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Wanting to share your story is an inherent part of living. Here’s mine.
I skipped my first class on September 11, 2001, because I didn’t feel well. It was History of Choral Music with Dr. Riehl–I was a sophomore, and I took a lot of crazy classes because I didn’t know what I wanted to do really. (Which led to me cramming about 15 English classes into four semesters.) Erin, my roommate, was awake and someone IMmed her about the place crashing into the WTC. She got me out of bed, and we watched, turning it on in time to see the second plane crash into the other tower. I called my dad, which I never do, but I was scared.
UR didn’t cancel classes so I went to my Chinese class, where Miss Tan had no idea what had gone on and we went through the whole class as normal, with the students in shock and slow motion. I think we confused her royally.
I honestly have no idea what happened the rest of the day. I remember nothing. I know the next morning my Dad came and got me, I think I might have had a dentist appointment, and we went to Denny’s and watched them show that footage over and over.
What I remember most vividly is the service we had around Westhampton Lake. This was a couple months before Mr. V and I started dating, and I still had a thing for one of our friends, who I thought was the wisest person in the world (and I still do!) and I remember just wishing he would explain to me why on earth this was happening. But it was comforting to have the service, sitting around the lake. Schola sang and we threw some kind of flower in the lake afterward–probably contributing to its stench. The day was all misty and gray, which felt appropriate to me.
I changed the radio this morning when they kept playing sad song after sad song. You can only take so much of that. But it is good to remember. It gives us a righteous anger. September 11 only exposed us to what other parts of the world see every day. But we still have a right to be angry about it. Killing for the sake of killing is disgusting.