I was a senior at New York University. It was a gorgeous fall day. The world felt full of possibility. The planes hit while I was heading downtown on the 6 train heading to the Mercer Street station. The train paused on the tracks, which was typical, but when we got out everyone was staring up into the sky. I was late for Consumer Behavior so I kept my head down and raced down the street. I finally asked someone I knew what they were looking at and they said a plane had just crashed into the World Trade Center. We assumed it was an accident.  Everything had changed when class ended and I came up from the basement. A dark cloud, the smell of electrical fire, the screaming, the chaos, the sirens. The long, by then silent, walk back to my apartment with thousands of other New Yorkers covered in ash, many bleeding, limping, and holding each other up. Complete strangers. The beautiful New Yorkers I love so much driving around picking up the injured to drive them home. The emergency team outside NYU Langone, waiting outside with dozens of stretchers quietly praying for survivors.  I tried to join the army shortly after, but they wouldn’t take educated females. They needed to meet e-class quotas at the Harlem recruiting office. Many of my friends were let go from their jobs and the job prospects for my graduating class were slim. Many freshmen were called back home by their parents. Kids were sleeping in the gym because the Water Street dorm was evacuated. We lost a number of professors and parents. It was a dark year. But it was also filled with bravery, community, and resilience. It didn’t necessarily change my world view, but it definitely shifted my thinking on the United States’ role in foreign affairs. It was probably also the first time I felt unsafe. It gave me so much empathy for the millions of people throughout the world living in unsafe conditions.  I’ll never be the same. I thought I was okay for many years but the constant stress, the high alerts, the National Guard on our trains, the bomb sniffing dogs, the incessant emergency planning and drills at my office, all became too much. I started to have nightmares and panic attacks. I called it quits on NYC when I was 25. I moved home to my parents’ in South Burlington and I never went back. The pain and suffering is still very real and sharp for so many. We always say ‘Never Forget’ and it just baffles me. What does that mean? Who could forget?

Abby Trutor Mead