I was six years old on September 11, 2001. It was a gorgeous day – there was not a cloud in the deep blue sky. At 8am my father dropped me and my sister off at our school in the East Village.
At about 9am my first-grade class abruptly stopped when the principal walked in. She gathered us in the communal area, raised her arms in the air and demonstrated with alternating fingers that airplanes had just hit two really tall buildings close to the school. Class would be ending early that day and our parents were coming to pick us up.
After a few hours my mother arrived. The three of us walked downtown. I remember standing on Delancey Street and watching droves of people walking in unison across the Williamsburg Bridge towards Brooklyn. There were no cars. No one was talking or running. It was surreal.
