Eight Years

It has been eight years since the unthinkable happened.

Eight years since strangers embraced one another, friends sat in silence, and a nation mourned for too many of its own.

Where were you when it happened?

I was a junior at Berry College, in Dr. Tenger’s World Lit class, sitting next to my best friend Melissa. We were discussing E.M. Forrester’s A Passage to India, and having a discussion about death and remembering those who have passed, as it pertained to the book. The discussion was a good one, but I would wager that none of us knew that we would remember it for the rest of our lives. The pertinence was too bizarre to be forgotten.

Another professor came in the classroom and told us we needed to get to a television so that we could see what was happening. He told us very generally what was going on, and we talked in bewilderment for a moment about the absurdity of it, wondering how an accident like that could have happened. Dr. Tenger, ever the diligent professor, wanted to resume the discussion rather than dismiss us early; thus, we all remained blissful in our ignorance for a little while longer as we continued our discussion.

When class dismissed, we exited the classroom and entered a new world. The halls were nearly empty, save for a few students with vacant expressions. Because it was nearly lunchtime, we all gravitated toward the student center across the street. As I made my way, my friend Amanda approached, tearful and hardly able to speak. My heart began to pound as I realized this was more serious than I had thought.

As I entered the student center, I was floored by what I saw. Students – hundreds of them – were gathered around the one TV in the room. Despite the number of people, there was only a low murmur of voices as everyone caught newcomers up on what was going on. It was standing room only as strangers stood closer than culture and comfort would normally allow, eyes clued to the images on the screen. Not one plane, but two. Thousands of people. Children. Flames. Terror in the streets. As we watched the buildings collapse, the air was sucked out of the room.

I don’t remember when I left, or why. I don’t remember eating lunch that day, or walking back to my dorm room. I do remember getting there and finding my roommate glued to our tiny television, talking to her parents on the phone. I do remember curling up on my bed and wondering how to cope with something like that.

I had class that afternoon – Women’s Choral Ensemble. I went – not because I felt like singing, but because we had a concert soon and I needed the practice. When I got there, though, I found that the auditorium was not excluded from the sorrow that gripped campus that day; the same vacant, teary eyes awaited me there as had awaited me everywhere I had gone that day. Someone said she couldn’t possibly sing; another said she thought that was why we should. Majority ruled, and class was cancelled.

The rest of the day is a blur. My friends and I moved from one television to another, absorbing as much information as we could, talking little but sharing much as we tried to make sense of it all. I remember an awkwardness, too, because it was our friend Simona’s birthday.

It was a day that wouldn’t be forgotten; I think we knew that even then. Some days, it seems, never end, regardless of how much time passes. Some days, I know, should not be forgotten, and nature ensures that they live on.

We shouldn’t forget that day and what it meant.

Where were you?