I was a young, fresh-faced girl of eighteen on September 11th, 2001 — a freshman in my first couple weeks at Indiana University. That Tuesday morning, I woke up for class and flipped on the radio when the DJ announced that a plane had reportedly hit one of the World Trade Centers. I looked to the postcard of the New York skyline that stuck to my dorm wall. “How awful,” I thought.

I was putting on my shoes when it was reported that a second plane had hit, and I don’t think my brain actually processed it. I hadn’t watched it in real time, like so many of you had. My television cable was busted, so radio was all I had. (Looking back, I’m kind of glad I was able to protect myself, even if it was for that brief span of time.) I shut the door behind me and began my trek to Ballentine Hall.

It was a Sociology class. The professor ended class twenty minutes early because, “There are some things happening in New York.” There is a huge east coast population at IU, and she wanted anyone who had family involved to go home, call their parents. I realized I wasn’t in the busom of my West Michigan suburbs anymore, that people around me would be directly affected by this event.

I left class and headed to the stairwell with a girl from my dorm floor. We had the class together, but she had come to class late and knew what was going on. We were descending the stairs, exchanging general, “This is f*cking CRAZY” conversation. But I still hadn’t SEEN anything - it was all speculation in my mind — whatever diluted version my imagination could make up. Up until around 11am, I was shielded by lack of TV access and a sociology lecture.

And then she said it: “Well, the buildings, they’re gone, now.”

“What?”

“The buildings, they collapsed.”

“What?”

“Yeah.”

“But all the people, they got out, right?”

“…”

Like I did every Tuesday in between classes, I walked to the Union. At the top of the stairs of the mezzanine was a gathering of students, huddled around this little tv. Everyone was stunned. And crying. There was definitely crying. On this tiny little screen, I got caught up on the tragic events that had taken place. Slack-jawed. Crying amidst so many young strangers.

I went to my Art History class at 1:30p, because…I don’t know. I didn’t know what else to do. What else was there to do? My professor was this bawdy woman from Israel, but on this Tuesday she was so incredibly somber. She quietly addressed the small handful of students who had wandered, like zombies, into class: “Do you…you want me to have lecture, or…do you want me to just turn on the news?” No one said anything. She was just met with a bunch of blank stares. She projected CNN where there would normally be art slides.

—————————

Just a few weeks ago, I was able to visit New York for the first time, and it was important for me to make Ground Zero part of my visit.

So I went.

But I didn’t know exactly what to feel? I felt sad and angry, but also kind of numb.

And then, as I walked along the perimeter where the towers once stood, I began to smell the distinct, delicious smell of barbeque. All the construction workers at the site were grilling hot dogs, and they were laughing, and telling inappropriate jokes, and stuffing their faces. It was an absolutely delightful scene, the hopeful sounds of the construction and the sizzling of dogs on the grill.

It was the sound of life, going on.