My parents once told me that they, and every other American from their generation, will remember always exactly where they were and what they were doing at the exact moment they received the news that President Kennedy had been shot. My paramount moment in history, where all time and movement seemed to stop, was the moment the Towers fell. I will always remember that day in a heightened clarity that is absent from any other memory I have from my first twenty-one years of life, and probably any memories to come as well. Every moment is etched in to my mind, every detail of chaos and disorder. I'll never forget where I was when I first heard that two planes had crashed into the Twin Towers, a New York landmark that I had previously been rather indifferent towards. I've lived in downtown Manhattan, less than a mile from the Towers my entire life. The World Trade Center, along with most other New York City landmarks, had absolutely no personal significance to me. It was something I passed on occasion, hung out in surrounding areas, but was mostly just for hordes of tourists to ogle. That was before September 11, a day I'll not soon forget.

It was my junior year of high school and I was on my way to my third period English class when a friend stopped me in the hallway.  She revealed that she had just heard on the radio that a plane had crashed into the Trade Center with a slight giggle. At that time, that was all we knew, just that a plane and one of the Twin Towers had collided. It sounded so ridiculous that it almost seemed like a joke and I remember thinking to myself, "Wow. How does a pilot miss something that big and smash into it?" I thought it was simply a pilot's carelessness, a miscalculation or some sort of mistake. I had no idea that it was a deliberate attack and could not possibly have imagined the amount of destruction and pain that the city's populous would soon come to know. A group of teenagers bewildered and confused, my English class that day consisted of sitting in a circle and reciting Native American chants of prayer. None of us knew what was going on or what to do, so we chanted.

When I think of that day, the word that comes to mind is terror.  The Trade Center is located less than a mile from my family's downtown apartment and I remember my mom had business to attend to in that neighborhood. That day, I experience fear and panic and confusion that I had never known before. The city dissolved into mass pandemonium. The public transportation was shut down. Cell phones had no service and even land lines proved useless. I heard that parts of downtown were barricaded and worried if and when I might see my home again. Classmates were being retrieved by frantic parents to trek home to safety, where they would likely remain fixated on the news for the next two days. My parents did not show up to find me, nor did either of my two sisters. Newscasts revealed that parts of downtown were closed off entirely, and it was most likely that my home was outside the boundaries of accessible terrain. I cannot explain the fear I felt that night. I was stranded at school, with no way to get home, or even if I could manage to get downtown, I had no idea if I could even get into my building. I couldn't reach my parents, so I ended up staying at friend's house near my school. At moments like these, the presence of family is the most important thing. I had no idea where mine was or when I might see them. That afternoon, I saw people bloody and covered in rubble-those that were at the Trade Center, and managed to get away-walking down the city streets. Staring down Park Avenue, we could see the cloud of smoke and debris mushrooming into the sky. The rest of the night was spent fixated on the television, watching every news channel. Hourly, the estimated death toll rose and the likelihood of finding survivors plummeted. Frantic family members of the missing sobbed in front of television screens, begging for any information regarding their loved ones. The final count was 2,752 fatalities that resulted from the attacks on New York that day. For each of those 2,752 people, there is a family, friends, sisters, and brothers, who suffered incomparable and wholly unjust losses that day. Perhaps the hardest part for any of them was the waiting for news, and, finally knowing that they might never see their loved one again, not even for the sake of a proper burial.

A fledgling photographer at the time of the attacks, I took my camera with me to visit the numerous heart-breaking memorials being set up around the downtown area. These informal impromptu memorials were the most raw, honest expression of love and loss I've ever seen. At one, I remember seeing a single shoe belonging to a woman who was missing. Like a horribly morbid version of Cinderella, her shoe was all that remained.

New Yorkers are infamous for their cold, unfriendly nature. New York is a city where people go to be lost in a crowd, to maintain anonymity and privacy. Ask a stranger for directions or a spare cigarette and you're likely to be snubbed. It's a protective instinct in this city. It's necessary for survival. Head down, keep walking. In the days following September 11, I saw New Yorkers band together for the first time in my relatively short life. Everyone felt the pain of the attacks. As the Trade Center was such a business megalith, it seemed everyone knew someone who was there when the towers fell. Everyone wanted to help. Nightly vigils were held. I remember attending them with my mother, and I saw a side of her that was entirely new to me. I've always been an irrationally empathetic person. I feel immensely for other people. The TWA flight 800 disaster occurred when I was 10 years old. I sat glued to the television, in horror and utter heartbreak. I cried for days because, even at 10, I understood the immense and irreparable loss of the families and friends of those onboard. That, like the Trade Center, was an incident that created such needless loss and suffering, which no one deserves.

At a vigil we attended on September 13, my mom, peace candle in hand, whispered to me, "This feels like I'm back in the 60s. It feels like Vietnam."

The first photograph I ever printed still hangs on my wall. It's a black and white shot of my mother at a vigil, taken two days after the attack. She is seated, head bowed, with a sign on her back: "No More Killing."

I believe life is ultimately the culmination of moments and experiences. The day to day ebb and flow of life is important, but every so often, we experience something that blows us away and changes our whole paradigm. These monumental moments shape us. One of the most monumental experiences of my life took place on that fateful September day. Fifteen years old is quite a young age to be faced with that much destruction and human heartlessness. Although, it is far from comparable, but on that day, I got a glimpse of what the people at Nagasaki or Hiroshima experienced when they were attacked. There's a famous Kurosawa quote from his film Rhapsody in August that deals with some of the issues concerning the aftermath of the bombing of Nagasaki. This simple idea is so completely true and universal, but remains a concept people too often forget.

"War is to blame....in the end, it will destroy us all."

I will never forget September 11. How could I when I was there, experiencing it firsthand? I hope I will always remember it and remember it accurately. In the five years since the attacks, the phrase "9-11" has grown to disgust me. People have perverted the events of that day and twisted them for their own propaganda and self-interest. With the dawning of Bush's "war on terror" and racial profiling becoming the norm, the attacks seem to have given people a right to be openly racist. I think this war we are now involved in is nonsense. You can't force people to accept us and our way of life. This "war on terror" is like fighting a ghost. You can't declare war on an idea, on a feeling. More killing just can't be the answer.

I want to remember September 11, but not the way the media wants me to. I don't want to remember it as the day that started another war. I don't want to remember it the way George W. Bush talks about it. He wasn't there. He hesitated to even react, so how much could he possibly understand about that day? The people who were there, who saw the towers in flames firsthand, the people who still remember the stench of fumes that permeated the air of Lower Manhattan for months. I want to remember it the way that it really happened, the way that I experienced it, and not as the propaganda-laden, capitalistic thing that it has become for most Americans. For the life of me, I cannot understand why people decided they would take this gruesome event and decide to profit off of it. Within days there were "Remember 9-11" t-shirts, coffee mugs, paper weights, snow globes, ear warmers, whatever you could think of, they made it to peddle to tourists.

I believe that your book is the first true memorial item I have yet to see. More so than the various statues that have been erected around the nation. More so than any t-shirt or 9-11 playing cards. It is raw and pure, the way it really happened. It perfectly captures that single devastating moment. That climax. My life is a series of moments, this being one of the most revolutionary. You captured it perfectly and made it into something tangible, something I can hold in my hand, put in my pocket, go back to, and remember how it was for me.

Lauren De Luca