Amy Hunt: Speech Pathologist, Thrift Store Connoisseur, Romantic.

{Amy and I on the roof of our East Village Apartment, 9.11.2001 — M}

At 8:45am on September 11th, 2001, I went to class.

I woke up early that morning, before my alarm had gone off, presumably because the noise of the first airplane startled me awake. I watched as the second airplane hit the World Trade Center and the NY1 news anchor whispered “Oh my god”. I wrote a note to my roommates on the white board usually reserved for dirty drawings that planes had hit the World Trade Center and then I went to class.

Looking back I realize that in those first moments, I was completely naïve to the world-changing and the me-changing significance of the event unfolding a few miles away. So innocent was my mindset that morning that I remember thinking, “It’s too early for anyone to be at work. I’m sure everyone is going to be ok”.

And so I went to class. And so did many other students. The professor diligently clicked through slides about some Shakespeare play as the towers fell. I stared out the window at the smoke drifting into Brooklyn and tried to take notes. It wasn’t until a teary-eyed someone came into the room to tell us the towers were gone that we were dismissed. In the moments that ensued, myself and everyone around me gradually came to understand exactly where we were and what was going on. Everything was changing. The sense of youthful security and simplicity that allowed me to walk to class even though my neighborhood was under attack was vanishing quickly.

The hours, days and weeks that came were much scarier than the initial moments. I learned what it was like living in the path of smoke drifting up from downtown, in a city where it wasn’t uncommon for a red-eyed stranger to hand you a “Missing” poster, in a neighborhood where a seemingly endless stream of trucks drove in and out of the World Trade Center site carrying rubble you didn’t want to think too hard about. As I got used to these surroundings, I realized that in this new place, I wouldn’t have gone to class.

Amy Hunt lives in Brooklyn with her Swedish Meatball (husband) Magnus with whom she shares one of the greatest long distance love stories ever told.  She works with special needs children, focusing on speech pathology.

Feed Me Seymour