Ten Years Ago

It began like any other normal day for me as a college junior at USI. I was eating a bowl of cereal, packing my bag for classes, and half-heartedly listening to Good Morning America in the background of my campus apartment. All three of my roommates were already gone for the day, and I was enjoying my morning of solitude.

Then I finally noticed the television.

At first, I wasn’t too concerned, selfish enough at twenty to gloss over the unfolding tragedy of a plane hitting a prominent New York building. I went about my business, but paused now and then to get an update. Then the second plane hit, and I still remember Charles Gibson’s shocked voice as the true meaning of the attack congealed in the hearts of America.

Not a simple tragedy, but something much, much worse.

In minutes, I was due on campus for my first class of the day. Being the kind of student I was at that time, it was unimaginable to miss a class. Yet I considered it, not wanting to tear myself away from the news report. Finally, though, I decided it would be better to have others to talk to during this time, rather than sit alone in my suddenly chilled apartment. So off I went.

Most of that September 11, 2001, was a blur. Masses of somber students moved in waves through the college buildings, congregating around the myriad television sets that appeared throughout the campus—in classrooms, at common areas, even in the cafeteria. A common thread of fear, disbelief, and anger united us that day.

As I remember it, no professors actually held class. A few cancelled, but most simply provided an opportunity to share this unprecedented horror with one another. Students mechanically attended our classes and spent the allotted time asking questions that could not be answered. When the first tower collapsed, an audible gasp shook the walls of the classroom in which I sat.

Eventually, I ended up back at my apartment, gathered with my roommates to watch as reporters wove unbelievable separate events into a tapestry of unspeakable tragedy. There could be no doubt now. Our country was under attack, and for my generation this was like the sinking of the Titanic—a previously impossible disaster—only one that cut at the very foundation of our nation’s safety.

My mind was an emotional whirlpool of questions. Would there be other attacks? Was Evansville large enough to merit one of them? Would we go to war? Could my boyfriend be drafted to fight? Did I know anyone living in New York City? Was this the beginning of the end?

It’s hard to believe it’s been ten years since that fateful day, and although much of that horror remained distant for me—terrible, grief-filled images on my television screen—I will never forget the way I felt. That my illusion of true safety was forever broken. That our country was truly one of strength and pride and unity. That I didn’t know my heart could break for complete strangers.

Today, as I remember, as I proudly fly my American flag, I hope that our country’s survivors have continued to pay proper tribute to the lives lost, torn apart, and forever altered. For me, that historical day revealed what it means to be proud to be an American, and why we have the freedom we do, and why we must continue to fight for it.