Starting at 9:20 CST, in my 10th grade American History class (especially fitting as that was), completely sunk in nigh-suicidal, anxiety-riddled depression and despair over how hard the new school year was and how completely impossible a second year of having both history and Communciations devoured by the History Day research project was going to be. The terrorist attacks snapped me out of it for roughly 45 minutes -- someone wheeled a TV into our room and for a while we watched the news, while I furiously scribbled down everything that was happening, oddly devoid of any actual emotions about it besides shock and, after hearing about a 4th plane, "How big IS it??" -- but as it was far away and nothing else major seemed to be happening, class eventually resumed as normal.
By 11 am I had gone right back into my selfish world and stayed there, never writing another word about 9/11 and, as far as I remember, was pretty much unaffected. I specifically remember being annoyed when my mom wouldn't stop watching the coverage that evening. But I do remember being proud of George Bush's response, and that was probably the point at which I shifted from just liking him to being proud he was our president.
I claim my age as an excuse to be self-centered. In retrospect, however, I have gained a much greater respect for the magnitude of that day, and am not...proud or glad of this, exactly, but think it is important and distinctive that I lived through such an event, and that I did it as a young person, but not so young that I didn't understand what was happening at the time. However much my journal seems to belie otherwise.