My brother, my dad and I walk home from a long practice in the autumn dusk. As my dad unlocks the door and lets us in, I hear my mom cooking dinner in the kitchen with the TV on. Our apartment is warm and smells good. I can make out images on the small screen as I walk through the hallway toward the bathroom.
If you were to ask me then what I saw, I would've said it was an action movie with Bruce Willis. (Russians love Bruce Willis.) Although my dad is generally aware of all upcoming showings of movies starring beloved Bruce, we weren't in a rush to get home to catch one that day. Maybe he had missed it?
I wash my hands in the bathroom while trying to figure out what mom is cooking. It feels great to finally sit down, and it takes me several minutes to realize that what I am watching is not actually a movie.
I don't remember much after that, but I remember feeling like my people were hurt, and I was frustrated that I could not share the anger and sadness with them.
Today is my first 9/11 as an American. It is the first 9/11 that I can grieve with you instead of for you, America.