A Dark Room
It was a typical lazy morning as I got out of bed and got ready for school. My tiny apartment was abuzz with my cousins Sarah and Danny getting ready for school, and my brother throwing yet another tantrum about not wanting to go to school. My grandmother was making Turkish coffee in the kitchen and my grandfather was watching the news on the Russian channel. I remember this routine so clearly because although we weren’t what you would call ‘routine’ people, our mornings started off about the same way. My mother put our lunches in out bright colored bags as she yelled at us to hurry out the door before we were late for school.
We had only been in America for about several months and I had hardly known English, but as the events of that day unfolded, I came to realize that for some things, language is not a barrier. I remember sitting in my third grade class when someone knocked on the door and barged in telling my teacher to turn on the tv (I am guessing that is what she said because I can’t say I understood her, but right after she left, Mrs. Levinson turned the TV on). This day was not a memorable one just for me, but for many as people all around the world watched the Towers fall with hundreds of people inside. This event caused a lot of turmoil for me, because I was a child living in my own little world, oblivious to everything going on around me. Although everyone in my family did not directly suffer from the attack, I did experience a loss with the realization that the world was not as bright in reality as it was in my mind. This event that affects us to this day in ways I could not have predicted as a third grader opened my eyes and woke me up from a dream. It was the first time that I was a part of history in the big picture- the first time I understood it anyway. It’s not that I suffered for a personal loss, but I did feel pain for all those who had; in a way, this was the event that darkened the colors in the room I had created in the little cubicle of my mind.
I remember coming home, still not having understood what exactly had happened. I walked into the room, my grandfather had the TV volume turned up to a deafening level and my grandma was sitting at the dining room table folding laundry. I asked my mother what was going on, as she responded in Russian, “Don’t worry honey. Go do your homework.” But I was relentless, because having seen what I saw in my class, I wanted to know what had happened and how. Then, my grandma told my mom I was old enough to know, and she recited to me what was reported on the news. It wasn’t just confusion that I felt; it was anger and this feeling like I was weak in the world where even the highest buildings could crumble. I don’t think I understood it at the time, because I was too busy feeling things I could not comprehend. But looking back at it, I realize that this was the event (or at least the event I am conscience of) that started my cynical views on the world and humanity- it didn’t happen on that specific day or the day after, but it was the seed that somehow veered me into being who I am now.
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