I Remember

I don’t have very many memories of my early childhood. A flash here, a picture there, maybe even the sound of our dog barking down the hallway. I do remember things like that. But I also remember other things. My mom’s voice, the sound of our radio in the kitchen, my own high-pitched giggle. These things still exist in the dark, almost imperceptible corners of my mind, seeming to lurk far away from every other thought that runs through my busy brain during the course of my day. I could be working with one of my students, solving a problem, chatting with my supervisor, and for some reason, the image of my dad sleeping in our old recliner will make its way to the forefront. It’s an odd thing. 

I’ve heard it’s extraordinarily rare to remember things from younger than three-and-a-half years old. Everyone tells me that it’s so. And maybe they’re right; maybe it’s not normal. But sometimes, I think about it, and it becomes funny; I have a memory from so, so long ago, and yet I forget take my medication in the morning, or I don’t remember what I had for dinner the previous evening. Talk about irony.

But I have one particular memory that I will never be able to shake from my mind. Something that has stuck with me from the time I was two to now, at age twenty-three. I remember everything about that morning.

I remember how bright the morning sun was. How it shone through the windows of our living room, decorating the nearby wall in radiant rays of yellow and white. I remember placing my tiny hand on it, fascinated by the dark shadow that it cast.

I remember sitting on the floor. Our tiny apartment had a carpeted living room, which I suppose was good for me. I was clumsy, and found myself falling over a lot, but the carpet would provide some cushioning so I wouldn’t get hurt. I often sat in front of the television, watching Teletubbies, or maybe some cartoon show. I remember that La-La was my favorite of the Teletubbies; she seemed so bright and bubbly and happy, and her name was musical. 

I also remember my parents. My dad, a pastor with a love for God and Oreos, and my mom, a new teacher with a passion for learning that she would pass on to me, one day. I remember them both there that morning. My mom was in the kitchen, probably drinking her morning coffee, and my dad in his recliner, reading a newspaper with the television on in the background. They both seemed carefree, like they had no troubles, which I would later come to find out was only the mask that they wore for their entire marriage.

I remember seeing what had to be a school bus driving by the apartment. I was much too young for school at that time, and probably didn’t really know what a school bus was. But the flash of yellow in the window with big black words printed on the side all but confirms it for me now.

I remember my dad looking up from his paper, and his face clouding over underneath his thick glasses. But he wasn’t looking at me, or the window, or the door. His eyes were glued to the television. I remember him reaching for the remote, possibly to turn up the volume. He called out, I assume, for my mom, and she appeared mere moments later. She soon had the same gaze upon her face that my dad did. I remember her picking me up, sitting down on the couch, and cradling me close to her.

I remember being confused. They seemed upset. Why were they upset? Was it because of me? I remember wrapping my entire hand around two of my mom’s fingers, and the smell of her lilac-scented moisturizer making its way into my nose. That was something she had always loved: the scent of lilacs. To this day, she still does.

I remember hearing my parents talking to one another in worried tones. I don’t know what they were saying. But something was desperately wrong. They continued to watch the television, and I remember the reporter. She seemed to be around my mom’s age, and her voice was heavy with distress. She talked and talked, barely stopping to take a breath, and images flashed behind her.

I remember seeing the smoke. The fires. The frantic people. Buildings crumbling. I was too young to understand what was happening, or where, or how, or why. But I found myself watching the broadcast, right along with my parents, and knowing in the back of my mind that something was not right. 

I remember hearing screaming and wailing. Where was it coming from? What had happened? Would we have to leave, escape whatever disaster was unfolding? I expected that we would, but there we sat. My mom was rigid with fear; she had stopped playing with me at that point, and was wholly fixated on the broadcast. The woman on T.V. continued to talk, conveying a sense of dread and urgency. And the action continued on a separate screen; something had crashed, somewhere. And people were hurt. I remember feeling very sad; maybe it was because I didn’t know what was happening, or maybe it was the fact that I couldn’t do anything to help. I was a child, not even three years old.  

I remember that we sat there for a long time. At one point, I stopped watching, and my mind became occupied elsewhere. But my parents didn’t move; they sat in silence, horrified at what they were witnessing. I remember feeling angry that my mom wouldn’t play with me again. At the time, I didn’t understand why. 

And I remember that when they finally did begin to move and talk again, my mom wouldn’t let me out of her sight. She stayed with me for the whole day, and she took longer to tuck me in that night than she usually did, and hugged me a little tighter. I had put the entire situation out of my mind, but clearly, she had not.

Now, as an adult, I understand what I remember. The terrorist attacks to my two-year-old self weren’t really important, but as I got older, I began to realize that what I saw that morning was more horrific than I could have ever imagined. I was so innocent to the ways of the world; I never thought about the reality of violence and the finality of death. I didn’t understand.

Now that I’ve grown up a lot more, I’ve become all too familiar with those concepts, and I wish I could go back to the time when I had no cares, no worries, no fears. When I would just sit on the floor, playing with my toys or shoving Cheerios into my mouth. But it’s not that easy. Every so often, I look back at that time, and I envy my younger self for not having the option to suffer through the gruesome realities of September 11th. 

But I will always remember it.