Too Young, Too Naive (9/11)

Too Young, Too Naïve (9/11)
         “What’s happening?” I asked my best friend, Tori. We stood outside our school, surrounded by our fellow kindergarteners. Tori said she didn’t know. Mrs. Campanotta, our principal, had gotten on the overhead speaker and announced that everyone should head to the flagpole for the raising of the flag. I asked why. Why were we going to the flagpole? We were supposed to have reading time, but Mrs. O’Halloran didn’t explain. We were just kindergarteners. We shouldn’t be troubled with what happened.
         Some older kids stood at the base of the flagpole, a serious expression etched in their faces. A boy played the bugle as they raised the flag, some sad tune I didn’t like listening to. We had a moment of silent reflection, and that was it. No fireworks, no cheering. Mrs. Campanotta didn’t even say anything. I was just a simple flag raising, nothing big or grand. I didn’t understand. What was so special about raising a flag? Normally we didn’t come outside just to watch a flag rise up. And why did they only bring it up half-way? Why not all the way? I wanted to ask someone what had happened, but all of the older kids kept looking at me, as if I was too young to understand what this was, what this meant. I was too young.
         Next year, I finally asked my mom what had happened. I heard about it at school, from the older kids, but either they didn’t know the details, or they wouldn’t tell me. There were babies on those planes. In my little first grade mind, I couldn’t grasp why someone would want to kill babies. What had they done? Nothing, except look cute. They were babies. I didn’t want to ask my mom about it anymore. I still didn’t fully grasp the horror and the evil that was in this act.
         Fifth grade. It had been six years. I was able to understand the hurt everyone felt, the fear. But it still hadn’t registered for me. I could understand the pain, but I didn’t feel it. I was oblivious to how much sorrow most people felt on its anniversary. Yes, I knew the deed was terrible, but I couldn’t bring myself to mourn that day. I couldn’t until Aqsa showed me a YouTube video.
         I still sleep with the light on, just in case you come home and kiss me goodnight.  The last line of a video about a little girl who lost her dad on that terrible September day can haunt your mind. It forces you to fully accept the ache, the constant throb of a reminder that our world isn’t perfect.