I'd like to start off by saying that I have very strange dreams when I'm tired, because last night in my dream I played football for my high school (yes, the only girl) but my coach wouldn't let me wear the traditional green-and-white jersey so he gave me a red one. Red isn't even our school color. It makes no sense. But I was number ninety-nine, so that was pretty badass, I guess.
On a more serious note, though, today is the tenth anniversary of the attacks on September 11, 2001. I was in first grade, so I don't remember much. Only that it was a hot and beautiful day, and I came skipping into the living room to see something that I didn't quite understand - the World Trade Center, something I'd seen in person only a few months before - on fire. The announcer said it was from an airplane, but I didn't understand why somebody would want to fly a plane into a building. My mother wouldn't tell me the reason.
I wasn't scared because I thought it was an accident, that all of this had happened. But now, here I am, ten years later - age sixteen - and I've never been more frightened.
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