Remembering 9/11

I was in second grade at the time. I was six years old. The next day would be my birthday.
We were in class and we were coloring something, I don't even remember what. All I remember was a crayon in my hand as the teacher, Mrs. Lerner, answered the phone smiling.
And then her face just dropped, so suddenly. She hung up and she was just quiet. She just had this look on her face that was so strange. She was trying so hard to keep a blank expression to hide her fear and her sadness but I just kept seeing flickers of it. It would alternate between fear, sadness, and a fake dead blankness.
Then the phone was ringing off the hook and she kept calling kids to go home. As the morning went on her face just got more and more blank until she just barely looked alive anymore. What I remember most about Mrs. Lerner was that she was a lively, happy, funny person but on that day she was the complete opposite.
Still, I was happy as could be. I mean, I was six years old and the next day was my birthday! I knew something was wrong, though, but Mrs. Lerner wouldn't say a word except "(Insert child's name), your parents are picking you up," in a really quiet and solemn voice. But I knew eventually my mother would come for me and by brother and sister and I would be going home, too. And for a quick second I thought that maybe I was going home for my birthday or something.
My mom finally did come to pick us up, and she had the same look on her face, the same blankness trying to hide fear. When we got home the TV was on, which was wierd because my mother never left the TV on when she was out. But we just kept seeing the same pictures over and over again, the South Tower falling and people screaming.
The next day, my birthday, everyone was trying so hard to be happy. The whole day was made of fake smiles and halfhearted "happy birthdays." Even as a seven year old I knew that it was one big load of crap. My mother and grandfather suggested not even having a party for me that year, but my father insisted that we did have one. He said that if we didn't, it would just be another victory for the terrorists. He said there was no reason we shouldn't celebrate my birthday just because of something they did, he said that it wasn't my fault that 9/11 happened and that I shouldn't be deprived of a birthday because of it. So we had a party. We had a trememndously fake party.
I've never stopped feeling guilty about that day. I've never stopped feeling guilty that I was happy. That all I could think about was my fucking birthday when thousands of people were dying. I mean, everyone tells me I shouldn't feel guilty because I was in the classroom when it happened and I didn't even know it happened until I saw it on TV later. But I really can't help it, I mean while people thinking about life and death and throwing themselves out 100 story windows I was thinking about what presents I would get and what my cake would look like.
At school that day Mrs. Lerner told us to draw pictures of what we were feeling. I drew two piles of dust crying. Well, I tried to. I was dotting my paper with my pencil to make the pile-of-dust effect, and apparently the sound of my pencil constantly tapping the desk was incredibly annoying, so I had to stop.
Anyway, it's ten years later now, and tomorrow I turn seventeen. Every year on my birthday now, everyone else kind of forgets the day before, but I can't. I can't forget that the day before was the anniversary of the day 3000 people died. So I'm always just a little sad on my birthday every year.
My father's cousin died that day. Donna Marie Clarke. Dad has access to the Family Room at Ground Zero, where family members put up pictures and letters to their loved ones and all this memorial stuff. It's heartbreaking every time I go there, seeing up close the emotion and the memories and sadness connected to each and every one of those people. It's something you can't know unless you've been there. But I think the Family Room is just the saddest place in the world. You literally can't step out of there without crying. You always see something new that makes you sadder than the last time you were in there. Always.
It's been ten years, and I live in New York City. My dad has been documenting the growth of the WTC area since 2001, and it's really beautiful to finally see everything coming together again. This year I feel just a little bit happy, because we are seeing New York City recover from the attack. Even though we'll never stop mourning, at least the ones we lost finally have a proper place to be remembered.