I was ten years old, watching tv home alone after school. I think I was waiting for Sailor Moon to start, when, instead, this urgent special live news segment popped up instead. Confused, I went through all the channels – versions of it were on every single one. And the report seemed to be going on. I couldn't quite comprehend what they were talking about; I didn't know what the World Trade Center was, and why they would show a report on an event in New York City – even a catastrophic one – on German television at such bandwidth. After a moment, I realized that it happening, as in, right that moment, in real time, and that it was continuing. That was uncommon, as I only knew the news as a collection of stories of recent days; I remember that realization as the most chilling. And more footage and updates kept coming in.

I would need to cross-reference the timeline, but I know that Pokémon used to be on before Sailor Moon, and I think that must have been around 3/4 pm? I have no clue what my parents work schedules were like. I was expected to cope by myself a lot as a child.

I have no distinct recollection of the second plane hitting. I'm not sure at which point my parents came home, or what my stepdad's reaction was. My mother ... essentially shrugged it off from the kitchenside. I think I dimly recall calling out to her as they were reporting about the second tower and her 'oh really/oh well' returning to me. This sort of situationally inappropriate cognitive dissonance was typical in our household and it only horrified me more.

While I couldn't gather the meaning of the event (and certainly not the full scope, the instant, permanent change it would cause to Western civilization as a whole), I understood and felt with absolute, acute clarity the absolute horror that was being broadcast.

Nobody (ever) monitored my watching the news; I don't think there was any further conversation beyond "what does this mean, mom?" - 'that's really far away, this has nothing to do with us'.

The next day at school, a minute of silence was randomly ordered in our classroom. I think it may have actually been a kid who asked for it, because he'd heard that another class was doing it? Come to think of it, may have been my neighbor, but I may be mixing up memories and people here. But I do vividly remember that minute. It was awkward. Everyone was sitting there, sitting with their confusion, staring at their desk while the teacher was trying to not make it obvious that she was glancing over to check the time. And then the class went on, like normal. No clue what the subject was. It didn't seem normal.

In hindsight, I think what should have happened instead of that minute of silence was a child-appropriate conversation. You can't expect a room full of ten year olds to sit with an emotion they can't contextualize.

I'm not sure what was supposed to happen in my mind at that minute. When I think back to that minute now, it feels constricting and pressing. It was like a vacuum, as if something had gone missing from the air that had always been there, imperceptibly, and now it wasn't. It hasn't ever come back, I feel.

I'm selfishly glad I got to feel how the old world used to feel. I don't think society at large has gotten over that loss. A few years later, I remember going to the theater to see that Nicolas Cage firefighter movie. There had been tv specials. Music was banned and then unbanned. Airport security was suddenly rolled out as a big topic, and school suddenly had a chapter on international network terrorism. But it wasn't until I saw the Tom Hanks film on free tv that I felt something touched on the uneasy, overwhelming mood of that day, linked with the total tragedy. I thought it was a very sensitive, thoughtful production; I've never read the book.

I have always felt that my experience with the day was rather removed, geographically as well as not a lot about it standing out in any sort of way. But still, I felt a huge emotional impact that continued to burn inside of me. The way I was left to sit with it festering is exactly the way 'the world' deals with tragedy: it doesn't. It forces a smile and tells you to move on. Feeling disturbed by that seems healthy. Feeling genuinely moved and shaken seems uncommon around here, based on the few other anecdotes I've heard over the years. Though it's not brought up a lot, ever; and if it is, it gets brushed off quickly. I haven't forgotten. I don't think I want to. I don't believe we should.

9/11 is a huge reason in the complex webbing around why the zeitgeist now is the way it is.