,
7 tweets,
2 min read
Read on Twitter
9/11 began a long love affair for me with New York and with journalism. I said to my mom on September 13, 2001, I need to see it. I need to go, I want to see it. My adolescent brain couldn't process it all, seeing was believing to me. Seeing was healing. She took me a day later.
That trip shaped me into who I am, drilled into me the permanent "why?" I have followed that "why" all the way to where I am today. Out of terror, loss, grief, something good came. Now, 18 years later, I think I truly understand how strong she was in the face of her own horror.
I think about the day I asked to go. I think about the trip. I think about what I saw. As the daughter of a photographer, I took pictures, of course. Pictures I don't share, really. They are just my tangible proof that this unimaginable horrible thing really did happen.
A lot of people will share sad stories today. A lot of people will bitterly argue and fight. A lot will remember the patience, kindness, helpfulness - the straight up compassion - that we extended to each other in the aftermath. Today is a day to touch base with those things.
In my mind, 9/11 will always be a day that I reflect on what I'm doing, where I've been, where I'm going. 9/11 also *always* stirs up another memory. They seem to go hand in hand in my brain.
About five years before 9/11. I was quite young, I remember sitting in the car with my mom and I said to her: "Ma, nothing important is ever going to happen in my lifetime." (What child thinks of these things IDK). I can hear her answer clear as a bell.
"Oh, just you wait. Just wait. There will be many big important things that happen. You'll be there. You'll be there to tell those stories to your own daughter."
I don't have children. But I tell stories to other people's daughters. I'll take it.
I don't have children. But I tell stories to other people's daughters. I'll take it.
