I don't think I will ever remember that day in its entirety-- it will forever be a day that I remember in flashes and glimpses that emerge out of a forgotten numbness. Every emotion was suffocated on that day-- I remember people still showing emotion but something in the atmosphere, just the outright shock of it, was a visible dampener on anything. I remember getting angry after hearing about Bush flying here and there trying to shake off imaginary terrorists instead of being brave like those first responders or even us ordinary New Yorkers who still were stubbornly clinging onto a daily routine despite the constant threat of a second attack right on top of the first one. But I remember feeling that rage was trumped by a far larger sense of sadness-- a sadness that this happened, that people died, that nothing was safe anymore and that nothing was certain. As a senior, much like my classmates, I'd been preparing myself to leave the safety net that was high school to conquer the world. I remember feeling then that I didn't want to go out into such a world any longer. I don't know if that feeling's changed now either.

I remember trying to get home. I didn't have a cellphone then and most of us were trying to find land lines within the school we could use to call our families. The one in the principal's office had a long line. I found one that the yearbook club had in their office with a relatively shorter line. I called my mom and I had to tell her that I didn't know how I would get home. Classmates who lived in Manhattan was offering space to sleepover in. I said that it was possible I might have to stay out the night, something that I never did. I remember hearing the panic in the voice of my mom, someone who was already so high strung and I think that was why after I hung up on my mom, I decided to refuse my classmate's kind offer and make my way home.

Even though rumors were swirling about how the subway, specifically Penn Station or Grand Central (the stop I use) or Times Square, would be attacked again, at that point, a certain recklessness had seized me. I think that many people had that same spirit because the subways were just as crowded as ever. It was a spirit that said, "I don't fucking care if I get killed. I'd rather live as a person than be cowed into changing what I am." Everyone on that subway train had this defiant air that was an armor. If people want to ask what was the visible difference and what do you mean by atmosphere, I guess I can describe it this way. In New York City, people don't look each other in the eye in public as they are doing their thing. It is usually taken as a challenge or rudeness. It is probably the same etiquette for people who take the elevator together who desperately pretend that they're not next to a human being and will look anywhere but at that other person. So, public NYC etiquette is basically elevator etiquette taken to an universal degree. That day, people were looking at each other. Instead of the blank expressions people put up in public, you could see emotions in passerbyers. It was fear, panic, grief, shock. But it was visible.

I just realized that the way I described NYC sounds inhuman but all of this emotion that was visible on 9/11 was always there. It was always assumed to be there and that tough facade that New Yorkers had, it was just something that we all had but it was also just as easily discarded if need be. But on 9/11, that veneer was ripped away painfully en masse. It wasn't voluntarily relinquished. Everyone in public knew reflexively then that for 9/11 and the days later on, NYC wouldn't be normal. We'd all need time to present that brave face we needed to present to the world that would say, "We're all still here, motherfuckers."

I remember as I took the subway on the beginning leg of my commute home that it might well be an odyssey. Never before have I ever listened so carefully to every announcement or been more aware of my surroundings. It was surreal because that hyper-awareness made me realize that everyone else was also extra sensitive to everything. We all looked at one another, the braver ones of us tried to impart that same strength with small smiles of encouragement. Our muscles were all tensed and ready to do battle.

Despite the looming threat of danger, I felt more fright about venturing outside. The subway had become a lifeline for me. So when my train conductor announced the news that I couldn't reach my desired transfer station and that I needed to take a shuttle bus that had been prepared by the MTA, I dreaded it. You know what frightened me even more though? It was that the usually "take it or leave it" MTA had stationed friendly helpers to lead us bewildered commuters to the shuttle. It wasn't the usual "serve yourself" MTA customer service we were used to. It was only about a walk of one or two city blocks to the shuttle bus. But it was probably one of the longest in my memory.

Maybe it was the shock catching up but everyone seemed to walk in this panicky fashion. Before I realized that it was the average walking speed of that day, I had thought for a moment people were fleeing from something and I remember looking around frantically for the source of danger. It was the first time I smelled the actual smell of 9/11. It smelled like something from hell to me. My school's location in the Upper East side spared it from the sight and smell of the smoke arising from the WTC but now, I was mid-town and I was no longer spared. I saw the plumes of smoke for the first time and knew that was where I was smelling things. I remember almost stopping in shock and seeing the inquiring glances of concern of the New Yorkers who were rushing by me before someone approached me and asked if I needed help. I said no, thank you and finally went to take my bus.

As I am writing this, I remember the bus experience too. Looking out and seeing the street encased by the tinted glass of the bus windows. It was almost like watching a movie but not quite. Because instead of sitting comfortably in the theater chair, I was standing there shivering uncontrollably. I hadn't realized until I actually saw and smelled it that this was what terror was.

When I finally got out of the subway to walk the block from home, 9/11 followed me home. The smoke was still visible and even clearer because there were no skyscrapers to block my view. The smell was even stronger because the winds had blown it here.

But when I walked home and went to unlock my door, I remember that the door was just swung open and my mom was almost crying as she hugged me. The TV was blaring the 24/7 news of CNN that every New Yorker would be watching. My little sister was there and we were only waiting for my big sister. She had a longer commute from the Bronx but her ride took only a bit longer than my commute and she was home too. Then we all huddled together in our relief that we were still a family and watched again and again in horror and fascination the sights of 9/11.

It is strange because despite the fact that we saw those images a million times, I now can't recall them without difficulty. I think, like most Americans, after those images were sealed up by the media to great relief, they were sealed in our own minds out of grief and horror. I think, like most Americans, every year after 9/11, my body and my mind will remember that day's terror the clearest before I willfully blot it out from my memory only for it to rise up again and again for the anniversary.

That was my experience. I'm sorry to make a long post. But like a lot of you, I felt the need to share. So please forgive me and allow me this post.