I was a bright-eyed, toothless seven-year-old when America was forever changed by the 9/11 terrorist attacks.
On that clear Tuesday morning, my dad was driving me to school and listening to a recap of the Chicago Cubs game from the night before on the radio. My second grade class was going to take our first field trip of the year to an apple orchard that day. We were running a little late to school.
About three minutes away from the school building, my dad’s radio broadcast was interrupted to announce that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center in New York City. My dad slowly turned up the volume on the radio and told me to stay quiet. I didn’t know what was happening, or why this plane crash was so much worse than other ones.
All I knew was I wanted to get to school before I missed the bus to my field trip.