It seemed to be just another early morning that for reasons I couldn’t figure out started earlier than normal. My alarm usually woke me up at a quarter to seven before class started at my high school in suburban Portland, Oregon. For some reason, today was different as my mother woke me up a half hour early, telling me to come downstairs. “A plane hit the World Trade Center,” she told me. I tried to piece together what she told me as I was getting dressed and shaking out the cobwebs still in my head. This had to be some sort of accident. Of course, when I came downstairs I soon realized that wasn’t the case. The news station kept replaying the footage of the billowing smoke and the second plane attack merely moments ago.

I had just finished eating breakfast when the third plane hit the Pentagon. Another one, another attack. I rushed to get ready for school in light of the chaotic events bombarding me. “Be safe,” she said as I left for the bus, walkman in hand. There I stood waiting, alone, listening. The first tower collapsed and I literally cried out in terror, immediately thinking that thousands must now have died. “Good morning,” the driver greeted me. I looked at him and shook my head. ‘No,’ I thought, ‘it is not.’ Surrounding me were kids just as frightened and confused as I was, wondering if they should even be here. As we arrived, there was another one. Another plane, this time in Pennsylvania, of all places.

Classes did not go as planned that day. There was a television in every classroom, tuned to whichever channel got the best reception. Conversation and discussion was not on chemistry or theatre or pre-calculus, but on what was happening, who could have done this, and what we should do about it. This was not a normal day at Lake Oswego High School, and extra-curriculars were canceled. Back at home, emotions ran the full circle that day. Shock and horror turned to grief and sorrow and that night, anger and resolve. “Do it to them,” I said, remembering how survivors of the blitz recalled their feelings some sixty years ago. Life would go on. Things would eventually go back to some sense of normalcy, and our nation would respond. This shameful deed would not go unnoticed or unpunished.

This is my 9/11 story. Seeing images of that terrible day still bring back memories and feelings that I’m sure I won’t forget. I hope I never do forget how I felt because to do so would diminish its importance. This was the most important event of our generation, our Pearl Harbor, our Kennedy Assassination. There are some people, of course, that would prefer we do, in fact, forget that day, urging us to move on with our lives, forget about events overseas, and mind our own business. We can’t. We owe it to the thousands who perished to never forget that day: the horror of the attacks, the panic of ordinary citizens, and the heroism of the police, the fire department, and the passengers on United 93. Instead of just forgetting about it, let’s remember what happened five years ago today, let’s recall what we felt and experienced on that dreadful day, and above all, let’s make sure it doesn’t happen again.