Seven Years Later

By Amy Yensi-

I was sitting in computer class trying not to dose off. The sound of hysteria in the hallway jerked me out of my daydream . The teacher opened the door to see what the commotion was about. Dozens of high school students were running to the exits; some were crying. I heard a girl say "my mother works there, no no no." I asked a friend what everyone was talking about and she explained to me that there was a fire at the Twin Towers. I didn't have an immediate reaction, I had no clue of the level of death and destruction that would soon come to mar the day.

I found my best friend in the corridor, she was wandering in the hallways as I had been, trying to make sense out of something that we still do not have all the answers for. We saw a friend who was there to pick up one of his cousins. He was eighteen, so my friend and I latched on to him in order to get home, finally. I never in my seventeen years had wanted to get home so fast. My friend convinced me that we should stick together, so we ran to her house instead.

We turned on the television, and there they were-- the Towers engulfed in flames. The sky was black. At first, I thought it was a movie, a sick commercial maybe, but not reality. My friend began changing the channels and they all had the same image. We sat there in silence, fearful that we had not seen the worse.

I felt so ashamed. I had never taken the time to visit the World Trade Center. I had passed by them, nonchalantly, but I had never entered the buildings, and I regretted that. It was the first time I realized what a landmark was. For years, I scoffed at the tourists who marvel at the big buildings, now I wished I had done the same.

I never knew I would cry for people I never met, but I did. I felt like I had lost someone in the Towers, even though I had not. I was angry. "Who do these people think they are?" I thought to myself. I wanted answers, and at times I even wanted revenge.

All my life I identified myself as Dominican, Dominican-American, Latina, Hispanic, "from the Bronx." September 11th was the first time I felt American. Amidst all the images of ash, flames, and misery, I saw people rushing down to help the rescue workers, donate blood, or wave the flag.
Seven years ago I learned the value of that flag.