I remember.
  September 11, 2001.  I was not quite five years old, and the radio echoed the screams of those who might not live to see tomorrow.  The towers were coming down.
  I cannot forget.  Although perhaps I was too young to understand, I recognized the fear and distress etched across my mother's face.
  We lived in Massachusetts at the time.  Daddy worked for a big company in the middle of Boston.
   So far Manhattan had already been attacked.  D.C. too had been struck by the enemy.  Who was next?  Boston was a popular American city, so might the attackers have decided to target the people there as well?
  I can only imagine the relief that flooded through my parents upon being reunited that day.  But thousands of other families were not struck with the same fortune.  Although just a few hours before it had seemed like our country was, for the most part, was at peace, now our soil had been assaulted by those who shrieked words of hatred.   
  Why?  How could someone's heart be so black that they could murder so many of the innocent?  But, on September Eleventh, the day whose numerals represent the American call of distress, 911, it happened.
  I pray for those who were hurt that dreadful day.
  And I announce to the world that I am proud to be an American.