Where I was
Sep. 11th, 2011 12:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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It was my first semester at UNR, and I lived on the seventh floor of the "New Hall" dorm on campus (now called Argenta Hall). I was eighteen years old, a freshman just embarking on my degree. I remember people running through the hallway yelling early in the morning. I attributed this to fellow dorm-dwellers being jerks and wouldn't realize until later what the significance was. I was more annoyed because I had a 10:00 class and didn't really appreciate being woken up at five or six in the morning. I did my best to go back to sleep then gave up when my alarm went off. I showered and got ready for my Spanish class.
As I passed by the front desk downstairs, the desk-person seemed transfixed by the television. I glanced at it and saw buildings on fire and a plane flying into a building. I thought it was a little strange that there was a movie on so early in the morning but continued on my way.
Once I got to class, ten or fifteen minutes early as usual, I took my usual seat and waited for others to trickle in and class to start. Then as now, I tended to listen rather than strike up conversation with people around me, though I noticed the mood was rather subdued and something seemed off. Some classmates mumbled about how five or eight planes were down and there were snipers on the White House roof and the pentagon. I didn't understand.
My teacher, a short and slim Mexican woman, came in a few minutes late. Her usually stern demeanor seemed shaken by fear, and she appeared barely able to stand in front of the class much less tell us a brief version of what happened and that class was cancelled. It hit me this was no movie.
As I walked back to the dorms, I fought tears as I called my parents, who were staying in a hotel because it was their anniversary the night before. At that point, I had only been away from home a little over a month, and I had never felt so far away from my family as I did at that moment. My mom seemed annoyed that everyone was making a big deal about something no one could do anything about, but I still had to hear her voice and make sure things were okay. Before then, I could never really remember when their anniversary was, but I haven't forgotten since.
I don't recall what I did the rest of that day. Really, the week after that seems to blend in my mind-- hearing about airport closures, watching the repeated footage on TV, trying to figure out who did this and why and how the government was going to handle it, cutting out a flag from the newspaper and taping it up on the wall (then getting mad at the ridiculous hysteria of mass-patriotism and nationalism that gripped the country), returning to class and how each professor tried to find a way to address it, writing poetry, reading endless amounts of articles, wondering if it was okay to laugh and what to do when so many people were dead and/or hurt.
As with everything else, a lot has happened and changed in the last ten years, but that's what I experienced that day. I find myself not really wanting to ruminate further on this subject for some reason, probably because I don't want to feel more sad about it than is warranted given where I was, so this is where I will leave you. Highest regards for those still fighting in the multiple wars started since then, and deepest sympathies for those who have suffered.
Of course I remember. How could I forget?
It was my first semester at UNR, and I lived on the seventh floor of the "New Hall" dorm on campus (now called Argenta Hall). I was eighteen years old, a freshman just embarking on my degree. I remember people running through the hallway yelling early in the morning. I attributed this to fellow dorm-dwellers being jerks and wouldn't realize until later what the significance was. I was more annoyed because I had a 10:00 class and didn't really appreciate being woken up at five or six in the morning. I did my best to go back to sleep then gave up when my alarm went off. I showered and got ready for my Spanish class.
As I passed by the front desk downstairs, the desk-person seemed transfixed by the television. I glanced at it and saw buildings on fire and a plane flying into a building. I thought it was a little strange that there was a movie on so early in the morning but continued on my way.
Once I got to class, ten or fifteen minutes early as usual, I took my usual seat and waited for others to trickle in and class to start. Then as now, I tended to listen rather than strike up conversation with people around me, though I noticed the mood was rather subdued and something seemed off. Some classmates mumbled about how five or eight planes were down and there were snipers on the White House roof and the pentagon. I didn't understand.
My teacher, a short and slim Mexican woman, came in a few minutes late. Her usually stern demeanor seemed shaken by fear, and she appeared barely able to stand in front of the class much less tell us a brief version of what happened and that class was cancelled. It hit me this was no movie.
As I walked back to the dorms, I fought tears as I called my parents, who were staying in a hotel because it was their anniversary the night before. At that point, I had only been away from home a little over a month, and I had never felt so far away from my family as I did at that moment. My mom seemed annoyed that everyone was making a big deal about something no one could do anything about, but I still had to hear her voice and make sure things were okay. Before then, I could never really remember when their anniversary was, but I haven't forgotten since.
I don't recall what I did the rest of that day. Really, the week after that seems to blend in my mind-- hearing about airport closures, watching the repeated footage on TV, trying to figure out who did this and why and how the government was going to handle it, cutting out a flag from the newspaper and taping it up on the wall (then getting mad at the ridiculous hysteria of mass-patriotism and nationalism that gripped the country), returning to class and how each professor tried to find a way to address it, writing poetry, reading endless amounts of articles, wondering if it was okay to laugh and what to do when so many people were dead and/or hurt.
As with everything else, a lot has happened and changed in the last ten years, but that's what I experienced that day. I find myself not really wanting to ruminate further on this subject for some reason, probably because I don't want to feel more sad about it than is warranted given where I was, so this is where I will leave you. Highest regards for those still fighting in the multiple wars started since then, and deepest sympathies for those who have suffered.
Of course I remember. How could I forget?
