Like many others in the Washington, D.C., or New York metro areas, my experience of 9/11 was horrifying and yet unremarkable at the same time.
I was a 16-year-old British student spending a year in an American high school in Arlington, Virginia, just a few miles from the Pentagon. That Tuesday morning dawned like any other. It was sunny and warm; D.C. was experiencing its traditional third or fourth blast of summer heat well into September. In second period, someone flipped on the TV, which was showing images of a plane disaster in New York. Tragic, but hardly cause to break routine. The band teacher flipped it back off and returned to teaching.
