I was in social studies when rumor had it one of the eighth graders set off a smoke bomb in the cafeteria. As the whispers circulated and teachers sporadically excused themselves to catch a glimpse of the nearest TV, it was blatantly obvious something was wrong. My suspicion heightened when the principal demanded an immediate meeting in the school’s auditorium.  I thought it was just another warning to not lock students in their own lockers or throw stink bombs at the hairnetted food staff.  However, as I entered the auditorium, voices of disturbed media reporters blared from TVs, teachers and secretaries sobbed in grief as their coworkers held them and, worst of all, the confusion was on each person’s face.

I am from Greenwich, Conn., which is about 30 minutes outside of New York City. The city is filled with commuters who call “The Big Apple” their second home, including most of my family and friends. On the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, I was taken home from school only to discover my mother was missing one of my best friend’s father, who worked on the 106th floor, many floors above where the first plane hit the North Tower. He told his family in an e-mail he was trapped, suffocated from smoke and put at loss. Since all cell phone service went down, we had no chance of contacting our family members, including my mother, who we found later that night abandoned at a train station hoping someone would find her.

That night was terrible. I remember going to the Long Island Sound, staring at what used to be a beautiful portrait of the New York City skyline: black figures pressed up against a white sky like crooked piano keys as they balanced on the spot of land surrounded by water.  It was no longer what I remembered, but a portrait consumed by black ink; black ink that looked as if what was happening could have easily been the end of the world.

Nine years later, I am a commuter taking the same train into New York City that many of the victims of Sept. 11 took that infamous day. I find myself among protestors and activists either defending or protesting the highly controversial mosque that is being built only minutes from Ground Zero. I have seen far too many deaths in my community and far too many who have suffered. It is a complete slap to the face to have a mosque built two blocks away from where the biggest act of Islamic terrorism against the United States of America took place. Imagine putting a huge statue of Hitler in front of the tragic remains of Auschwitz or a big American flag where the atomic bomb was dropped in Japan. Some things can stand politically correct, however, some are substantially inconsiderate to those who have experienced tragic loss

Gov. Paterson of New York sounded like he had a plan to relocate the Islamic community center.  In an interview with Larry King he said, “It’s my firm belief that if we talk about some way of working this out which would be suitable for both parties…and at the same time recognize the people who have lived in that area, it would be great. The scars of that day have not healed. We owe all of them, more than anything else, our greatest respect and admiration for staying there and trying to rebuild that needed section of lower Manhattan.”

It would be easiest to move the Islamic community center to another location considering the vast real estate opportunities on Manhattan.  People have the right to practice whatever religion they want whenever they want, however, having a mosque built in the shadows of that mourning area is like ripping open an almost heeled wound.

Go to YouTube and look up Sept. 11 footage. As perturbing as it may sound, it may just revive the anger, frustration and comprehension we once had for the uncouth acts of violence committed against our country on what seems to be the forgotten day of Sept. 11. The pride has been sealed over and we have forgotten that inhumane reality.