“Where were you when…?” If anyone in recent history asks that question, most Americans know how that sentence is going to end: “when the first plane hit?”

I can imagine the only event in American history that is truly comparable to the attacks on September 11, 2011 is the attack on Pearl Harbor. But time can cloud the memory of the initial reaction one may have of such an unfathomably tragic event of such gigantic proportion. So much has happened since. As ten years have passed from 9/11, in spite of drastic changes like war and economic downturn, it can be hard to think back on that moment with clarity. When I asked neighbors for their memories, my friend Eddie ended by saying, “After doing this I’m shocked at how much I remember.” And I would imagine that once you get your memory going, it is like that for most – a moment that was locked in time no matter what has happened since. So I want to try my best to look back at that time, that day, and the short time after without tying those memories to what has happened since.

I was working at that time for a medical relief organization called Carelift International. It was an amazing nonprofit who refurbished medical supplies and equipment we no longer used in our country and combined them with additional medical goods to outfit countries like Moldova, Ukraine, Macedonia, Uzbekistan, and many other countries in great need. I was very proud of this job.  In September of 2001, I was at a conference in Kyiv, Ukraine. Many of our administrative staff went to this conference to meet with overseas personnel to go over operating procedures and to give us a feel of the reason why we came to work every day.

I would love to give you a full account on what an amazing country Ukraine is. But I have to work too hard to not get sidetracked. I will tell you that being an ignorant Fishtown kid who’s never really been any place; I spent most of my trip in wonder.

People have told me that it was sunny in Philly the morning the planes hit. Across the world, at the same time in Kyiv, it was certainly a beautiful day – 70 degrees and sunny. On the morning and afternoon of September 11, 2001, we were on a trip to a hospital which the Ukrainian Railway was looking to rebuild. In some hallways, there were no lights. The place was completely dilapidated. Our Liaison, a man named Ihor, kept getting phone calls on his cell every two seconds. He would pick the phone up and brush the callers off. He would not tell us what was wrong, although I could tell he was worried but I had no idea why.

Ihor took us back to the Hotel Dnipro. I didn’t realize anything was wrong. When we arrived back at the hotel, people swarmed the lobby, but I still had no idea what happened. I rushed up to my room because we were supposed to come home the next day, and I wanted to pack. I spent the next few hours trying to figure out how to smuggle a few bottles of Ukrainian vodka home in my luggage. I watched the film “Glengarry Glen Ross” at full volume so I could hear the original actors’ voices because all of the voices were dubbed by the same Russian actor.

As I finished plotting my big score, I zipped my suitcase and exited my room to find some colleagues for dinner. I saw Damon, a friend and coworker, going into his room.

“I don’t think I’m going to that soccer game tonight, dude. People get trampled at those stadiums. I want to get a good night’s sleep before the flight,” I told him, half laughing.

Damon looked at me in shock, “Oh my God. You don’t know.”

“What?”

“We’re at war,” he replied very seriously. “People crashed planes into the World Trade Center. They attacked the Pentagon too.”

“Get the **** outta here,” I said, still smiling, although this was in no way a funny joke. I just could not imagine this actually happening.

But as I looked at Damon, I realized within moments that he was not joking. Here is a man who, while working for other organizations, has been shot at while delivering medical supplies to third world countries. Damon was rattled. I knew this was serious.

We spent the rest of the day trying to get in touch with our families by phone. It seemed like all phones in the United States were busy. It took me hours to get through. I finally got through after midnight Ukraine time. It was much earlier in the U.S. I spoke to my family.

I spoke to my sister and my brother, their kids. Everyone told me to stay safe. My Dad said he would drive up the Canadian coast to meet me if I could make it home by boat. He also spoke about how all he thought about were the firefighters rushing the buildings in New York, knowing they were probably not coming out. My Dad is a 27-year veteran of Philly’s Fire Department.

Everyone I spoke with at home had a tremble in their voice, because they were struck with the same uncertainty as me. There was a seed of fear in the back of my mind that I may never come home again. When I spoke to my Mom, I broke down. She was very sick at the time, struggling with C.O.P.D., and hooked to an oxygen machine full time. I remember very vividly just wanting to be home, holding my Mom. That was the only thing I wanted in the world. Hanging up that phone on that call was one of the hardest things I have ever done.

I lost track of the days I spent in Ukraine after September 11. I remember hours glued to BBC World watching rescue workers dig through rubble. I was able to use the hotel computer to email friends a photo of me, letting them know I was okay. I prayed especially hard for my friends in New York. When my coworkers and I were taken off the sheriff’s protection list and allowed to leave the hotel, I did some wandering with my sketchbook through the streets of Kyiv. I saw some beautiful things and met some amazing people while we waited for U.S. air space to open back up. However, I think that is a story for another time.

What I will tell you about is the airport in Frankfurt, Germany. People had been waiting all week, most of them living there, bathing themselves in the bathroom sinks. It was a long flight home. Embarrassingly, I have to admit I feared that anyone on the plane with a beard had a bomb strapped to their chest. When I got off the plane in Philly, I kissed the ground as I met my Dad at the gate. I cried when I walked into my parents’ house and kissed my Mom. I gave her a music box from the Kyiv street market that played Al Jolson’s “Anniversary Song”.

I am also embarrassed in hindsight about the cartoons I made after getting home. They were comparable to World War Two propaganda cartoons – with a biased and narrow view of the situation.

It took a while to adjust. I still get shaky when recalling these memories. They rush back so vividly, with such detail. It’s hard to know what to leave out, because it all seems important in hindsight. But I guess that part of the story we all share.