I was in my first year of grad school at the time, teaching an introductory Spanish class to undergrads that was mainly freshmen. I should have known it was going to be one of those days when I was walking up the hill to my classes and I saw a flock of sheep. The Bugpit U. campus is in the middle of a small city. (As it turned out, the sheep were part of an alcohol-awareness campaign that flopped, but I digress.) I didn't think too much more about it; it was a beautiful, sunny day and I probably had plans for that evening.
My medieval Spanish lit class, from 8-10 AM, passed without incident, though I probably dozed off somewhere in there. Little did I know that people were dying less than a thousand miles away, while I was trying to pretend I was interested in Gonzalo de Berceo. That lack of realization was about to change
Class got out at 10, and I had an hour before I had to teach class. I was noodling around doing some last-minute preparations, when my office mate came in and called her husband. I heard her say something about "blah blah, plane hit the World Trade Center". Now it was a fairly routine occurrence for light aircraft to fly into the side of the building, so I just assumed that this was what had happened. I wasn't sure why she was calling her husband over such a thing, but I thought "hey, maybe it's not routine in Bolivia" and continued about my business.
Then I walked out into the hall, and everyone was crying. Every single person, including the Latino male grad students. The Latino men I have known do not cry. Ever. Even if you pull out their fingernails. I think someone punched the wall. I pretty well figured from that that something was horribly wrong, but I still hadn't connected the phone conversation and the horribly wrong something. So, I headed into the stairwell to go up a floor to teach class. The stairwell was set up such that you could see into classrooms, and every single TV in all the classrooms was showing the same thing. "Why are they all showing a Schwarzenegger movie?" I thought to myself. At that point, light began to dawn, and I was starting to associate the plane and the Very Bad Something. I remember I was running the rest of the way up the stairs.
I got into the classroom, and my supervisor was packing up from teaching the class before mine. My students were all there, watching the TV in frozen horror. "WHAT is going on??!!" I asked her. "You don't know?" she said. "Um, no!" I replied. She pointed at the TV and left, leaving me to explain to twenty-nine frightened teenagers what the hell was going on. :P Needless to say, we did not have class that day, though they all stayed and watched the news. That day was the one time in my life where I have badly wanted to cry and couldn't to save my life. It was that much shock.
We all found out soon enough what happened, of course. Also, what was going to happen, and what wasn't, some of which was almost as bad as what had happened before, but none of it could really compare to that day. I normally love true crime, disaster documentaries, etc. and I still to this day have not seen any of the ones about 9/11. I sure as hell did not go to see United 93. I just can't do it, and to be honest I don't think I ever will be able to. This morning when I was getting one of the residents dressed, someone had put a country station on her radio, and they were playing 9/11 themed country songs, of which there are a lot. I started bawling and had to turn off the radio. I apologized to the resident and explained briefly why I had to do it; she was quite understanding, as she usually is. She's not able to speak, but I think she remembered too.
I'll leave you with the prayer I said an awful lot that day; I think a lot of us did.
Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia; el Señor es
contigo;
bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres,
y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús.
Santa María, Madre de Dios,
ruega por nosotros pecadores,
ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amén.
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