Sept. 11, 2001 started off as a beautiful, crisp autumn day in New York City. It soon turned into one of the darkest days America has seen.

I was in my fourth grade classroom with my best friend, Nicole, and the class was just being introduced to our science teacher, Ms. D. All of a sudden, four or five of my classmates’ names were called to the office over the P.A.

Because I was in New York City, they refused to turn on the televisions and let us see the towers coming down, as other schools in New Jersey and upstate New York had. They told us that many students were missing their forms for physicals and had to go get them.

As soon as my name was called, I knew something was wrong. As a fourth grader, the worst thing that could happen was scraping a knee or losing a basketball game, but this time was different. I had a feeling in my stomach that told me this wasn’t right.

As I walked past all of the parents in the lobby, I couldn’t understand. I turned to the assistant accompanying me to the office and said “Ms. Z, I didn’t know I had a doctor’s appointment.” She turned to me and said, “Don’t worry honey, it’s going to be okay.”

When I met my mom, she was pale. It frightened me to see her like this, and I thought maybe she had to go to the doctor. My mom put me in the car, and for the first time, the radio was off and it was silent. We went to a gas station, and when we finished getting gas the attendant said, “God bless America.”

I asked mom what was going on and asked if everything was okay. She told me, “It’ll be okay; we have to go pick up Bridget from school now.”

Before Bridget could get home, I heard the awful news. Two planes hit the towers, and my neighbor’s husband was dead. All I thought of was daddy. My dad was in the NYPD Bomb Squad at the time and was on duty as a first responder. We didn’t hear from him for a few days.

As the day progressed, I saw classmates and heard horrible stories. I thought, “Please God, keep Daddy safe.”

I will never forget the first time I saw my father after that. Covered in ash and sweat, he walked through the front door, and I melted. He kissed me on the forehead and told me he loved me.

Well, fast-forward ten years, and here I am at the University of Alabama. Since that day, he has told me stories. I found out his best friend and partner who was standing with him, Claude Richards, was killed trying to run as the second tower came down. Luckily, my dad ran into a church with our Bomb Squad dog. They survived, and then it was time to help and find people. My uncle who worked in ESU hid under an ambulance and thankfully, he also survived.

It has been difficult for me to be so far away on this anniversary, because I know if there is anything my dad would want at this time, it is to be with my mom, Bridget, and me. Each year following the attacks, I would write a note telling him how strong I thought he was and how much I loved him.

I’d put it in his wallet for him to see before he went to work on the 11th each year. I still let him know via texts. If there is one thing my dad has taught me through all of this, it is to never quit when things get tough.

He could have walked away from the NYPD Sept. 12, but he didn’t. He stuck it out until this past July, when he officially retired.

When discussing September 11th, it’s undeniable that just about every person I know had someone they knew who was involved that day, either as a victim or a responder. For me, it didn’t take six degrees of separation, just one.

If we learned anything as a nation, it’s that we can come together in a time of despair and assist those who need help.

Caitlyn Hearn is a sophomore majoring in communicative disorders.