By Tam Nguyen, Nguoi Viet
We all have images in our minds of what happened 13 years ago Thursday.
Smoke pours from the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center after they were hit by two hijacked airliners in a terrorist attack Sept. 11, 2001, in New York City. (Photo by Robert Giroux/Getty Images)
For some, it might be the two jets flying into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. Others might remember the vision of the burning wreckage at the Pentagon or in a field near Shanksville, Pa. Or the collapse of the towers themselves.
For me, it’s the horrified look on the face of Mrs. Rhodes, the terrifying screams.
The day started typically enough. The sun had barely came up when the alarm rang at 5:30 a.m. I was getting ready for school, with the television on in the background. I heard the breaking news: an airplane had crashed into one of the Twin Towers in New York.
The daily morning routine changed in an instant. I sat in the living room with a bowl of cereal and watched. It had to have been a bad accident. About 30 minutes later, I saw the news that another plane had hit the second tower.
I asked myself: Is this for real?
I changed the channel. Every channel showed the two towers burning. Then, my brother, who was living in Virginia at the time, phoned home to tell us he was OK just minutes after another plane hit the Pentagon. I thought he was joking — until I saw the news that a plane indeed had struck the Pentagon.
Fans of the New York Yankees hold up a sign to commemorate the first anniversary of 9/11 during a game against the Baltimore Orioles on Sept. 11, 2002, at Yankee Stadium in the Bronx, New York. (Photo by Ezra Shaw/Getty Images)
I didn’t know what to do. My parents had already left for work. At age 15, and a sophomore in high school, the only thing I knew to do was to go to school.
The walk to school was normal. As usual, I arrived a few minutes early to class and went to sit at my desk in my U.S. history class. It was strange not to see Mrs. Rhodes at her desk. Instead, she was sitting in a chair, in the corner, glued to the television set. As I approached her, I saw one of the towers collapse.
“OH MY GOD! NO!” she shrieked.
Mrs. Rhodes had just witnessed her son lose his life on that tragic day.
By this time, buzz had replaced quiet at school. All day, everyone was talking about the terrorist attacks. By lunchtime, the principal announced school would close early. There would be no afterschool activities, either.
Before leaving campus, I decided to check on Mrs. Rhodes. She had already gone. It would be another three weeks before I would see her again.
The walk home felt longer than it was. As I made my way home, I heard the news coming from televisions sets in the houses I passed and on the radios of the cars that drove by.
When I got home, all I could think about was poor Mrs. Rhodes, watching her son die the way he did. He and the other victims didn’t deserve to die that way.
Whatever the images in our minds, as vivid as they were in 2001, we will never forget 9/11.
