On the day of September 11, the September 11, I was a senior in college. I was walking across campus to my 11:00 Greek Literature class when I happened to run into Doreen. I hadn't heard about anything. Greek Lit was my first class, and I had slept in and then eaten breakfast in my dorm apartment and then headed to class. Doreen told me two planes had hit the World Trade Center, and I remember thinking that this was an odd coincidence, and tragic news. But I was puzzled by how upset she seemed over some plane crashes. We only spoke briefly, and it never occurred to me that the crashes weren't accidental.

As I slid into my desk, the other students were all abuzz. A couple others sat in silence like me, but most were talking to each other in hushed, concerned whispers. I wondered what they were talking about. I'm not sure I even considered that they might be talking about the planes.

The professor walked in, looking ashen. He said, "Hi everyone. Obviously, with what's happened, I don't think it's appropriate to have class. I know some of you may know people...may want to call family. And frankly, I'm in no shape to teach class right now myself." I realized, then, that what had happened was serious. That somehow the plane crashes were more than just crashes. In the short time I'd been in this course, I had come to really respect this man, and it was unnerving to see him so shaken.

I still didn't know details, still didn't get it. On the way back to my dorm, I overheard someone say that the Pentagon had been hit. And then I understood. I looked up at the sky. We are being attacked.

I turned on the tv as soon as I got inside. The towers had already fallen. I was glued to CNN, although I do not remember what I saw. I do remember that the scenes they showed looked like war zones, and I was astonished this was happening in my own country. And I remember the families and the photos they were holding of loved ones' faces. Oh, the families and the faces. At some point, there was a knock on my door, and when I opened it a campus police officer was standing there. A few weeks before, I had reported that my parking sticker had been stolen off my car, and he had come by to let me know that they'd found the person who'd stolen it. But when I first opened the door and saw the officer, I assumed he had come to evacuate me. Or maybe just to check on me.

As he stepped inside, I glanced again at the tv. We both stood there, watching. It was comforting to have him in my apartment with his uniform and his gun. He was authority and protection. And then he said, shaking his head, "I just... Can you believe this?" And I realized he was as scared as me.

We watched a moment more, and then he told me how they'd found the guy who stole my sticker, how he'd blamed it on his friends, and for a moment things were normal again. For a moment my attention was on a different story, one where the good guys get the bad guy.

He said the thief would buy a new parking sticker for me, and reimburse me for the one he stole. That seemed fair. He asked if I wanted to press charges. I didn't. Justice, in this case, seemed so easy.

I emailed Rob and my mom, who were both in Redneck Valley. I have no idea what I wrote, but it must have conveyed panic because Mom wrote back, "Are you okay?" I found this an ignorant response. Was anyone okay? I decided they must be somehow sheltered back home, must not yet realize the implications of this.

The college issued a statement saying it would not officially cancel classes but that professors were free to do what they felt was appropriate. All my professors canceled, except one. I considered not going, but he had a reputation for being cruel, and I figured he'd make notes of who didn't show. But as I trudged to my 4:00 class, I was furious with him. Did he really think Shakespeare was more important than what was happening in the world right now?

Everyone in class was pissed. What the fuck were we doing here? Who did this jackass professor think he was, making us come to class? We needed to be watching tv. Or calling people. Did he really think we could focus on Shakespeare?

He walked in silently and stood before us. He said, "I know some of you may be personally affected by what has happened, and by all means you should leave. If any of you feel like you can't be here right now, please go. It's okay. But I am from New York, it is my city, and I'll be damned if they are going to stop us. The best thing we can do is refuse to be stopped, to continue with our normal lives as best we can. And so if you need to leave, I understand. But for the next hour and a half, we are going to talk about Shakespeare."

I didn't cry until I went to bed that night. All those faces. I sobbed for the families. And I cried for myself, selfishly but sincerely, because I knew life would never be the same. I was certain we would reinstate the draft, and Rob would have to go. I was wrong about that. I was also certain life in this country had changed in a fundamental way, and that a naive, blissful innocence had been lost. That I was right about.

I had felt the shift. Never had we all been so together, yet so alone.