The day America changed, I was two years old. I was simply a toddler, one of many in our little town, and I knew nothing. I didn't know my address, I didn't know my state, I didn't know my country. All I really knew was the stained gray carpets and off white walls of my home. I knew the ugly floral print of our beige couch with the matching recliner better than I knew my own name. I knew nothing of this far away land called New York, and I really didn't care to. On the sunny morning of September 11, 2001,  I remember sitting on the mud stained carpet, staring at my little girl feet, while my mom lay sick on the couch. She was watching the news, CNN was blaring from our little T.V.  I was whining, begging her to put it on something interesting. But no, she kept watching. Something had happened in New York, she told me, her voice worried. The name sounded foreign in her mouth, she had never spoken of this New York before. I watched the World Trade Center blanket the ground, but I didn't care. I assumed my mom was watching some sort of soap opera, she loved those. I watched people scramble around, yelling at the top of their lungs, but I didn't care. I watched my mom start to cry, but I didn't care. I watched men and women get buried in rubble, but I didn't care.  Mom said we could watch Barney when it came on. I don't think we did.