It was a Friday afternoon in November. My father, 10 years old at the time, was sitting at his desk along with the rest of his 5th grade class in a small-town Catholic school. Suddenly an announcement was made over the old, crackling loud speaker: The President has been shot.

It’s been 60 years since John F. Kennedy was assassinated. My father can still recall remarkable details of that moment and the days that followed. “I remember when they first told us. I remember being as shocked as any 10-year-old could be. They closed the school. That was a huge moment, them closing the school. That’s what really hit me because it had never happened before. I can still remember walking home. I was angry.”

Ask anyone who paid witness to that day and they will begin by telling you where they were and what they were doing. They may recall the weather, what they were wearing, who they were with, what their teacher said. These personal details will come before they recount the actual news story surrounding that tragic day because, for them, it’s not a news story.

It’s their story.

For my father, the assassination of JFK didn’t happened to a stranger in a far off place called Dallas. In a personal sense it happened to him, a 10-year-old school boy. It happened to his friends, his family. It happened to millions of Americans just like him. It’s why, when we talk about such a terrible moment collectively experienced by everyone across the country, we refer to it as a National Tragedy.

For the next generation, our National Tragedy came on September 11th, 2001.

“Wake up, you need to come see the T.V.” I was a 19-year-old college student. It was a Tuesday morning. I should have been in class at Kent State University, but I was skipping. My boyfriend, Nathanael, was a student at another school hours away on the other side of the state. On a whim the previous evening, I had driven out to see him. Now he was waking me up with a certain seriousness in his voice that I had never heard before.

Need? I need to come see the TV? I groggily followed him into the living room. There on the old box TV sitting on the floor the World Trade Center was burning. The second plane had just crashed into the south tower and a journalist was saying America was under attack.

I remember standing there with Nathanael for some time, staring at the coverage. I remember we were very quiet. I remember thinking I should call my mom.

Then, a news anchor announced that all air space across the country had been closed. Much like the reality of the moment not hitting my father until he was sent home from school in 1963, the closure of all airports suddenly impacted me.

I need to leave.

Despite the horror I was seeing on the news I was somehow preoccupied with a feeling of guilt for skipping class. Perhaps my younger mind couldn’t quite comprehend what I was witnessing, and it felt easier to focus on something I could control. I jumped in my car and drove the two and a half hours back to Kent State University. I remember scanning the clear blue skies over the Ohio Turnpike, shocked that not a single plane was in the air. I don’t recall much from the rest of that day. Those memories are already lost to time.

When I woke up this morning and began to type, my thoughts turned to my father. He’s told me countless times his story of the day Kennedy was shot, but perhaps only now am I understanding why. Sharing his memory of that day is his way of helping me understand what that moment was like for him, and for the nation. It’s how he connects his own experience to the collective experience of the country. It’s his way of acknowledging that shared trauma. By retelling his story 60 years later he is able to still remember, and by remembering he is able to honor.

My generation now does the same with September 11th. The moment it happened we remember where we were, who we were with, what we were doing. When we recall these moments and share them with others we prevent our own memories from being lost. Just like our fathers and the generation before us, we remain connected to our collective experience by sharing our own stories.

I’d like to hear where you were on September 11th and what you remember. For the younger generation I’d like to hear what your parents have shared with you. You can do so below, or leave a comment wherever I post this on social media.

Thanks for reading.

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