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Me and John Stewart.

I’m seven years old. The year is 2001. The date is, well, you know what it is. I come home. At the time me and my parents were living in […]

I’m seven years old. The year is 2001. The date is, well, you know what it is.

I come home. At the time me and my parents were living in a dingy mid-town apartment in Barranquilla, Colombia. I just came back from school. I literally don’t remember anything else about that day. Other than my parents and my grandmother, huddled in front of the TV. They were watching two planes crash into two gigantic towers of steel. I thought this was a movie. I ignored it. I went to bed early, tired and didn’t ask any questions. The next day, I hear all about it and I feel mildly dumb for assuming it was a movie.

What you need to understand is that these events were incredibly unreal to me. Not even in my wildest dreams could I imagine the US being subject to such a destructive terrorist attack. To us, the US was the haven. The endgoal. The dream. You know that story. You’ve heard it thousands of times. We heard it millions.

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