September 11, 2001 — I am just over four months old. No memories can stick, and consciousness is a problem for a later time. My grandmother lives on Allen Street in New York City, and she watches from her window where the Twin Towers are perfectly framed as they fall. She wonders about my uncle, who delivers packages to the towers occasionally. Dust and smoke fill the city.
My mother is at home with a just over four-month-old baby, and my father, a military man, is at work. They don’t know then, but soon, soldiers will be deployed to fight in a war born on that day.
Scars always have their origin story.
9/11 is crystallized in the American memory, amongst the ranks of Pearl Harbor and the assassination of JFK. And the after-effects have been widely discussed and studied.
A rise in patriotism, anxiety, depression. A war is waged, soldiers are sent away, some do not return, others do — different. Islamophobia and hate crimes increase. A country once powerful and untouchable becomes fearful — the glass bubble goes bust.
Post-9/11 babies, born right before or quickly after, do not remember the day as their parents do. They do not remember where they were, what they were doing, how they found out.
They do remember elementary schools and high schools all over the country for decades to come, marking the day with candle-lighting assemblies, firefighter speakers, and well-thought-out memorial presentations.
There are documentaries made, and the video of the towers falling is shown time and time again in classrooms with the lights turned off.
Post-9/11 babies are made to remember, to never forget.
And they don’t, not for the sake of reminders but because an unsaid truth weaves through their childhood. A childhood born into a fearful world.
Post-9/11 babies are kept under a watchful eye, their parents approaching childrearing with this newfound understanding that nothing is safe, that they are under attack. They prescribe to stranger danger, come straight home, and all that jazz.
Post-9/11 babies play outside for a time, ages four to five, as long as they are careful, as long as they don’t go too far. And then the iPhone comes out, and a computer is set up in every home, and going outside fades away. There is a decrease in dirt and grass and scraped knees.
My friend has a computer room first, and we sit there for hours, playing games and hitting the keys. Our retinas become very accustomed to blue light.
Post-9/11 babies were born on the cusp, between a country turned fearful and a country turned inside — between war and a technological revolution. And in a time of change, children become malleable; they become what the world is.
They embrace the technology placed in their hands — even when they are chastised later by the givers. They sit in fear without being able to tell you where it came from, without verbalizing what exactly went wrong.
But it’s there. The differences. The way we raise our babies now. And those darling Post-9/11 babies, turning into teenagers and then adults, were sent into a world where they are constantly reminded what the world used to be. They are gifted, at the moment of their birth, a unique type of longing.
In New York City, roses are placed next to names etched into the 9/11 memorial, made of two deep, black fountains where the towers once stood. At the top of One World Trade Center, people walk in a circle of windows, every borough on display.
I, a Post-9/11 baby, wander around quietly, looking down at the skyscrapers and the rivers, mixed in a tumble of sadness and beauteous joy. The Brooklyn Bridge, boats leaving white trails behind them. The Statue of Liberty is only a green figurine. Something clogs up my throat.
There are the whispers I’ve grown up with; this is the world you were given. It’s the only world you will ever get. A sing-song voice I cannot quite place crooning, “The good old days are already gone.”
I press my nose to the glass and look down.
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