Ten years ago, I was a junior in college at UNH. I had a loaded fall course load with three classes back to back on Tuesdays and Thursdays starting at 8am. By the time I had walked clear across campus, from Hamilton-Smith Hall to Hampshire Hall, for my second class of the day, the first plane had already hit the first tower. As I settled into my seat, the guys behind me we talking about a plane hitting one of the World Trade Towers. Minutes later the professor walked into the room, confirming what we were whispering about, saying he didn’t have any information and class went on as usual.
An hour later, I was back in Hamiton-Smith for a news editing class. A small class filled with fellow journalist from the student newspaper. Walking into the classroom, all of the computer monitors were plastered with images from the falling towers. Information streamed in about other planes being hi-jacked. I remember what came out of my mouth as I threw my bag on the table, “Can someone tell me what the f*** is going on?”
We spent the rest of the class just talking about what we were thinking? How would we cover this national tragedy as journalist? The guys in the class, the same guys I joked with late at night while putting the paper together each Monday and Thursday night, sat at the back of the room, and the only emotion they displayed was anger. I had never seen these men so angry, with no answers to come.
Class dismissed and I walked the short path up to the student union. I tried to call my mom and sister, but no phone calls were going through. As I walked into the MUB, the electronic doors opened to a sea of students sitting on the floor, watching the large tv screens in the lobby. No one knew what to do other than sit and watch.
When I finally got back to my apartment, a renovated farmhouse with six apartments, the guys that lived across the hall were on the front steps, just talking in disbelief of what was unfolding across the country. I sat down with them and finding comfort in just being in their company.
Later that afternoon into evening, my roommates and I were glued to the television. Watching, just like the rest of the world, as New York and Washington tried to figure out what had happened and what would happen next. Life for those couple of hours stopped.
As the following days, life went on. However, things are never, will never, be the same. Each day we remember those who lost their lives in during those attacks, in New York, Washington, DC and Shanksville, PA. And also those, firemen, policemen, first responders and good samaritans who went into the burning buildings and rumble to rescue those individuals.
We will never forget.
