This is something I wrote two years ago, while still working for a local newspaper. I'm not sure why I never published it. Maybe it's unfinished? But it's finished enough to publish now. 

It's hard, working in the newspaper world. I read about death, destruction, sorrow and horror everyday, for eight hours. It has made me lose some faith in humanity. Not all of it, but some.

But days like today, they are the hardest. I had to read story after story of the victims of Sept. 11, 2001. Of their lives and potential, of it all cut short, and of the people they left behind. There are children that never met their dads. There are men who ache for their wives. And there are so many parents who wish they could have one more day with their child.

Each story was another sucker punch to the gut, to see how these people still mourn for the dead, and how our country still bears the scars. I don't feel anger toward anyone or any group for what happened, but the sorrow I feel for my country and my people — beautiful, good American people — is akin to the sorrow I feel for my own family when they suffer. Because although we're not related by blood, they are my family. All 307 million Americans are my brothers and sisters and I'm so proud to be one of them. It's cliche, but I am proud to be an American.

No one I knew died at the Twin Towers, the Pentagon or in Pennsylvania that day, but it still hurts. Hurts to see my country suffer, my people suffer.


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