew she was still worried, but she put on a brave face for me and my two sisters. Kasey was 4, and Cassidy was barely even a year old.

My mom drove us to a hill that was about 5 minutes away from our house to show us the smoke. We live about 20 minutes away from Manhattan and had a crystal clear view of the terror. At this point, both of the towers had been hit and at least one had collapsed. The smoke that filled the sky was so ominous, such a contrast to the beautiful blue.

We went home and never turned off the T.V. I watched in horror as the news reporters, barely composed, reported the terror attacks on the World Trade Center. I was so young, but fully understood the extent of absolute horror. We kept trying to call my dad, no luck.

My mom eventually told me to stop watching T.V. I went downstairs to play with my sister Kasey. I couldn't forget about what I had seen by simply dancing around to "Build me up Buttercup".

My dad finally arrived home at about 6 or 7. I was so happy to see his face. My grandfather also made it home safe. My dad told us that he was on 47th street. He watched lower Manhattan fall apart from a rooftop in Midtown. He watched the first plane crash into the north tower and then the second into the south. To this day when I ask him about it, he tells the story with the same terror and awe.

Everyone has their stories, some ending worse than others. I am so grateful that my family survived one of the most terrible days of US history. I thank all of the first responders. I mourn with all of the families that lost their dads and moms, brothers and sisters. New York City was shook but not broken.

A week after the attacks, my father was sent to Ground Zero to work. He wore a gas mask and helped rummage through the rubble. We all pulled together to help our fallen. Living in the United States is something to be proud of. We overcome the impossible, and are remembered for that. God Bless America.